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Of all the animals unique to this island, perhaps none is more spectacular than the giant reindeer of the northeast plains. Despite the Empire’s best efforts to breed and raise these marvelous creatures in captivity, they thrive only here, on this frozen island.

Akeisa: A Study of Flora and Fauna

by Guildmaster Klement

Restless music haunted Einar’s dreams.

Others might have called it the song of the Siren. Certainly that was what sailors imagined when the sea sang to them with an irresistible voice. When it curled around them, whispering promises of the ecstasy they could only know once the water closed over their head and they sank into the ocean’s sweet embrace.

Einar knew the Siren personally. Dianthe was compelling, it was true. She was as glorious as the ocean—vast and untouchable, unfathomable and sometimes cold. But the Siren knew power in a way few others could. The waves rose and fell for her pleasure, and the wind spoke with her voice. Dianthe didn’t coax. She didn’t have to. Dianthe commanded.

The song that wove through Einar’s dreams was something else entirely—a sweet caress almost like a lullaby. There were no demands in that gentle melody, just teasing laughter and soothing murmurs, and wrapped through it all was a steely protectiveness that promised safety.

Did Naia know that she reached out to him in her dreams? Was she even reaching out to him at all, or did her magic run so deep that it touched everyone? Perhaps it did, and Einar was simply more sensitive to it. He’d always heard the chorus of the tides more clearly than others, even when he’d been nothing more than a mortal fisherman.

Whatever the case, Naia’s power was clearly growing. Hardly a surprise, here on an island where people looked upon her and saw ancient myths made real. Their belief thrummed through the palace, building as the stories grew. If Naia was already so strong now, still fresh from the Dream, in a few centuries she would be truly formidable.

And she wanted to protect him.

There’d been protectiveness in the note he’d received from Aleksi last night, too. In swift, elegant strokes, the Lover had reassured him that the situation with Gwynira had been dealt with, but that Einar should stay in his quarters—and away from potential danger—until they could strategize over breakfast in Aleksi’s suite.

So much for his role as monster and fearsome bodyguard. Both of his charges seemed more determined to keep him safe. The question of whether he merited such protection after hiding the truth had apparently not occurred to either of them—a grace Einar wasn’t sure he deserved.

It felt ... odd. For endless centuries, he had been the one doing the protecting. Even Petya and Jinevra, the maternal presences of his youth, were now part of his crew. The power that flowed through him and his ship kept them ageless and strong, but it was the violence of the monster that stirred deep within him that truly brought safety to those in his care.

A monster that a sleeping Naia had curled around in her dreams and stroked into eager submission.

Shaking away the thought, Einar strode into his sitting room. Last night, he’d found the letter from Aleksi on an ornate bronze tray resting on a table just inside the door to his quarters.

This morning, the tray was scattered with tokens.

He paused to sift through the offerings. Some were like those gifted to Naia—precious bits of rare sea glass and brass seashells to honor the goddess. But even more of them held the painfully familiar sigil that flew over his boat. Hammered into silver, cast in brass, carved from driftwood, burned into leather, even molded in the dark, distinctive clay harvested from the beaches at the lowest tides ...

All bore the fearsome silhouette of the kraken.

Eventually, he would have to explain why to Naia and Aleksi. He owed them the whole truth now. Especially Naia. But the emotional wounds from yesterday had barely scabbed over. He wanted nothing more than to fill his belly and figure out how badly he’d fucked up the diplomatic mission—and what he had to endure to make it right.

Naia and Aleksi were already seated at the table in Aleksi’s receiving room, an array of silver dishes spread out between them, when Einar arrived. He claimed the empty seat on Aleksi’s left and found himself staring across the table at a soft-eyed Naia, who smiled at him.

“Good morning,” she greeted him. “How did you sleep?”

Did she know? He examined her face, searching for some hidden message beneath the simple words, but there was nothing there save earnest inquiry. He reached for one of the steaming ceramic pitchers on the table and discovered it filled with a dark tea that smelled strongly of cinnamon. It might have gone down better with a healthy splash of rum, but he poured himself a mug and sipped it before answering. “Probably better than I should have.”

“And almost certainly better than you did, little nymph,” Aleksi murmured.

Naia blushed furiously but said nothing.

“She was uneasy last night.” Aleksi poured a small coffee and downed it in one go. “Worried about you.”

Protective. Discomfiture was no match for the warmth unspooling within him. “Neither of you needs to spend your time worrying about me. I’m fine.”

“Good to know. But I wish you’d said as much before I spent half the night convincing Gwynira that you didn’t come here to kill her and usurp her throne.”

Aleksi’s voice was lightly teasing, but the words still needed to be addressed. “If you have questions ...” He broke off. Took a deep breath. “I owe you both answers. I should have told you when I realized where we were headed.”

“You don’t owe us any more than we’ve already learned,” Naia countered. “But we’re willing to listen. Aren’t we, Aleksi?”

He inclined his head. “Always.”

He’d never actually told the story before—not even to Dianthe. He barely knew where to start. “It’s never felt like my story. I was less than a month old. Petya and Jinevra, they’re the ones who lived it.”

“They’ve been with you since the beginning?” Naia asked softly.

“Twelve members of the Queen’s Guard left the palace that dawn.” He stabbed a knife into the tiny little bowl of jam hard enough to scratch it. “Only two survived to see midnight. There should be ballads about the ones who fell. They should be remembered . But this is what the Empire does. It takes away your history and your stories.”

Aleksi’s gentle gaze encouraged him to continue. So he did. “Petya and Jinevra tried to keep them alive by telling me stories. Stories about the island, about my parents and grandparents. About my great-grandparents, who were the first to fight off the Empire’s attempts to conquer the land. So many stories ... but that was all they ever were to me. Legends. Myths.”

“This again.” Aleksi smiled gently. “Truth can drift in the retelling, it’s true. Stories change every time a generation starts and ends. But you had the word of those who were there , Einar. The only thing separating truth and myth here is time.”

“Not just time,” Einar rumbled, giving up on his meal. He wasn’t hungry anyway. “There was a wide, endless ocean between the truth and me. Now I’m here, and ...”

“It hurts,” Naia finished for him.

He opened his mouth to agree, but a piercing sound tore through the silence—a horn so loud and deep it seemed to make the very ground tremble.

Naia half rose from her chair. “What in the world is that?”

“Some sort of alarm.” Aleksi held out his hand. “Come. We’ll see what’s the matter.”

By the time they reached the door, the hallway had filled with the sound of running footsteps. Servants darted by, arms overflowing with armor and voluminous fur cloaks. Einar fell in behind Aleksi as he and Naia followed the flow of people toward the Great Hall.

Gwynira stood in the center of it, already clad in pristine white trousers and an intricately embossed leather tunic in the same color. She held out her arms absently to allow a servant to buckle a thick woolen cloak around her shoulders, her attention fixed on Arktikos as he bent low to rumble something in her ear.

“Good morning, Grand Duchess,” Aleksi greeted. “Or is it? There seems to be something amiss.”

She broke off her conversation and turned, her chilly gaze sweeping ruthlessly over Einar before landing on Aleksi. “Nothing that need interrupt your breakfast. A nearby village called Jamyskar is under attack and has called for aid. When I’ve returned, we can resume our discussions.”

“Nonsense. If aid is required, we will also give it.”

The seneschal, dressed in armor so shiny Einar knew it had never seen real battle, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Surely your assistance is not necessary.”

Aleksi flashed him a tight smile and held his ground. “Oh, but it is. I insist. If the Grand Duchess rides out to protect her people, she will have the might of the Sheltered Lands behind her, as well.”

Gwynira exchanged a silent look with her bodyguard, who appraised the three of them with something almost like approval before nodding once. “Very well,” she said abruptly. “I have seen you fight, I won’t turn away your help.”

Jaspar opened his mouth to protest again, but closed it with a snap of teeth when Gwynira gave him a slashing look and gestured for more cloaks to be brought forward. Einar didn’t bother to hide his smile of satisfaction at seeing the man so completely put in his place—especially when the seneschal’s furious gaze raked over him.

That one would be trouble.

But not today. Einar pivoted away and fell into step behind Gwynira, who was marching down the length of the Great Hall. Wide double doors were thrown open ahead of her, and a long hallway lined with frigid windows of ice instead of glass gave way to a bustling courtyard.

Huge white reindeer bearing double saddles snorted and pawed at the snow-dusted stones. Naia gasped and approached the nearest one, her hand extended.

“Careful, my lady,” Arktikos warned in a rumble. “They’re wary of strangers and tend to bite.”

But the enormous creature merely nudged her open palm and dipped its head. She stroked her fingers over its velvety muzzle, and it bumped against her, but only to rub its face against her shoulder.

“I wish I had a treat for you,” Naia whispered. “Later, I promise.”

Einar moved up beside her, unable to contain his own soft wonder as he reached out a careful hand. He froze as the reindeer huffed and cast him a baleful look of warning.

Taking the hint, he let his hand drop to his side. But he still marveled at seeing the giant reindeer from Petya’s stories in the flesh. She’d claimed they were taller than a grown man at the shoulder and could outrun the wind, but it had seemed as fanciful as everything else—simply a story.

The truth stood before him, nuzzling Naia’s hair.

“He likes you,” Arktikos observed. “If you give me leave, I can lift you into the saddle.”

Naia flashed him a brilliant smile. “There is no need.” She grasped the saddle and the reins and nimbly climbed up, using small footholds that Einar hadn’t even noticed. She looked right perched on the graceful creature’s back, as confidently at home as any of the mounted soldiers—and this time it wasn’t only the servants casting her sidelong glances and exchanging furtive murmurs.

Oblivious to the speculative looks, Naia transferred her smile to Einar and reached out. “Will you ride with me, Captain?”

Arktikos had already boosted Gwynira into the saddle and swung up behind her. Aleksi accepted the outstretched hand of a blushing soldier and climbed gracefully into the saddle. Einar’s world narrowed to Naia’s hand as he reached to accept it, braced against the shock of her skin sliding over his.

Oh, this would be a terrible mistake.

But it was too late to back down. Einar didn’t even have a chance to find the footholds. He was still savoring the warmth of her touch when those deceptively slender fingers tightened around his in a stark reminder that no matter how delicate she looked, Naia was a god, born of the Dream, with the strength of a dozen mortals. She lifted him effortlessly, and a moment later he was settled in the saddle behind her, breathless as a schoolboy at the press of her body against his.

Somehow, he found his voice as he laid his hands on her hips. “You would think this isn’t your first time at this.”

“It’s an island, Einar, and the sea has always lived close to the Dream.” She laughed. “I brought more than an assortment of colorful seafaring profanity with me when I came to this world.”

A chilly breeze cut through the courtyard, flinging the loose strands of her hair to tickle his face. He couldn’t stop himself from inhaling, dragging that intoxicating scent of her deep into his lungs as he tugged her more firmly against him. The sweet curve of her ear was enticingly close, and he gave into temptation and brushed his lips against it as he lowered his voice to a rumble. “Then I put myself in your expert hands.”

She shivered and started to turn her head. Then another horn blast sounded, higher and shorter, and the great beast beneath them leapt forward, its first mighty stride covering enough ground to steal Einar’s breath.

And then they were running.

No, they were flying .

The reindeer’s hooves must have been hitting the ground, but their gait was so smooth Einar couldn’t tell. He couldn’t hear it, either, not against the packed snow with the wind carrying Naia’s delighted laughter.

Einar had ridden one of Elevia’s specially trained messenger horses once, and the speed of that had rattled his teeth. This was faster. The world around him became a blur—everything but Naia.

Instinct had wrapped his arms around her waist. Her back pressed to his chest, and her hair whipped around his face. Her ass nestled sweetly in the cradle of his thighs, and he found a new appreciation for the sleek muscle in hers . She rode as if she’d been born in the saddle, and Einar wondered whose memories guided her to move so effortlessly with the surging beast, to cradle the reins with such confidence.

He’d made the mistake of thinking that someone so freshly born from the Dream must be naive. Untutored. In this moment, she seemed ancient, tapping into the primal knowledge of thousands of lives over a hundred generations.

Maybe he’d been wrong all along, and he was the one playing with fire. Maybe one night with her would leave him shattered on the rocks, utterly wrecked while the tide carried her out with the dawn.

The ground began to rise ahead of them. Another blast from a horn slowed their breakneck pace as they approached the top of a bluff. The wind across his face carried the acrid smell of burning wood now, and the sound of voices raised in panic.

Then they reached the top of the hill, and Einar saw the smoke.

Naia was gone before their mount had come to a full stop, springing as gracefully from the reindeer’s back as she’d swung up onto it. Einar scrambled to follow her, striding to the edge of the cliff to stare down at the village.

In flames.

Time seemed to unravel. Einar had a lifetime between stately beats of his heart to take in the dire situation below them.

Jamyskar was burning. Fire curled up from the steeply pitched thatch roofs of too many buildings, its source not immediately apparent. Screams rose from within. Villagers scrambled in all directions, some trying to douse the flames, others fighting their way into the burning homes in an attempt at rescue.

More villagers carried weapons, charging toward the rocky beach where a trio of longboats rode the final wave onto the shore. At least a dozen well-armed and armored soldiers spilled from each one, their battle cries rising harshly over the chaos.

A familiar boom sounded with his next heartbeat, dragging his gaze out to the ocean. Three massive battleships floated just offshore, their cannons still smoking. Dark smudges resolved into projectiles that slammed into buildings, people, and earth alike with uncaring unanimity.

His blood chilled further as his gaze slid up, to the dark sails snapping in the morning breeze, and the distinctive flag flying proudly from the tallest mast of every ship.

The sigil of the Kraken.