The moon hadn't moved all night.
It hung above the horizon like a pale coin pinned to velvet, bathing the island in restless silver. The tide pressed high against the stilts of the houses, whispering against the boards as if counting them.
Lira sat at the edge of the dock, feet dangling above the glowing water. Lanterns swung gently overhead; the smell of brine clung to her hair like a second skin. She should've gone inside when Nana called her the first time.
"Lira," Nana said again, voice sharper now. "Storm's changing."
But there was no storm. The air was too still. Even the herons had gone quiet.
Something flickered below. Lira peered down. The plankton glimmered brighter than usual, swirling in a slow, deliberate ring around her toes. When she shifted her feet, they shifted too. The ring tightened.
A thrill ran through her—half fear, half fascination. She whispered, "Are you playing with me?"
That was when she felt it: a hum, low and resonant, deep enough to buzz in her teeth. It pulsed through the dock boards, through her chest, syncing with her heartbeat. The villagers said the ocean sometimes sang. But this wasn't a song.
It was a summons.
The bell at the watchpost clanged, and the sound broke like glass over the stillness.
Nana's hand was on Lira's wrist the moment she stepped inside. "Pack the red bag," she said, voice like splintering wood. "Water gourd, fish biscuits, the knife by the hearth. Go."
"What's happening?"
"Boats. No lanterns."
They never came without lanterns unless they meant harm.
Lira's hands moved on instinct. She grabbed the bag, shoved in supplies, tried not to think about the mark hidden under her ribs, pale as a sand dollar, that had made the midwife cross herself twice the day she was born.
Outside, feet pounded planks. A dog barked once, then yelped and went silent.
Three men entered without knocking. They wore short-cut coats, bone and shell tied in their hair. Not islanders.
"We're looking for a child," said the leader. His voice was calm—too calm. "Marked by the sea."
"Plenty of children," Nana said. "None of your business."
The man's gaze swept the room and landed on Lira. His expression softened. "Come here, little fish."
Nana moved in front of her. "She's mine."
"She belongs to the tides," he murmured.
They slipped out the back before he could act, Nana dragging Lira down the walkway toward the canoe. The water sighed beneath the boards. Lira's bag thumped against her hip. She glanced down—
The glowing ring followed, circling her ankles like a crown of stars.
"Don't look down," Nana hissed.
Lira whispered to the water anyway, "I see you."
That was when she saw the others waiting by the mangroves. More strangers. And the calm-voiced man was ahead of them again, like he'd read the current.
"We don't wish harm," he said, stepping closer. "We came to fetch what was promised."
"Then fetch her yourself," Nana snapped.
His gaze flicked to Lira's shawl, to the mark peeking through. He smiled faintly. "There."
The dock groaned. The hum returned, stronger, filling her skull until her teeth ached. Water rose against the pilings. Lira's chest burned as if she'd swallowed seawater. She wiped her eyes and left salt flakes on her cheeks.
A sleek boat slid into view from the shadows, silent as thought, its sail the color of smoke. A woman stood at its bow, hair dark as wet rope.
"Stand away from the child," she called.
"Lady Nerith," the calm man said softly.
"I am where I'm needed," Nerith said. Water rippled under her bare feet as if bowing to her.
Chaos broke. A man lunged for Nana; water whipped around his legs and threw him down. Nerith's guards moved with liquid precision, striking without swords.
"Run to the boat!" Nerith shouted.
Nana shoved her. "Go, bird!"
Lira ran. She was almost there when something yanked her ankle. The calm man had slipped into the water. She fell, headfirst, breath knocked out, the world turning green and silent.
Hands grabbed her leg, pulling her down. Panic clawed her chest. And then—
Two round eyes blinked inches from her face. They glowed faintly, pupils shaped like rippling rings. The creature was small, soft, and strange—an octopus no bigger than a loaf of bread.
It touched her chest. The burning eased; her lungs opened. The water no longer hurt.
Threads of silken ink wrapped the man's wrist, his elbow, binding him with effortless strength. The octopus glanced back at her, and the thought slid into her mind like a whisper: Are you mine?
Lira nodded.
The water lifted her gently, carrying her toward Nerith's waiting hand. She landed in the boat, gasping. The little creature—Seri, the name bloomed in her head—plopped into her lap.
The man splashed helplessly below.
"Salt tears," Nerith murmured, studying Lira's face. "So it's true."
More dark boats appeared, cutting through the lane like knives. Nerith raised her hand; the sail filled itself with breath. The boat leapt forward.
As the island fell behind them, flames licked at a single stilt house, and the bell rang again and again, shattering the silence.