Chapter 211

It started, as most disasters did, with me being completely oblivious.

I was in the kitchen, alone, the morning quiet around me, and a song had crept into my head. One from my old world, one I had not thought about in years, one that had surfaced from somewhere deep in my memory. And so, without thinking, without considering that anyone might hear, I began to sing.

It was a simple song. A melody about the sea, about longing, about coming home. The words were foreign to this world, the tune strange, the whole thing utterly out of place among the pots and the herbs and the fire. But it felt good to sing. It felt like home.

I sang on, oblivious, my voice rising and falling, losing myself in the melody.

And behind me, the family gathered.

Levy came first, drawn by the sound, her dark eyes wide. She crept to the doorway and stood there, frozen, staring at me. Then Atlas, then Chase, then Ryder, then Jasper, Sikai, then Niku. Then the serpent children, then the cheetah cubs, then the pups, all of them crowding into the doorway, all of them silent, all of them staring.

Then my mates.

Ravin, Leon, Veylan, Soryn, Aureon, Eryx, all of them appearing one by one, their faces soft with wonder, their eyes fixed on me.

And I, oblivious, sang on.

It was only when the song ended that I noticed. I turned, and there they were, most of my family, filling the doorway and spilling into the room, all of them staring at me with expressions of pure, unadulterated awe.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious. "What is it? Do I have something on my face?"

"You sing," Ravin said, his voice hushed.

"I... yes? Sort of?"

"That was not sort of," he said. "That was... Krys, that was beautiful. What kind of talking is that? It is similar to how the merfolk sing, but there are words. Actual words."

"It is called singing," I said, my face burning. "It is just... instead of humming, there are words. People in my old life sing. All the time. It is normal."

"That is normal?" Levy breathed. "Mama, that is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."

"Levy, you are biased."

"I am not. You are perfect. Teach me."

"Teach you?"

"Teach me to sing," Levy demanded, her hands on her hips. "I want to sing like you. Teach me."

So I taught her.

It took only moments to realize that Levy was a natural. Her voice came out melodic and clear, sweet and strong, pitch perfect in ways that made my jaw drop. She picked up the melody in seconds, the words in minutes, and when she sang, she sang with a confidence and grace that seemed impossible for a girl her age.

Gods, did I give birth to a genius? Pure talent? It was absurd. It was unfair. It was beautiful.

"You are better than me," I said, stunned.

Levy beamed. "I learned from you."

The serpent girls, watching, wanted to try too. But when they opened their mouths, what came out was... not melodic. It was strange and reedy, the words garbled, the pitch wandering. They could not sing. They simply could not.

But when they moved, when they swayed and spun and twirled, they were breathtaking.

I taught them little dances instead, simple steps, simple turns, and they took to it like fish to water. Their movements were fluid, graceful, hypnotic, their green hair flowing, their emerald eyes bright. They were gifted. Utterly, naturally gifted.

And Levy could not dance.

Not even a little.

She tried. Gods, she tried. She watched her sisters, determined, and threw herself into the steps with the same fierce energy she brought to everything. And she stumbled, tripped, wobbled, and finally fell flat on her face in the dirt.

The four older boys, watching the entire spectacle, were in awe of Levy’s voice. They sat there, mouths open, entranced, as she sang. And then they laughed at the serpent girls’ attempts at singing, cackling as the girls tried to hit a note and missed, hard.

Then the serpent girls danced, and the boys were mesmerized, silent, watching with wide eyes as the girls spun and swayed. And then Levy tried to dance, and the boys laughed at her, howling as she tripped over her own feet.

"You are terrible," Jasper choked out.

"I am learning!" Levy shouted.

"You are terrible at learning."

"Jasper!"

My mates watched the whole thing, their faces bright with awe and amusement, their eyes soft with love. When the serpent girls’ voices went shrill, so high and sharp that it actually hurt the ears, they did not flinch. They simply encouraged.

"You will get it," Leon said, patting Seraya’s head. "You have time. You can practice."

"Truly?" Seraya asked, her eyes wide.

"Truly," Leon promised. "Everyone starts somewhere."

And when Levy fell for the fifth time, sprawling in the dirt, her face flushed with frustration, Ravin helped her up, dusting off her tunic with infinite patience.

"You can practice too," he said gently.

Levy looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "I am going to be the best dancer in the world."

"You are going to be the best everything in the world," Ravin said. "But perhaps not today."

Levy scowled, but she did not give up. She never gave up. And so the morning passed, my daughters singing and dancing and failing and laughing, my sons watching and teasing and clapping, my mates encouraging and loving and softening at every turn.

And I stood there, my heart so full it ached, watching my family, my enormous, chaotic, beautiful family, and I sang.

Just because I could.

Just because it was home.

---

It was midday, and winter was coming soon, which meant the whole island was busy with preparations for the cold. Wood was being gathered, food was being stored, and every hand was put to work before the frost arrived. Theo, meanwhile, was having a difficult morning.

He had been helping one of the islanders repair a broken fence, his shirt off despite the chill, his dark hair damp with sweat, his muscles flexing as he hauled wood and hammered posts. And the girls had gathered. Again.

They came in ones and twos at first, then in clusters, then in a small crowd, all of them finding excuses to linger nearby, to watch, to whisper and giggle and sigh. They were all ages, all types, all of them pretty, and all of them staring at Theo like he was the last male on the island.

I could see why.

He had grown into something remarkable, Theo. Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, his blue eyes bright, his smile easy and warm. He was kind and gentle, patient and steady, the kind of male that made females feel safe just by being near him. And he was handsome. Not in the fierce, predatory way of my mates, but in a softer, sweeter way, like sunshine and open fields and everything good in the world.

The girls surrounded him, and he handled it with a grace that impressed me.

One by one, they approached. One by one, they made their advances. And one by one, he declined them all.

"I am not ready," he told a pretty sealion girl, his smile apologetic. "Not yet. I need more time."

"Time for what?" she pressed.

"Time to figure out what I want," he said. "Time to be sure."

Another girl this time a bear; asked to bond with him a week later, and he said the same thing. Another, and another, and another. Always the same gentle refusal, always the same apologetic smile, always the same quiet certainty that he was not ready.

And I, watching from a distance, knew exactly why.

He was doing it for Levy, for our family.

Or perhaps, more accurately, he was waiting for Levy to grow up, to become old enough, to decide for herself whether the promise of a childhood friendship meant anything at all. He was not going to rush her. He was not going to bind himself to someone else while the possibility of her still existed. He was simply going to wait.

Loyal, patient Theo.

Good luck, boy, I thought. You are going to need it.

I left him to his admirers and made my way back to the house, to a quiet corner where I could be alone. There was something I needed to do, something I had been putting off for too long.

I needed to practice.

I sat down, crossed my legs, closed my eyes, and reached for the black tide.

The black bind. The power that had saved my mates, that had turned them into forces of destruction, that had nearly killed me in the process. It was dangerous. It was unpredictable. And it drained me so completely that a single use left me trembling on the ground for hours.

I needed to master it. I needed to control it, to shape it, to make it mine. I could not keep relying on luck and desperation. I could not keep risking my own collapse every time my family was in danger.

So I sat, and I reached.

The first attempt, nothing. The second, a flicker. The third, a spark. And then, on the fourth, the black tendrils rose, dark and cold, swirling around my hands, waiting.

But the power was not enough on its own. It needed a trigger. It needed something to fuel it, something to give it shape and direction.

And so I thought of them.

My mates. Leon, fierce and steady. Ravin, calm and strong. Veylan, gentle and brave. Soryn, elegant and deadly. Aureon, young and eager. Caelion, beautiful and strange. Eryx, shy and devoted. All of them, the males I loved, the males who loved me. And the desperate, aching need to protect them, to save them, to keep them safe from harm.

That was the trigger.

The desperate feeling of wanting to help them.

I held on to it, let it fill me, let it become the fuel for the black tide. And the power responded, surging, steadying, obeying. Not the wild, uncontrollable storm it had been before, but something calmer. Something almost obedient.

I held it for a minute. Then two. Then five.

When I finally opened my eyes, my heart was pounding, my body trembling, but not collapsing. I was tired, yes, but not destroyed. Not empty. Not spent.

I had done it. I had held the black tide for longer than ever before, and I was still standing.

Closer. I was so much closer to mastering it.

I smiled, small and fierce, and looked at my hands, still faintly dark with the residue of the power.

Soon. Soon it would be mine, fully and completely.

And then, when Khemari returned, I would be ready.

For all of them.