On a cold morning with fierce winds, the Kingdom of Salter awoke to a commotion unlike the bustle of its markets. Children ran between people's feet—their small bodies weaving through the crowd like fish through a net. They were not playing. They were running in one direction. The harbour.
The people walked the same road. A whole river of bodies—of pressed shoulders, of ragged breaths, of feet slapping against wet stone. They moved toward the sea, toward the ship that had not yet docked. The wind carried the smell of salt and fish and something else—something like hunger, like hope.
One child raised his head to the sky. It was grey, overcast, like old tin. His small face was pinched against the cold, his nose red, his eyes squinting against the wind. Above him, a seagull fought the wind that pushed against it. It flapped its wings without advancing, hanging in the air like something that refused to fall.
"Come on!" his friend called from behind, his voice high and urgent, cracking with excitement. The boy felt a small hand grab his sleeve and tug. "The harbour will fill up! And we won't be able to see them!"
The boy lowered his head. He turned his focus back to the river of bodies, and he floated with the current.
The children were not alone. The adults ran too. Women carrying their infants—their arms wrapped tight, their shoulders hunched against the wind, their lips pressed to their babies' foreheads. Men carrying their burdens—tools, sacks, the weight of their own desperation. Everyone searching for a saviour.
The ship was docking.
The ship, The Widow, had a broad hull, dark-coloured—the colour of wet slate. Its sail flapped in the wind like a torn cloth, snapping and cracking. The crew descended first—Sea Knights, heavy, silent. Their armor was dark blue, scaled like fish. Their boots hit the wooden dock with heavy thuds. Then behind them came the three Sea Sisters. They wore blue dresses—not the blue of the sea, but a deeper blue, the blue of the depths where no light reaches. Their hair hung loose, wet, as if the water itself still clung to them.
The first descended. She waved to the crowd—a royal greeting. Her arm moved in a slow, practiced arc, her wrist turning with the precision of ritual. Her eyes swept the masses. She did not pause. Did not smile. She simply waved.
Then the second and third descended. They waved as well—the same mechanical motion, the same empty gesture, their faces as still as carved stone.
Women raised their children, trying to draw near—their arms extended, their hands reaching, their fingers stretching toward the Sisters. The Sea Knights formed a wall. Their shields locked with dull clanks. They stood between the commons and their desires.
Once the Sisters landed, they found it hard to move from their place. The crowd pushed. Surrounded. The knights could not advance. Their boots scraped against the dock, unable to find purchase.
The three Sisters stopped.
"We have had a long journey," said one. Her voice was quiet but carried. She lifted her chin slightly, her eyes passing over the crowd without settling on any face. "Now we need rest."
She paused. She looked at the faces—at the outstretched hands, at the open mouths, at the eyes full of need. Her expression did not soften.
"Will you not make way? We promise you that every one of you will be heard. The sea is wide. And it can solve all your troubles."
"The Seclusion journey took two months!" shouted one from the crowd—a woman with wild hair and a hoarse voice. She pushed forward, her fists clenched at her sides, her face twisted with frustration. "Two months we waited for your coming! Can you not wait two more days until they rest? Come. Make way. Do not be selfish!"
The crowd began to part. Little by little. Shoulder by shoulder. The masses receded like a tide going out. The noise faded, until the Sisters passed in peace.
The crowd continued to cheer. Hands still raised. Mouths still calling. Until the Sisters reached the Deep Temple—the Temple of the Six Seas.
The knights entered. The Sisters entered. The doors closed behind them with a heavy, final sound.
The sound of the crowd outside was still audible, but distant. Like another wave. Like a wave behind a wall.
Wave, one of the Sisters, was tired. She limped slightly—her left foot dragging a fraction behind the right. She placed her hand on her belly, her fingers pressing hard against the fabric of her dress, as though she could push something back inside. She looked at Ebb.
"I will go to my chamber to rest a little," she said. Her voice was broken—thin, like a thread about to snap. Her hand trembled against her stomach.
Then—at that very moment—she vomited onto the floor.
The sound was wet. Violent. Her body convulsed, her shoulders heaving, her hand shooting out to brace against the wall. The bile splattered across the polished stone. She gasped, her whole frame shuddering.
Ebb looked at her. Her expression did not change. She did not step forward. She did not step back.
"Gather yourself." Her voice was flat, her arms folding slowly across her chest. "To be one of the Sea Sisters is not as you imagine. The sea will not change for you. It is you who must change."
She paused. Her eyes moved over Wave's bent form, over the trembling shoulders, over the hand still pressed to her belly.
"Go to your chamber. Take some solitude. It has taken much from you."
Wave went. She ran—her hand over her mouth, her steps uneven, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"I will go to rest as well," said Tide. She stood apart, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set. Her voice carried a sharp edge, like a blade drawn across stone. "It is not the journey that wearies. It is the arrival. And knowing that the people still await our service, I hope the sea answers our prayers and drowns this rotten city."
Ebb turned her head slowly. Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
"Careful, Tide."
"Why?" Tide's lip curled, her chin lifting in defiance.
"Because the sea listens."
Tide replied, her head tilting, her voice dripping with contempt: "Does it?"
Tide departed as well. Her steps slow, heavy—until she vanished into the passage.
Ebb remained alone. She made her way to the Court of the Ocean. The court was vast, circular—its walls carved with waves frozen in stone. At its centre stood three chairs—three thrones of blue stone. Ebb sat in the middle. She looked at the two empty chairs beside her and smiled—a sardonic smile that pulled at one corner of her mouth. Her fingers drummed once on the armrest.
Then she looked at the guards. Her voice carried across the empty court.
"Grant those who deserve audience permission to enter. I'll take care of it myself."
A man entered. He wore a green robe. He was drenched in sweat—his face glistening, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was breathing fast, his chest rising and falling. He stopped at the door and looked at her. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching.
"Greetings, Sister Ebb."
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
"This is your first time here," said Ebb. Her eyes moved over him—from his salt-stained boots to his calloused hands to the sweat on his brow. She did not blink. "Salt men have never come here before."
"How did you know I was a Salt harvester?" His head tilted, his brow furrowing. "Did the sea tell you?"
Ebb smiled—a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. "Your smell is saltier than the sea itself."
"Forgive me, Sister Ebb. I should have washed before coming before you." He bowed his head quickly, his shoulders hunching.
"No." Ebb raised one hand—a small gesture, fingers spreading. "Do not wash it away."
She leaned back in her throne, her spine pressing against the stone. Her eyes stayed on him.
"Salt is the taste of life. Of our life."
The man said, his hands twisting together in front of him, his voice dropping with shame: "Since you went on your journey, the storms increased. The tide rose. We faced difficulties in our work."
"Do you know what the seclusion is? What it means to us?"
"No, Sister." He shook his head, his eyes dropping to the floor.
"Then you know nothing of what you ask from the sea."
She looked at him—her eyes steady, unblinking. Her fingers curled slowly around the armrest.
"The seclusion is not a journey. It is a bargain."
"A bargain?" He raised his head, confusion flickering across his face.
"You ask the sea for something. The sea gives it to you."
She paused. Her fingers tightened on the stone.
"And then it takes something in return."
"What does it take?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Ebb smiled. Her teeth showed—white, even.
"Whatever we are foolish enough to offer."
"Go back to work. From here onward, the tide will recede. And your work will return to normal. Trust in the sea's wisdom."
"Thank you, Sister. I shall depart now." He bowed and retreated, his wet footprints trailing behind him.
"Next!" cried Ebb. Her voice echoed through the stone court.
Then the next. And the next.
Far from the seas, from the humid, stormy air, in the countryside near the Kingdom of Valkryn, among the rocky lands that could not be tilled, Thomas and Sara rode upon a single horse. The road was harsh. No trees. No shade. Only rocks and rocks and rocks—grey, jagged, unyielding.
Sara placed a piece of Thomas's cloak over her head against the sun. She had never seen such sun in Thornholl. It was harsh on her pale skin—burning, biting. Her skin reddened. Her lips were dry, chapped, cracked at the corners. She pressed the cloth tighter to her face.
Thomas saw only the road. He sweated—his shirt darkening at the back. The horse breathed with difficulty—each breath heavy, laboured. The pace was slow.
Thomas noticed. His eyes narrowed. He searched for the nearest place to rest.
Then—suddenly—he stopped.
He was looking at a small forest. It was not large—a green patch amid the rocks. Low trees. Shade. It could serve as a rest.
Sara looked as well. She saw the shade, saw the place. She sat up straighter on the horse.
"Do you not see that forest?" Her voice carried hope, thin and desperate.
Thomas did not answer. His jaw was set.
"We must rest. My feet ache. And the sun is burning me alive." She tugged at his shirt weakly.
"No. We will continue until the horse falls. And if he falls, we continue on foot." His voice was flat, his eyes fixed ahead.
Sara jumped off the horse. Her feet hit the ground hard—she stumbled, but caught herself. Then she ran toward the forest. Her run was stumbling, but swift.
Thomas looked at her. His jaw clenched. His hand tightened on the reins.
"Go. I will not follow you."
He rode away. The horse moved—steps slow, tired.
Then he remembered something. Something from memory. From inside that small forest.
He turned and followed her.
When Sara entered the forest, Thomas saw his horse stop at the edge of the shadow. The horse refused to enter—its head tossing, its hooves planting. Thomas kicked it. It refused. Then suddenly it bolted. The horse was nervous—as if it smelled something.
Thomas dismounted at the forest's edge. His bad shoulder throbbed. He looked around. He searched for Sara. Then he tied his horse to the nearest tree and walked inside.
"Come! I found something!"
It was Sara's voice from the depth. Thomas was not excited. He walked slowly. He knew what she would find.
"Look! It's a grave!" said Sara. She stood before a pile of stones—arranged, deliberate. She pointed at it, her head tilting with curiosity. "I wonder whose it was? Who would bury someone here? This place is as hot as hell."
Thomas looked at her. His face was blank. "I did."
Sara looked at him. She did not believe him. Then she saw his eyes. He was not joking.
"What—" She swallowed, her hand dropping to her side. "Whom did you bury?"
"Not your concern."
He looked up at the sky—at the sun piercing through the leaves.
"Forgive me. I did not wish to do this."
Then he began to dig with his one hand. His lone fingers scratched the hard earth. He breathed with difficulty.
"What are you doing? Have you gone mad?" She stepped back, her eyes wide.
"You talk too much, girl." Thomas did not look at her. His hand kept working. "I think I have overfed you. Speak one more time, and I will cut open your stomach so that all the food comes out."
Sara covered her mouth with both hands. She sat down and threw stones at the trees. The sound of the stones was light, intermittent—tap... tap... tap...
Thomas dug. The earth was hard, caked. His whole body was tense. His only hand worked—digging, tossing dirt aside.
Sara looked at him. "I can help you if you tell me who you buried there."
"I told you to be quiet."
"Fine. I will be quiet." She pulled her knees to her chest.
Thomas stopped. He struck the earth in anger—his fist hitting the dirt. Then he froze. He looked at Sara.
"My brother. I buried my brother."
"I will not judge you," said Sara. Her voice was quiet. She hugged her knees tighter. "I wish every day that I could bury my brothers too."
"I never wished that," said Thomas. His voice was low. He wiped his brow with his forearm. "My brother was not a bad man. He was good. Wonderful. And clever. I was the complete opposite."
He paused. He looked at the pile—at the stones.
"After I saw what I saw beyond The Great Pale, I came to hate humans—to the point that I killed them only because I opposed the very idea of their existence."
He wiped his forehead. His hand was wet.
"But after meeting my brother—his name was Geoffrey—anyway, he changed me. Or I only changed for him. I turned away from killing and blood, and I lived with him a life built on honour and simplicity."
He paused. His hand rested on the earth.
"But in this place, humans brought me back to my senses."
"They surrounded us. A band of bandits. At that time I could not fight—not because I was unable, but because my brother refused it."
His voice had dropped, almost vanished.
"In the blink of an eye, all it took was for me to see my little brother breathing blood and looking at me with his last look."
He paused. He looked at the sky, at the leaves.
"From that day I learned that honour and simplicity are a taste for humans. And I swore from that day to slaughter as many of them as possible. And when I stand before them with my long sword, I see their truth."
Sara stood slowly. Then she began to dig with him. Her small hands scratched the earth. She tossed it aside.
"Do you know that I am still a child?" she said. Her voice trembled. "Stories like these terrify me."
"It is not a story."
Thomas kept digging.
"Stories end."
He looked at her.
"Reality doesn't."
She looked at him. "But why are we digging your brother's grave now?"
"Our food is running out... thanks to you. Now we need money."
"Would he forgive you?"
Thomas's hand tightened around the earth.
"He would forgive me."
He looked at the grave.
"That is what I hated most about him."
He paused. He looked at the earth, at his hand.
"That day I decided to give up everything and start anew—a life of hatred. But it so happened that I left a handful of coins. And since the dead need no money, I will take them."
"I do not like this." She stopped digging, her hands falling to her sides.
"Sit far away and let me handle it."
He continued digging. Then digging. Then digging.
Merleith
The matter of the ancient creatures never left Zohra's mind. She thought seriously. Was what Edd saw real? Or merely things that shielded him from the things he saw? Was his brother alive? Or did he wish to believe that?
The Nine Eyes did not deny his ability. But they said he could not explain what he saw.
Zohra was thinking. While before her, she saw the wedding of one of her friends. The wedding was outdoors, beneath the Tree of Beginning. Its leaves fell slowly—very slowly—as if they did not wish to touch the ground.
The sound of the waterfall reached her ears. Water fell from a great height. Its sound was steady, unchanging. The sound of the Tree of Beginning's leaves—a soft, continuous rustle. The sound of the Normens' quiet talk—low, interwoven. And the voice of the wedding announcer rose from time to time—words she did not truly hear.
Zohra looked at the bride and groom—at the faces, at the intertwined hands. She was not living it. She was seeing it. Only seeing it.
Then she decided to leave.
She crossed the bridge over the flowing river of Mount Izzadar. The water moved beneath her—clear, green. She walked through Merleith's shining streets. The stones reflected light. The walls were white, smooth—as if made of pearl.
She entered the high castle of Merleith. Then climbed the stairs. Her steps echoed on the stone. She was still thinking.
What does a mother look like?
What does a mother do?
Who is a mother?
She wanted answers. And her answers would only come by living that role. With Edd.
Zohra found herself drawn to the person she feared most. She began to care for him. She began to do the things she feared doing.
Is this what mother means? she asked herself.
When she reached Edd's chamber, she entered without knocking. Months had passed—enough to break the doors between them.
When she entered, she found Edd lying down. His eyes closed. He appeared to be asleep—but he was speaking.
"I will kill you." His voice was faint, distorted. His body twitched beneath the sheets. "I will kill you all."
Zohra stopped. She did not move. Her hand, which had been reaching for the door, hung in the air.
"But before that I will look into their eyes. And I will say it. You are a shame upon the world."
Zohra saw the threat. But she did not feel threatened for herself. She felt threatened for Edd's life.
Then his voice changed. Softer now. Smaller. His hand clutched the blanket, his knuckles white.
"Do not kill me. Please. I want to live."
Zohra realized that Edd was dreaming. Dream after dream. After dream.
She tried to wake him. Shook him. Called him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her voice rose.
He did not respond. His body went limp beneath her hands.
He was swallowed by the world of dreams. Forever.
But they were not dreams.
They were nightmares.