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Work never frightened the goddess. She tilled fields, built walls, dug ditches. She did all of these things with hands that bled but never faltered.

A question haunted me: why did she not use her magic for these menial tasks?

She laughed and told me that magic would not spare the people of this island from the rigors of hard work. So it would not spare her.

from the unpublished papers of Rahvekyan High Priestess Omira

Gwynira’s seneschal was insulting Einar.

It wasn’t subtle, either. The servant who had brought in the outfit had been deferential enough—maybe too deferential, gazing at Einar in nervous awe as he smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the heavily embroidered jacket—but the words shoved into his mouth by that too-pretty bottom-feeder were pure spite.

“My Lord Seneschal offers this small token of his appreciation.” The man’s voice was rendered raspy by reluctance. The words that followed seemed dragged from him at the tip of an invisible sword. “In the event you felt unequal to the task of dressing for the Grand Duchess’s table.”

The insult delivered, the servant braced himself as if expecting to have repayment for the slight visited upon him. It told Einar all he needed to know about the nobles of Gwynira’s court, but the rage surging through him like the rising tide would only terrify the man more.

Remember, these are still your people.

Petya’s final words to him before he’d left the ship. He’d accepted them without comment, not having the time to dispute the claim. Petya might imagine him to be a great leader with an important duty, but she of all people knew that Einar had been raised on a humble fishing boat, not within the walls of a palace. He’d worked with his hands every day of his life—honest work. Hard work.

His only people were the crew he had gathered to him. The only kingdom he’d ever ruled had been his ship. That was enough.

It had been enough.

Fear all but trembled in the servant’s eyes. Einar tightened his grip on his temper and made his voice as gentle as he could manage. “Thank you. I can dress myself.”

He waited until the relieved man had bowed his way from the room before turning to face the clothing spread out on the bed. It truly was exquisite quality—the shirt and trousers of a pristine white that only someone with servants to clean it would ever want to own, and the elaborate calf-length overcoat covered in such intricate gold-on-ivory embroidery, he imagined the thing could stand up on its own.

The seneschal had obviously hoped to trigger his pride—or his legendary temper. No doubt the nobles of the Empire expected a barely leashed monster to arrive at their table. The brutal beast from their nightmares, who sank their warships and captured their rich cargo vessels any time they dared to smuggle goods to and from the Sheltered Lands.

The Kraken of their imagination would have his fists in this elaborate costume already, destroying it just for the satisfaction of hearing it shred apart. Einar should thwart the bastard seneschal’s foolish little game and appear arrayed in their best finery, as civilized as any of them could want. He should sit at their table and smile in their terrified faces, while Naia and Aleksi made friends of those who had once been enemies.

But the idea of putting on the trappings of the people who had conquered this island turned his stomach.

Biting off a curse, Einar strode to the wardrobe and yanked it open. It was filled with all the finery that had been in his trunk, no doubt carefully unpacked and pressed by the same servant who’d presented the formal clothing. Most of it was his casual wardrobe—fine fabrics cut for simple comfort and the demands of an active ship captain—but Einar hadn’t spent over two thousand years watching Dianthe use fashion as a weapon without learning the value of having one outfit that warned the world that you were not to be underestimated.

Einar’s one outfit happened to be infinitely appropriate for dining with the greedy interlopers who ruled this island.

He dressed like he was preparing for battle—heavy black trousers tucked into shiny, knee-high boots, a black silk shirt that slid over his skin like a caress but still gaped just enough at the throat to flash a teasing hint of a tanned chest and dark hair. His vest buttoned with shiny gold buttons, but even they seemed dull next to the thick gold embroidery that wove ancient patterns across the rich black fabric. A wide belt followed, fastened in place with an intricate golden buckle shaped like a kraken, with tentacles that curved around the stamped leather and eyes that glinted a deep teal by candlelight.

The same color flashed as he shrugged into his finest jacket, the stiff unrelenting black lined on the inside with an expensive silk that shone teal or midnight blue, depending on the way the light hit it. Dianthe had told him once that when he moved in it, he looked like a vengeful god rising from the depths of the ocean.

Maybe that would make the seneschal mind his damn manners.

The final touches rested in the small chest on his vanity. Hammered gold earrings, a handful of thick golden chains, heavy rings with sapphires that sparkled from the deep blue of the frozen North Sea to the teal seen on the southern coast of Seahold. A touch of shimmery dark powder from a jar the Witch had gifted him completed the look, outlining his eyes in smoky darkness.

His mirror told him that he looked every inch the terrifying pirate king. But when he stepped out into the hallway, it was Naia’s widened eyes he found truly gratifying.

“You look ...” But she merely trailed off, as if words had failed her.

She had donned clothing provided by their host, but the rich fabrics and intricate stitching barely registered. Naia had dressed for battle, too—a battle waged with guileless eyes and charming smiles and an unshakable sense of her own power that made her glow. He’d seen that nimbus of power around others a few times before—Princess Sachielle was like a rainbow of light, and Dianthe fairly seethed with the deep blues of her ocean—but Naia was like the sparkle of sacred glass on a sunny day, or the crash of crystal waves against a sandy shore.

Brilliant. Seductive. Genuine reverence filled him as he reached for her hand, prepared for the shock of her skin against his and still nearly undone by it as he bent over her hand and let his lips brush her knuckles. Temptation beckoned, the urge to part his lips, to taste her skin, to see if she’d gasp if he let his tongue—

No. Over twenty-two centuries of life, and she had him acting like an anxious boy trying to steal his first kiss. He forced himself to straighten, to flash the Kraken’s wicked grin as he murmured, “You look exquisite, too.”

A flush darkened her cheeks as she lifted a hand to her ornate metal headdress. “I look fussy ,” she murmured. “I don’t think Imperial fashion suits me.”

“On the contrary,” Einar said firmly. “ Anything would suit you.”

Aleksi chuckled. “He may dress like a scoundrel and a pirate—though a prosperous one—but he speaks the truth.”

Belatedly, Einar turned to face the Lover—and was immediately glad he hadn’t tried to wear the Imperial clothing.

Aleksi was stunning. The stiffly embroidered jacket that would have felt like the enemy’s chains to Einar flowed over the Lover’s lean body as if grateful for the honor. Even the familiar scabbard hanging at his side could do nothing to diminish the elegance of his figure. Aleksi had walked the world for too many centuries to have the same glow as Naia—the one reserved for those fresh from the Dream or deeply connected to it—but his presence was so much larger than a few scraps of fabric and thread. His dark hair framed a face immortalized in tens of thousands of paintings and sculptures, and even the bronze stitching on his coat seemed faded compared to the rich glow of his light-brown skin.

Einar and Naia may have prepared for a battle, but Aleksi would never have to. Einar expected he could have appeared at Gwynira’s table wrapped in a burlap sack with frayed rope for a belt, and made every person at the table frantic to find a tailor who could replicate it.

Aleksi laughed again. “Speechless, Einar? I’m flattered.”

Einar covered his self-consciousness with a rude noise. “Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly how pretty you are. Who wouldn’t stare?”

“Who, indeed?” Aleksi offered Naia his arm. “Shall we?”

A servant waited just on the other side of the door, her head bowed. “Begging your pardon. For you, my lady.”

Instead of a missive, the woman handed over a small cloth sachet, then hurried away without another word.

“A gift?” Aleksi hummed. “From your admiring seneschal, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” Naia’s nimble fingers made quick work of the ribbon, and out slipped an exquisite piece of teal sea glass strung on a leather cord. She gasped and held it up to the light. “It’s gorgeous.”

It swung from her fingers, somehow catching the light in spite of its cloudy surface. Goddess-touched, Jinevra had always said, every time she pulled hers from beneath her vest and let the sun illuminate it. No other sea glass looked quite like it, because the rare bottles from which it came had been lost to the depths of the Northern Channel millennia ago. The sea gave it up with great reluctance, and only a handful of precious fragments washed ashore every year.

As a child, Jinevra had scoured the beaches every day in search of treasure. She’d been one of the lucky ones, blessed by the goddess’s bounty, and the necklace had nestled safely beneath her clothing, resting against her heart, for two thousand years. If she’d stayed here, on the island, it would have become a beloved family heirloom, as this one surely was.

And someone had just given it to Naia.

“Your admirer has impeccable taste,” Aleksi teased.

“Oh, hush.” Naia laughed. “You know very well he did not give me this. It isn’t fancy enough for Sir Jaspar.”

“Too true.”

If only they knew.

“But I love it.” Her eyes shining, she held it out. “There’s no way it will fit over this headdress. Will you, Aleksi?”

“Of course.” He untied the leather cord as Naia turned away from him, still beaming. He draped the pendant around her bare neck with excruciating gentleness, retied it, and smoothed it against her skin in an innocent gesture that was somehow still painfully sensual.

Somehow? Oh, no. There was no somehow with the Lover. Einar knew that firsthand. The way he touched Naia was inevitably sensual, for all its casualness. Even thousands of years later, Einar could still remember what it was like to feel the Lover’s caress, so the sweet flush in Naia’s cheeks was no surprise ... but the confused tangle of wanting was . Einar managed to catch his sudden growl before it could rattle its way into his chest, but the sight of Aleksi’s clever fingers sliding over her hair as he coaxed it back into order snapped his self-control.

The Lover wasn’t the only one who knew about sensual touches. Einar stepped forward and caught the leather cord with his finger, tugging it gently into place until the glass pendant nestled in the deep vee left by her fancy gown. His knuckle grazed the softness of her skin just above the swell of her breast.

Naia drew in a sharp breath ... then smiled. “Does it suit? Better than the silly clothes, I mean?”

“It’s perfect for you,” he said honestly. “A treasure of the sea, for a creature of the sea.”

“I’m never taking it off.”

“You shouldn’t.” He could only hope that Jinevra was right, and that the pieces held the blessing of the island’s ancient goddess. Considering whose table they were about to sit at, they could use it. “I suppose we have to go to dinner.”

It was Naia’s turn to laugh. “My dear captain, it is a meal, not a tribunal. You will be fine.”

She reclaimed Aleksi’s arm, and Einar fell in behind them, wishing he could share her confidence. Wishing he believed that the chill down his spine was simply this frigid castle and its icy windows.

A servant stood at every hallway intersection to guide them in the right direction. Each one bowed deeply at Naia’s approach—and each one seemed to have some familiar bit of ancient lore Einar recognized from Petya’s and Jinevra’s stories. Some wore woven rope fiber studded with wave-smoothed driftwood clasped around their wrists. Others showed hints of sea-frosted teal on their fingers or at their throats. Shiny brass seashells that mirrored Petya’s beloved charm dangled from earrings. One or two sported tokens that looked eerily like the emblem on Einar’s sails—the ancient silhouette of the kraken.

And none of them looked at Einar with fear in their eyes.

Petya would be thrilled to see how well the old religion thrived, even after all this time. Einar kept his eyes focused straight ahead and hoped Aleksi’s observant eyes were busy lingering on Naia—though that thought made him uncomfortable in different ways.

Finally, they reached a pair of grand doors that stood thrown wide, and the three of them entered to formal announcements and polite applause. It was the kind of courtly ceremony rarely, if ever, seen in the homes of the High Court. They tended to operate more casually, leaving all the pomp and circumstance to the Mortal Lords.

Still, Aleksi and Naia moved through the hall as if they were both accustomed to such fanfare. They walked, their backs straight and heads held high, to their places at the high table—Aleksi on Gwynira’s left, and Naia on his.

Whispers buzzed at the far end of the table as Einar took his seat next to Naia. The fear he’d expected from the servants was here , gathering in the eyes of Gwynira’s assembled nobles as they snuck disdainful and horrified looks at him. He’d been the monster of their legends for thousands of years—the cruel and rapacious pirate who supposedly preyed on their merchant ships and attacked innocent sailors.

Einar had never been above taking a little of the Empire’s wealth to help those desperate few he’d rescued from its shores, but his real crime had always been keeping these greedy nobles penned in and afraid, unable to pillage the bounty of the Sheltered Lands after they’d wrung their own lands dry.

So he bared his teeth in his fiercest smile and savored the dread in their eyes. It would only make him stronger, after all. And as long as they were busy being nervous about him , they’d have less time to plot mischief against Naia and Aleksi.

When everyone was seated, the Grand Duchess, from her central spot at the highest table, raised her goblet. “In Akeisa, we welcome strangers as old friends, for that is what they are destined to become ...”

Subtle movement to his right drew Einar’s gaze to Naia. Her graceful fingers opened another of those tiny cloth sachets. This time, a bracelet tumbled free—weathered shark teeth strung on a leather cord. A delicate driftwood carving of a whale joined it. A second cloth pack revealed a freshly cast brass seashell on a basic chain—the very image of what Petya’s necklace must have looked like on the day she’d first put it on.

The symbol of the goddess who had once protected this island.

A soft smile tinged with confusion curved Naia’s lips as she stroked her thumb over the gleaming brass, and Einar swore he could feel that touch on his skin. A hunger stirred that was totally unrelated to—and totally inappropriate for—the dinner ahead of them. He wanted to strip those endless layers of court finery from her body and bury himself in the feel of her skin, in the sweet and seductive scent of her—in her magic , which must shine as clearly to the servants here as it did to him.

They looked at her and saw a goddess remembered only by hazy myth.

He saw an obsession that only seemed to grow by the day.

Applause filled the hall, and Naia belatedly set the gifts aside to join in. Once it subsided, conversation began to fill the quiet left behind. Servers began to bring out the first course, an hors d’oeuvre of bite-size toasted bread piled high with lump crab and fresh herbs.

Naia leaned closer to Einar and held up the bracelet. “Do you think this is a local tradition? No one has brought gifts to you or Aleksi.”

“We’re not the ones who summoned the sea to bring down an ice wall,” he replied dryly. It wasn’t a lie. Neither were his next words. “I imagine any island nation would respect the power you wield.”

She blushed, but her smile was short-lived. “Tell me you aren’t still angry about that.”

The painful earnestness in her eyes should have chilled his ardor. Whatever his flaws, and in spite of his reputation, he’d never been the type to deliberately lure innocents onto the shoals of romantic heartache. He wasn’t cruel by nature, and Petya would have tossed him overboard if he’d made a habit of it.

But for some maddening reason, Naia’s big, curious eyes only stoked his hunger. And the reminder of how recklessly she’d channeled the full power of the ocean lent that hunger a dangerous edge. “I wasn’t angry, I was terrified. I’ve never seen anyone but Dianthe do something like that, and she’s had thousands of years of practice.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She laid her hand on his arm, the bracelet of shark teeth still twined around her fingers. “I would never do that on purpose.”

It was only imagination that he could feel the warmth of her fingertips through his layers of clothing, but imagination was enough. His body stirred, as impulsive as the youth he had not been in over two thousand years.

Across the way, from where he’d been seated on the other side of the high table, the seneschal’s gaze fell on Naia’s hand. His eyes narrowed for a split second before he lifted his goblet with a forced laugh. “What in the world is that?”

Naia stiffened. “A gift, Sir Jaspar.”

“From one of the servants, I presume. It’s far too rustic to have come from anyone else.” He scoffed. “Such a superstitious lot.”

Disdain fairly dripped from his voice, and his smile was so condescending Einar felt the overwhelming urge to punch it.

Aleksi stepped in smoothly—and saved the man’s teeth. “Superstition and worship are but two sides of the same coin. The gift—of belief, I mean—is a considerable one.” He lifted his cup to Gwynira. “In honoring your guest, your servants honor you, Grand Duchess.”

Gwynira flashed him a tight smile over the rim of her own goblet. “Their religion precedes my arrival, my lord.”

“Please—Aleksi.”

She nodded. “Aleksi. As Jaspar has demonstrated, some of the Imperial nobles find the local beliefs provincial and silly. But I see no harm in them. Let them have their myths, their legends. It’s all the same to me.”

Naia set the bracelet aside. “Do you know much about it?” she asked Gwynira. “The old religion?”

“Just a bit. Like most other island nations, they worshipped the sea.” She gestured toward her seneschal. “It’s honestly more Jaspar’s area of expertise than mine.”

His condescending smile somehow grew even more smug. Einar gripped his goblet to keep from forming a fist as Jaspar leaned forward, his eager attention fixed on Naia. “It’s actually quite fascinating. Most of the primitive religions encountered during the Empire’s expansion faded away once the natives were exposed to proper civilization.”

Einar thought of the stories Petya had told him. The poetry. The songs sung in a soft voice as the movement of the ship rocked them to sleep. Songs from a people who had loved the sea and known its rhythms in a way no civilized citizen of the Empire could imagine.

Jaspar’s nauseating little speech continued. “But the natives of Akeisa clung to their goddess mythology, even after being brought under the grace of Imperial knowledge.”

What a gentle way to describe a brutal war of conquest that had lasted three bloody generations.

“They even say that this goddess once walked among them, long before the founding of the Empire, though why she vanished is up for considerable debate. Convenient that she disappeared before anyone could verify her existence.”

“How odd of you, to scorn the notion of a living god,” Naia noted icily, “when you currently dine with several.”

A wise man would have heard the warning in her voice, but Jaspar would not be put off, and his belittling laugh grated Einar’s nerves. “Personally, I’ve always suspected they clung so hard to their goddess because their cowardly king betrayed them in the end.”

Pain sliced through Einar, opening a wound he’d thought scabbed over since childhood. The goblet dimpled under his fingers as Jaspar continued his story in the voice of someone recounting a tremendous victory. “The Great General Akeisa had surrounded the island and demanded that the tyrant king submit to Imperial peace. Of course, the coward refused.”

Soft fingers brushed Einar’s arm. He looked over into Naia’s concerned face, then followed her gaze to his hand. Wine had spilled over the edges of the crushed goblet, splashing down his hand to paint the white tablecloth like a puddle of blood.

He unflexed one finger at a time, forcing himself to release the goblet. To take the napkin Naia offered him. To wipe the wine from fingers that trembled with the force of his anger. It built and built, a pressure inside of him with no outlet.

And Jaspar didn’t even notice. He was too tied up in the grisly details of the Empire’s grand triumph. “The tyrant king and his queen spent the lives of their people recklessly, in order to buy themselves time to gather their hoarded wealth and flee.”

Einar’s rage boiled up, like the places deep in the sea where the earth cracked and scalding water bubbled, heated by the heartbeat of their world.

“It was pointless in the end, of course,” the seneschal confided in a gleeful voice. “But their actions cost countless native lives.”

“Actually, the queen died first.”

The words burst from Einar on a cresting wave. Then it broke, and silence flooded the room. Every eye turned to him, where he sat with his wine-soaked napkin gripped in one fist.

Jaspar persisted. “I studied Imperial history at the Scholar’s Guild in Kasther. I know the founding story of every kingdom in the Empire. I assure you, the rulers fled the island, forsaking their people.”

There was nothing Einar could say. No reason he should know the truth—no reason that wouldn’t cause a diplomatic incident, in any case. From the way Gwynira was studying him now, her gaze positively chilly, he might have already done so.

It hurt to grind out the words, but he forced himself to do it. “If you say so.”

“On the contrary,” Gwynira countered. “I’d like the version you’ve heard, Captain Einar. If you would be so kind as to indulge me.”

Oh, yes. That was suspicion in her eyes. How many of the old stories persisted? Did she know ? Petya had always told him that he looked exactly like his father, and if any paintings had survived ...

He met Aleksi’s eyes and saw the same curiosity Gwynira had professed echoed in their depths.

Perhaps it wouldn’t matter, either way. The urge to correct the man’s vile lies was too strong. Straightening in his chair, Einar stared directly into Jaspar’s eyes. “There was no slaughter that day. No sacrifice of their people, though their subjects were willing enough. The king and queen ordered them all to flee. To hide. And, if the worst came, to survive the day’s storms and live under the invader’s rule if they must. But to live .”

“Impossible,” Jaspar snapped. “There was a battle. Hundreds of good Imperial soldiers gave their lives to liberate this island.”

“Yes,” Einar agreed evenly. “There was a battle. The queen was goddess-touched, like her father before her. She was stronger than any human soldier, and far deadlier with a blade. And she knew that the first thing any invading Imperial army intended to do was slaughter the ruling family. So she met the assassins at the gates of the castle.”

The seneschal scoffed. “One woman? Against a hundred of the Empire’s best soldiers?”

“One queen,” Einar corrected in a deadly quiet voice. “One woman touched by a power beyond herself. She destroyed the invaders. To buy time.”

Jaspar was actually flushed with outrage now. “Time for what? For the king to flee? I know for a fact that he was caught on a royal sloop, trying to escape with the bulk of the treasury.”

If he closed his eyes, Einar would see Petya’s face. The tears that came every time she described that moment. King Consort Vylanar, casting off from the docks one last time, charging Petya to obey her queen’s final command.

Knowing that the order would be his final command.

Einar made his voice like ice, unwilling to share that pain with the nobles hanging on his every word. “Yes. The king boarded a ship marked with the family crest, carrying enough riches to distract any greedy general, and sailed directly into the enemy’s arms. Hardly the actions of a man attempting escape.”

“I suppose you think it was some daring last stand.” Jaspar sipped his wine, clearly trying to hide his anger beneath a display of haughty condescension. “You’re as gullible as the locals. Perhaps I should direct you to one of their taverns. You’d probably find the company more to your tastes.”

“Jaspar.” Gwynira’s single word froze the man’s features. But she focused on Einar. “Tell us, Captain. What was the king doing?”

Einar was surprised frost wasn’t covering the water glasses at the table. It was foolish to answer, but they were past the point of caution. “He was giving General Akeisa a target too tempting to ignore.”

Movement at his side drew his attention to Naia. Her eyes had gone wide, and she stared at him with an understanding that ripped away any pretense. She knew, as they all soon would. Einar watched her as he spoke the words. “He turned himself into bait, because six of the Queen’s Guard had taken the infant prince to a hidden cove and then sailed north, into the Storm God’s Maze.”

A few whispers rose from the diners closest to the high table, and even the other guests seemed to sense the tension. But silence descended around those closest to Einar, like a fog blanketing a harbor.

Naia reached for him, then stopped short, her hand hovering over his.

That near touch seemed to snap the seneschal’s final hold on his temper. “Pretty words, but they’re only that. It makes for a lovely legend, I’ll grant you, but it has no basis in reality.”

“Are you so certain, Jaspar?” Gwynira’s voice remained casual, almost disinterested.

“Of what , Grand Duchess? That this ... childish fantasy of heroes and rescues is just that?”

“General Akeisa mounted a brutal assault, that much is true, and the early years of his occupation were equally destructive. Half of the palace had been reduced to rubble by the time he was done with it, and the stewards who followed him were even worse. But a few of the royal family’s possessions still remained by the time I arrived.” Gwynira’s gaze had grown sharp enough to sever an artery. “I wondered, you know. Why you looked so familiar.”

A plate clattered. One of the servants started to drop into a curtsy, but another grabbed their arm and hauled them upright with a fearful look at Gwynira.

She pushed her chair back and rose. Her frozen gaze fell on Aleksi. “I believe we should discuss this in private. I’ll see you in my personal receiving room.”

Guards scrambled to open the massive doors as she swept toward the back of the room, with Arktikos towering protectively at her side.

Sir Jaspar still couldn’t seem to stop talking. “If you think I’ll accept your credentials as some long-lost barbarian prince—”

Einar’s chair scraped loudly over the stone as he shoved it back and tossed down the wine-stained napkin. “I don’t give a fuck what you do and do not accept.”

The seneschal’s face turned a furious red that did his elaborate clothing no favors. Einar ignored the whispers and stares and even Naia’s plaintive voice as he stormed from the dining hall.

Einar only made it two steps before Aleksi caught his arm. “ Stop. ”

Every muscle in his body tensed. The instinctive urge to tear his arm free was tempered by the knowledge that the Lover’s lean body and easy demeanor hid the strength of a god who had walked this world for at least a thousand years longer than Einar. Aleksi could likely pin him face down on the floor with very little effort.

It was madness to want to test that, but at least a bruising fight might give the confusion and rage churning through him an outlet.

Aleksi’s furious expression both invited and forbade such an outlet. “What were you thinking?” he demanded.

Naia stepped forward. “Aleksi—”

“ No, ” he interrupted. “He owes us this conversation. In fact, he owed it to us before we arrived. You know how this looks , Einar—the exiled prince coming home right when Gwynira’s at her most vulnerable. And to have the supposed diplomat bring you here?”

“I’m not a prince,” Einar growled. “I’ve never been a prince. My parents’ country died when I was weeks old. My first memories are of a fishing boat and an empty belly. It shouldn’t matter.”

“And yet you know it does. You saw Naia’s gifts. The old religion lives still.”

More strongly than he’d ever imagined, apparently. And the truth of that slashed through his anger. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“ Why does the old religion still live? Because Jaspar is a sniveling little shit, but he was right about one thing. The Empire obliterates the local customs and cultures in every place they conquer.” Einar turned to fully face Aleksi. “I thought they would have done the same here.”

Aleksi shook his head. “What lives in men’s hearts cannot be eradicated by force, and trying will only drive it deeper, right into the soul. It merely becomes secret , whispered but no less real.”

“But it’s not secret here.” Einar waved a hand at Naia’s necklace, where the frosted teal glass seemed to shimmer against her skin. “That’s goddess-touched sea glass. The shark’s teeth are for protection. The brass shell is the ancient sigil of the goddess. If I’d known it was like this , all out in the open—”

The words I wouldn’t have come balanced on the tip of his tongue, but with the Lover’s brutally observant gaze fixed on his face, he was terrified to speak them.

Terrified they would be a lie—one he wouldn’t just be telling Aleksi and Naia, but himself.

Aleksi stepped closer, crowding out that broken silence, and reached for Einar. For his face , cupping it in his hands with a gentle care that belied his intensity. Aleksi stared into Einar’s wide eyes for a moment, then leaned in to rest his forehead against his. The presence that had so overwhelmed the Lover’s borrowed clothing could bolster, too. The feel of the other man curled around Einar, a power that transcended seduction, that went so much deeper than yearning.

When the Lover made you the center of his attention, it was as if the world itself embraced you—and you would give anything to cling to that feeling for just one heartbeat more.

“Tell me true,” Aleksi whispered, the words singing in Einar’s blood. “Did you come here in service of Dianthe, or to take back your home, no matter the cost?”

Einar couldn’t even remember how to lie. Truth tumbled from his lips, and he was only grateful that the truth was what Aleksi wanted to hear. “My only home is my ship,” he rasped. “I grieve the loss of what was because the women who raised me grieve it, but it was never mine. I’m here to carry you and Naia to safety if Gwynira turns on you. Which she may be about to do.”

“No.” Aleksi straightened. “Leave the Grand Duchess to me.” Then he turned sharply on his heel and strode away.

The abrupt loss of the Lover’s attentions made Einar’s world tilt drunkenly. He slammed a hand against the wall and struggled to ground himself. But he was too far from the sea, too far from the source of his power. The only thing that lay beneath him was cold stone and frozen earth ... and the bones of the parents he couldn’t remember.

“Einar?”

He spread his fingers against the icy wall and drew in a shuddering breath. “I should have told you both.”

“I don’t give a damn about that.” Her voice drew closer. “Are you all right?”

“I needed a moment to catch my breath.” Einar forced himself to stand and face her, to weather the soft concern in those haunting eyes. “The Lover sometimes forgets his own strength, I think. Maybe the rest of us do, too.”

“That’s not—” She shook her head. “The horrible things Jaspar said about your family ... I’m so sorry.”

Something cracked inside him, a pain impossibly sharp and gone in the next moment. But it echoed through him, like the sound a glacier made when the ice began to fracture. Maybe it was his frozen heart, trying desperately to beat.

“I never knew them,” he said hoarsely, and he could hear the lie trembling beneath the words, the grief and the rage. No amount of distance could diminish the fact that Jaspar’s ancestors had slaughtered the family that Einar should have had. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I know what lies the Empire tells about the people they’ve conquered. I should have been prepared.”

“For that ? How could you possibly be?”

Because he was over two thousand years old. Because mortals with their swift, abrupt lives moved past grief, didn’t they? It shouldn’t still hurt like this. It hadn’t hurt like this—the stories Petya had told him could have been any other ancient legend, tales of great heroes who might not even have existed at all.

But then he’d set foot on this island. He’d breathed in the sea air, heard the song of the waves against the sand. He’d seen the tokens of a goddess who should have been erased and yet somehow seemed to thrive.

“They were never real to me before,” he whispered, the words escaping on a swell of raw honesty. “None of it was. But now ...”

Naia reached for him. His entire body tensed, and he fought a brief war within himself—pull away from the kindness that would only deepen his vulnerability? Or take advantage of her compassion to learn the feel of her body against his?

A heartbeat later, it didn’t matter. Her arms curled around him, surprisingly strong as she tugged him into her embrace. And it didn’t matter that there were half a dozen layers of clothing between them, or that the thickly embroidered fabric of her gown was so stiff that he could barely feel the curve of her body against his, or that their skin wasn’t actually touching anywhere.

She ran her fingers lightly up his spine, and the contact burned as hot as if they were naked. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and he barely noticed the jabbing pressure of that ridiculous headdress when the intoxicating smell of her hair surrounded him. He knew the scent must be something floral, something that had grown on the land, but he dragged her into his lungs and heard the roar of the sea and the crash of waves, felt the sun beating down on his bare back in the moments before he dove deep beneath the surface and the glorious chill of the ocean embraced him.

Naia was familiar to him in a way that defied logic or reason. It felt as if she’d been wrapping her arms around him just like this for centuries beyond numbering.

“What was it called?” she whispered. “Your home.”

“Rahvekya,” he rasped.

With the sweet kiss of her power curling around him, Einar didn’t care about politics. He didn’t care about diplomacy or the war or the Siren’s likely rage or even the futility of trying to be a man who could stay beyond the dawn.

The woman in his arms felt like home, and he’d gladly drown in her and pay the price.