"What?"
"If the mer is alive," Soryn says, his eyes cold and pragmatic, "then he is in the hands of a Basalt-Kin. He is suffering terrible torture. Or he is being turned into a beast. Or he is serving as raw meat for their young."
He gestures with a manicured hand toward the towering marble.
"Here in the light, he is a pristine hero," Soryn says. "Here in the city, he is the striking martyr who drew the enemy fire so the Reef Guard could regroup and survive, ready to strike again upon recovery. His tragic death united the fractured clans, Mira."
The grand plaza is full of mourning citizens. Vaels weep in the open. They hold glowing memorial stones. They swear blood vengeance on the monsters of the deep trench. They chant the names of those lost in battle.
"The people need a pure symbol," Soryn says. "A dead Red prince is a perfect symbol. A live, traumatized hostage is a political liability."
The world spins around me.
Soryn and the silent Council members hover in the shadows behind him. Their faces are impassive masks of calculated statecraft.
They knew the risks.
They put the Red Squad on the front line for a dual purpose. Vaelis was bait for the sharks, but he was a planned sacrifice for the city. They wanted him to die in the mud. Vaelis was a beloved prince. He was worth more to the Council as a piece of tragic marble than as a living, breathing mer.
"You are not sending a rescue party," I whisper.
"We are sending a small patrol to secure the upper perimeter," Soryn corrects me. "We cannot risk more valuable lives to recover a ruined corpse."
"He isnota corpse!" I scream.
The raw sound cuts through the crowded plaza. The rhythmic chanting stops. Hundreds of mourning mers turn their heads to stare at me.
"He is alive!" I yell, backing away from the corrupt Elder. "And I am the only soldier in this army who gives a damn about his soul!"
"Mira," Taren swims forward from the gathered crowd. His silver armor is dented and scarred. "Stop this display. You are exhausted. You are grieving your friend."
"I amnotgrieving!" I snarl, shoving his dented armor. "I'm planning a rescue."
I turn my back on the false mourners.
I leave the crowded plaza.
Three heavy days pass in the shadows. I refuse to return to the military barracks. I refuse to return to my private quarters to rest. The stench of the Council's lies clings to me like sea-slime. I spend the hours memorizing guard rotations and stealing clearance codes. The Council assumes I am hiding my tears in solitude. They underestimate my rage.
On the third night, I go to the restricted docks.
The military docks are under strict lockdown. Heavy armored guards patrol the main gates. But I am Mira. I am a decorated Lieutenant of the Watch. I know the timing of the shift changes. I know the blind spots in the patrol routes.
And I know the location of the forbidden prototypes.
The Hunter-Class Skiff.
It's a small, ugly, brutal machine. It is a single-person submersible built of reinforced iron-glass and driven by a pressurized hydro-engine. The engineers designed it for deep reconnaissance missions in the crushing trenches. It possesses floodlights. It possesses a heavy harpoon cannon.
It's forbidden for a Vael to dive that deep.
I slip past the main guard post. I use the dark shadow of a supply crate to mask my approach. I reach the isolated dock.
The skiff waits, bobbing in its metal cradle. It looks like a mechanical beetle. It looks like a heavy iron coffin.
I strip off my silver armor. The metal plates are too bulky for the cramped cockpit. I leave the armor on the wooden pier. I am left wearing nothing but my simple cloth tunic.
I climb inside the machine.
