Lyrielle began to notice it first in the still water of the basin.
When she bent to wash her hands one morning, the reflection that met her gaze was almost her own—yet not quite. Her eyes shimmered faintly, the grey within them deepened to the colour of stormlight; her skin glowed with the palest trace of silver. The servants had stopped meeting her eyes altogether. They crossed themselves when she passed, whispering of omens and salt ghosts.
At night she dreamt not of rooms and corridors, but of the ocean's endless body. In sleep she floated between waves that whispered her name. Sometimes she felt Seloria near her—always just beyond reach, her laughter like wind through reeds, her touch cool as foam.
She began to keep a journal of these dreams, her handwriting growing smaller and more hurried with each entry.
The sea breathes with me now.
The castle tastes of salt.
I heard her sing beneath the window—soft, the way she once did when she thought I slept.
On the third night, Lyrielle woke to find the floor damp beneath her feet. A trail of water led from the window to her bed, as though someone—or something—had stood there watching. Outside, the tide had climbed far higher than it should, licking at the foot of the cliffs.
She went to the mirror by the door. Her reflection trembled in the dim light. The shape that stared back seemed more ethereal, her hair gleaming faintly as if threaded with moonlight. When she raised her hand, the reflection hesitated a heartbeat too long before following.
The sight filled her with neither fear nor wonder, but recognition. The sea's mark had taken root.
That evening she returned to the willow garden. The air hummed faintly with the same low music she had heard before. The wind carried the smell of rain and jasmine. The runes on the silver hairpin glowed softly, guiding her toward the cliffs.
There, the sea was waiting. Not roaring now, but calm—flat and bright as glass. The surface mirrored the sky so perfectly it seemed she might step across it.
She spoke quietly, though the words trembled.
"Seloria, I feel you in every breath. Tell me what I am becoming."
The answer came from everywhere at once—the air, the water, the faint rush of her own pulse.
"Part of the remembering."
The voice was gentle but absolute.
A light shimmered upon the surface of the water, spreading outward in delicate circles. Seloria's reflection appeared there, clear as crystal, though the waves did not move. Her eyes were full of something unspoken: not warning, not sorrow—understanding.
"The tide has chosen you," she said. "When I fell into its depths, it took me so that I might learn what it keeps. Now it has found another heart that listens."
Lyrielle knelt, her hand hovering above the water. "Then I am yours," she whispered.
"And I am yours," Seloria replied. "But the sea is never kind. To be remembered by it is to be remade."
Lyrielle's fingers touched the surface. Cold, sharp pain bloomed through her hand, yet she did not withdraw. Beneath her skin, veins glimmered faintly blue, pulsing with rhythm not her own. The tide within her answered.
Seloria's image wavered, then leaned closer until her voice was a whisper in Lyrielle's ear.
"When the moon turns white again, follow the song. The sea will open."
Then she was gone, and Lyrielle was left kneeling, the waves lapping gently against her palms. The moonlight painted her hair pale as frost, and her reflection on the water seemed to smile even when she did not.
She turned toward the castle slowly, aware that something in her had changed beyond undoing. The rhythm of her heart no longer matched the stillness of the air, but the quiet pulse of the tide below.