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I go still.

I close my eyes, my body trembling.

Not from pain or loss, but from rage. A deep, seething, burning rage that consumes me whole. A rage that does not weep or break, but instead will set the world on fire.

I wipe at my face, forcing the tears away, shoving them down, burying them beneath vengeance.Shechose this. She left. She betrayed me. And now…

Shewill burn for it.

I force myself upright, my movements measured, deliberate. The water curls as I rise, hissing as it drips from my skin, steaming against the air. I step onto the black marble, reaching for the heavy silk robe waiting on the hooks near the entrance. I pull it on, tightening the belt at my waist, my expression set in stone.

The sea witch thinks she’s won. She thinks she can walk into the arms of my enemy and strike me down from afar. That she can leave me. I bare my teeth at my reflection in the polished obsidian walls, my magic coiling like smoke, seething, pulsing, waiting.

She will learn her mistake soon enough.

Because the king may have her now, but when I come for them I will end them both.

And I will not hesitate.

Chapter

Eighteen

VAELA

The human king’s encampment is an ugly thing. A scar carved into the land, festering with steel and rot, a wound that refuses to heal. The banners of red and gold hang limp against the evening wind, soaking up the scent of sweat, iron, and blood.

It is a blight, a violation—a sickness eating away at the border of Nyxara’s realm, tainting the very air with human filth. And as I stand here in the midst of it, I feel it seep into my skin like an infection.

But I do not let it show.

I keep my expression cool, unreadable, my posture regal. My silver hair catches in the wind, the sheer fabric of my gown clinging to my curves, the pearls along my bodice glistening beneath the flickering torchlight.

The men around me—grimy, battle-worn, reeking of ale and death—do not trust me.

I feel their stares. Their barely veiled contempt. Their hunger.

Theyfearme.

And that is exactly how it should be.

I walk through the camp, my bare feet silent against the packed earth, my presence a ripple in still water, a whisper through the dark.

A soldier spits at my feet as I pass.

Another murmurs a prayer, fingers clutching an iron charm at his throat.

One stares too long, licking his lips, before a grizzled veteran yanks him back by the collar with a sharp, muttered warning.

I smile.

They do not know what to do with me.

A siren in their midst.

A creature that should not be here, standing among men who only see women as conquests or corpses.

But I am neither, and before this is over, they will all drown beneath my feet.