By the fourth night of the endless mist, the stars vanished.
The heavens that once shimmered silver now hung veiled and hollow, as though the firmament itself had forgotten how to shine. From her balcony, Lyrielle could see little beyond the faint glow of the lanterns swaying in the harbour below — and even those lights flickered like breath caught between one world and the next.
The song still wound through her veins. It was softer now, not pleading but possessive — like a heartbeat pressing against her own, whispering mine, mine, mine.
She no longer needed to seek the sea. Wherever she walked, it came with her. The air in her chambers tasted faintly of salt; the curtains fluttered as if beneath unseen tides. At times, she thought she could hear footsteps in the hallways — gentle, unhurried, as if someone walked beside her, always just beyond the edge of sight.
When she spoke aloud, her voice echoed faintly — not from the walls, but from beneath them.
That morning, she descended to the village below the cliffs.
No birds sang there now. The once-bustling streets lay silent, lined with closed shutters and offerings left at doors: driftwood crosses, jars of fresh water, wilted garlands of sea-grass.
As she passed, curtains twitched. A child peered out — pale, hollow-eyed — and whispered, "The sea-witch walks."
Lyrielle paused. The words stung, though she could not deny their truth. The tide had chosen her, and in doing so, marked her.
At the edge of the docks, she found an old fisherman still awake, his lantern casting long shadows over the planks. His eyes were clouded, but he did not flinch when she approached.
"You've come for the calling," he said quietly. "It sings to all of us now, but only you can answer."
Lyrielle drew her cloak tighter. "Do you know what it wants?"
He shook his head slowly. "Not want. Remember. It remembers her." His gaze drifted to the sea, glowing faintly blue beneath the mist. "And through her, it remembers you."
The fisherman turned his face toward her, eyes brimming with pity. "When love calls from the deep, my lady, the living are not meant to follow."
But Lyrielle was already walking toward the edge of the pier. The water below shimmered faintly, and she could see shapes moving within it — long, sinuous shadows like ribbons of light. She knelt, staring down.
The reflection that met her gaze was neither wholly her own nor wholly Seloria's. It was something in between — a merging of flesh and memory, breath and tide. Her eyes had deepened to the colour of the storm; her lips were pale as foam.
She touched the surface, and the image rippled.
"Lyrielle."
The voice came from the deep, clear and familiar. She froze.
"The tide remembers. But the world is fading. You cannot belong to both."
"Seloria," Lyrielle whispered, trembling. "Then tell me — what am I to do?"
"Come home."
The words sank into her chest like a blade and a kiss both at once.
That night, as she returned to the castle, thunder rolled over the cliffs. The wind carried with it the scent of rain and something older — a sorrow that had slept beneath the sea for centuries.
She found herself drawn again to the mirror. The reflection that looked back no longer obeyed her movements perfectly; when she turned her head, it lingered. When she closed her eyes, it watched her still.
"Is this what you meant by being remade?" she whispered.
No answer came — only the faint sound of waves crashing within the walls.
She touched the mirror's surface, and this time, it rippled like water. The reflection reached back — fingers of light brushing hers — and for a breath, she felt Seloria's warmth again.
"When the moon turns white," Seloria's voice whispered through the glass, "the sea will open. And then, my love, there will be no more dividing line."
Lyrielle leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass. Her breath fogged against the surface, and within it, she saw both her faces — hers and Seloria's — merge into one.
"I will come," she whispered. "Even if the sky must drown to let me through."
The glass stilled. The mist outside thickened until the world was nothing but shadow and pale glow.
When the dawn came, it brought no light.
The bells of Elaria tolled once — deep and mournful — and the sound that answered from the sea was not an echo, but a heartbeat.