The morning after the crimson moon was unnaturally still.
No wind stirred the curtains, and the sea, once roaring, now lay as smooth as glass — too calm, too reflective, as if the world itself held its breath. Lyrielle woke with her clothes still damp, salt dried in faint white trails upon her skin. She could not tell if what she had witnessed had been a vision, a dream, or something more perilous.
Her hairpin lay beside her on the pillow — the crescent of silver she had clutched when Seloria's image dissolved into the waves. Only now, its surface had changed. Etched faintly into the metal were markings she did not remember: winding lines like water currents, or veins of light frozen in place.
When she touched them, her fingers tingled with warmth.
The sensation lingered throughout the day — a pulse that seemed to come not from her heart, but from somewhere deeper, as though the sea itself had found its way into her blood. The servants noticed her pallor and her silence, but said nothing. They had grown afraid of her grief, of her solitary walks, of the strange whispering that followed her through the halls.
By evening, she could no longer remain inside. The air within the castle felt heavy, each breath thick with salt. She took the lantern and walked down to the gardens, where the storm had torn roses from their stems and scattered their petals across the wet earth.
As she passed the willow, the same soft hum returned — low and mournful, like a heart remembering its loss.
She paused, hand resting on the bark. "Seloria," she whispered. "You told me the tide mourns. Tell me how to soothe it."
The leaves stirred though no wind moved them. A single droplet of water fell onto her wrist — not rain, but clear and bright as a tear. It slid down her skin, leaving a trace of warmth.
Then, faintly, the world around her shifted. The edges of the garden blurred, the scent of jasmine thickened, and from the mist emerged a faint light, the outline of a figure watching her through the veil.
Seloria.
Not solid, but nearer than before, her form almost steady in the lantern's glow. Her eyes, dark and deep as the sea, met Lyrielle's with an ache that unmade all language.
"You have called me too soon," Seloria said softly. Her voice was both sound and echo. "The tide still grieves. When you touched the sea beneath the crimson moon, it took your vow as its own."
Lyrielle's voice trembled. "Then we are bound."
"Bound," Seloria echoed, "but not yet joined. Every night you dream of me, the tide will rise higher. Every word you write, the veil will thin. But love cannot exist without cost, Lyrielle. You must learn what you are asking for."
Lyrielle stepped closer, her hand half-lifted, wanting only to touch the shimmer of her beloved's cheek. "Then teach me."
A faint, sorrowful smile crossed Seloria's face.
"When the sea remembers, it does not forgive. But it never forgets."
The mist swirled around them; the light dimmed. Lyrielle felt her knees weaken as the air grew colder. Her hand brushed against Seloria's, and for a heartbeat, warmth flooded through her — warmth so human it brought tears to her eyes.
"Soon," Seloria whispered. "When the tide is red again, I will return. Until then, listen for my voice in the water. The sea carries all things back to where they began."
And then she was gone — the mist collapsing inward like breath released.
Lyrielle sank to the ground, trembling. Her fingers glowed faintly where they had touched Seloria's hand. The warmth lingered long after the vision faded, pulsing with the rhythm of waves.
She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling the echo of that tide within her.
"I will wait," she whispered. "No matter the cost."
The sea answered with a single low sigh, washing against the cliffs, as if it had heard and accepted her vow.
Above, the moon rose pale and silver, and the night carried the scent of jasmine through the gardens once more.