The Ascended

Book 0: Aesymarean Duet

by Bree Grenwich, Parker Lennox

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

The high-stakes trials of Carissa Broadbent's The Serpent and the Wings of Night meet the forbidden romance of Keri Lake's Nocticadia in the first of the Aesymarean Duet, as twins thrust into a brutal tournament for godhood must navigate forbidden desires and their own drive for revenge.

In a world where divine power bleeds into the mortal realm, Thais Morvaren has mastered the art of deception. To her seaside village, she's just a fisherman's daughter, serving oysters to summer tourists. In secret, she hides her ability to forge weapons from starlight-a power that would force her into the deadly Trials of Ascension.

But when a priest's ritual exposes her divine heritage, Thais is seized and conscripted into the trials against her will. Now trapped in a competition she never wanted to enter, she transforms her fear into purpose: to kill Olinthar, King of the Gods-the father whose divine touch proved fatal to her mother.
To take down a god, she must become one, even if it costs her everything.

What she doesn't expect is her twin brother's powers suddenly manifesting, forcing him into the trials alongside her-leaving Thais to protect more than just herself.

Worse still, the selection ceremony binds her to a mentor: Xül. A necromancer prince with blood-soaked hands, a sharp tongue, and dark secrets of his own. From the moment they meet, sparks fly. He's insufferably arrogant, she's stubborn to the bone, and neither has any intention of yielding to the other... or to the heat between them.

Each trial survived brings her closer to godhood, but beneath the spectacle of competition, something ancient and malevolent stalks the shadows of the divine realm-a darkness that threatens to unravel the heavens themselves.

Thais may have been forced into the Trials seeking survival, but she'll finish them seeking vengeance.
And the cost of godhood is rising.

Because some stars aren't meant to be weapons.

Some stars are meant to fall.

Release date: October 7, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 476

Sample

The oyster knife slipped in my hand, slicing into my thumb instead of between the stubborn shell. "Shit," I muttered, watching blood well up from the cut. My head pounded with the special kind of agony that came from too much ale and too little sleep.

"Thatcher, you absolute ass," I whispered to the empty shed, sucking the blood from my thumb. The metallic taste mingled with the stench of low tide—rotting seaweed, briny muck, and the sharp smell of fish left too long in the sun. It was the kind of smell that would send most people retching.

But the oyster beds waited for no one, not even for those of us suffering the consequences of last night's poor decisions. My twin was undoubtedly still in some bed with company, nursing the same hangover but without the responsibility.

I winced as salt water from the next oyster stung my cut. When had I become the responsible one? It certainly wasn't my natural inclination. The night before flashed through my mind. Dancing on tables at Sandbar, the only tavern in our tiny village. Leading the crowd in bawdy sailing songs so filthy they'd make a captain blush. Challenging three fishermen to a drinking contest and winning while Thatcher cheered and collected bets. I'd matched them drink for drink, slamming down my final cup to thunderous applause while maintaining perfect balance. And somehow, I'd still managed to drag myself out of bed at dawn while my brother slept off his excesses.

The weight of making sure everything ran smoothly had settled onto my shoulders years ago—a mantle I'd never asked for but couldn't seem to put down. Every decision, every choice, required careful consideration of consequences. What if the oysters weren't sorted properly? What if we didn't make enough at market? What if I failed at the one thing Sulien still expected of me—this simple reliability, this quiet competence that seemed to be the only currency I had left to offer him? The constant mental calculations exhausted me more than any physical labor ever could.

I lined up another oyster. This one yielded to my blade, revealing glistening meat within the pearlescent shell.

I tossed it into the basket for market and reached for another from the pile, establishing a rhythm despite the throbbing in my head. Briden always reserved two baskets of pre-shucked for his earlier patrons. We prepared those first thing, packed them in seaweed and ice, and delivered them before the regular market even opened. The rest we'd bring live and shuck to order throughout the day. A pain in the ass, but it kept the oysters at their best and earned us a premium.

Eventually, the shed door creaked open, spilling harsh morning light across the worn wooden floors.

"You look like shit warmed over," I said, not bothering to glance up. "Twice-warmed, actually."

Thatcher laughed, the sound bouncing painfully between my temples. "And you look positively radiant, sister dear. That special glow that comes from pure spite." He swaggered in, an hour late and looking entirely too pleased with himself. The linen shirt he wore was misbuttoned and wrinkled, the deep forest green fabric askew across his broad shoulders, and his hair stuck up in several creative directions, bearing the unmistakable evidence of fingers that weren't his own.

My own clothes were practical and well-worn—a simple, cream-colored blouse tucked into dark brown trousers that had been patched more times than I could count, sturdy leather boots scuffed from years of beach walking, and an old fishing vest that had belonged to Sulien, the pockets still holding bits of net and shell fragments.

I had the same black hair as Thatcher's, though mine fell in salt-stiffened waves past my shoulders while his was cropped short. We both had the same square jaw, dimpled cheeks, and freckles scattered across fair skin tanned from years under the coastal sun. Our indigo eyes were a trait from our mother, much like our stubbornness and affinity for trouble, according to Sulien.

"Nice of you to grace me with your presence," I said, tossing an empty shell into the discard pile and tucking a strand of hair behind the point of my ear. "Did your newest escapade finally kick you out, or did you leave before her father discovered you?"

Thatcher picked up a knife and settled beside me at the sorting table, reaching for an oyster. "The latter," he replied with that infuriating grin. "Keth's daughter says hello, by the way."

"Which one?" I asked, though I already knew. The elder's youngest had been making eyes at my brother all summer, poor fool.

"The pretty one." His grin widened as he effortlessly shucked an oyster. Always frustrating how the work came so naturally to his hands, even half-drunk and barely awake. He had that ease about everything—the kind of charmed existence where things just worked out, where doors opened without pushing, where smiles appeared without effort. “You know I prefer women with fair hair.”

"They're both pretty." I tossed another oyster into the market basket. "And both too good for you. I hope she knows you're just adding her to your collection."

"Oh, she knew exactly what she was going to get." Thatcher wiggled his eyebrows, looking so ridiculous I almost forgave him for leaving me alone all morning. "And what she was getting, repeatedly, until about an hour ago. Although she did most of her talking with other parts."

I elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Weak constitution," he teased.

I flicked my knife, sending a spray of oyster brine directly into his face. He spluttered, coughing dramatically.

"Trying to drown me now? I thought you’d be in better spirits after your midnight swim with lover boy."

"I walked the cove after leaving the tavern. Alone." I shrugged.

"Alone, huh?" The single word carried a weight of implication.

"Unlike some people, I don't need company every hour of the day."

My brother's shoulder bumped against mine. "Liar. You were with Marel. I can always tell when you've been with him—you get this smug look, like a cat that's found the cream." He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Also, you have a bite mark just below your ear that you missed when you were getting dressed."

My hand flew to my neck, face burning. Thatcher burst out laughing.

"You self-satisfied jackass," I hissed, flicking more brine at him, but couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. "Why am I cursed with you for a brother?"

"Because you'd be bored without me," he replied, deftly shucking three oysters in quick succession, showing off. He glanced at me sideways, sincerity creeping into his voice. "When are you finally going to give in and properly let him court you? Marel's been mooning after you for what, two years now?"

I kept my eyes on my work, my rhythm unbroken. "It's not like that."

"It could be."

"It won't be," I said firmly. "You know that."

Thatcher sighed but didn't press further. He knew me too well to argue when my mind was set. Better yet, he was far too aware how I felt about this particular topic. It was better to keep things casual. Better that Marel think of me as nothing more than an occasional pleasure, a wild spirit impossible to tame. Even if he wanted more. Eventually, he’d move on.

Thatcher's hand briefly covered mine, stilling my knife. When I looked up, his expression held no teasing. Just understanding. He might chase every eligible woman in the village, but deep down, he carried the same burden. Me.

For us, some doors would always remain closed.

"I've always got your back, Thais. You know that."

I nodded once, returning to my work. Somehow those simple words from him I never doubted.

We finished the first batch just as the sun crested, painting the water gold beyond the shed windows. We stepped out into the fresh morning air, the village of Saltcrest stretching before us. Fishing boats dotted the harbor, early risers already pulling in the morning catch. Our cottage sat a short walk up from the shore, smoke curling from the chimney.

I paused, taking in the view I'd seen every day of my twenty-six years. Simple wooden houses with their weathered gray boards, the stone temple on the hill, fishing nets hung to dry between posts. Nothing ever changed here, which was exactly how we needed it to be. Perhaps that was why I launched myself into every tavern challenge, every wild swim, every midnight tryst.

Because I’d never been able to escape the feeling that, at some point, all of it was going to end.

The market square was buzzing with the usual morning activity when we arrived with our baskets of fresh oysters. Thatcher immediately began setting up our stall while I hauled the day's catch to the front, arranging the oysters in neat rows across beds of seaweed.

"If it isn't the Morvaren twins," called Dorna, the baker's wife, approaching with a basket of warm rolls. "You two are looking particularly haggard this morning."

"Speak for yourself, Dorna," I replied, flashing a grin. "I've never looked better."

She laughed, her round face crinkling. "Word is you and that brother of yours nearly drank the Sandbar dry last night."

"Only half-dry," Thatcher corrected, appearing at my side and snagging a roll from her basket. "We're saving the rest for tonight."

"Always the considerate ones," Dorna said with a fond shake of her head. "Your father must be so proud." She moved on to the next stall, leaving the smell of fresh bread in her wake.

The morning passed in a pleasant blur of transactions and gossip. A good haul meant good coin, and we'd brought the best of the beds to market. Thatcher had wandered off, predictably, leaving me to manage the remaining customers. I caught sight of him across the square, leaning against a wall and charming a smile from the blacksmith's daughter.

A momentary lull gave me the chance I'd been waiting for. I ducked behind our stall, into the narrow space between buildings where no one could see. Glancing around once more to ensure my privacy, I turned my palms upward and concentrated.

The stars weren't visible in the daylight sky, but that didn't matter. They were always there, always connected to me in ways I couldn't explain. The familiar tingle numbed my fingertips, then the cool rush of power as tiny points of light appeared above my palms, swirling into a miniature constellation.

I shaped the lights with my thoughts, forming them into a small fish that swam through the air above my hands. The light cast blue shadows across my skin, beautiful and forbidden and terrifying all at once. This was the secret that could destroy everything—the power I'd been born with, the reason we could never leave Saltcrest.

A sudden prickle at the back of my neck made me close my fist, extinguishing the lights. I stepped back into view, arranging my face into simple indifference as I straightened the remaining oysters.

Thatcher appeared a moment later, the blacksmith's daughter forgotten. "Practicing again?" he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

"Just a little," I admitted. "It's been building up."

He nodded. My power was like a well that constantly filled; if I didn't release it in small, controlled ways, it would eventually overflow. And we certainly couldn’t allow that to happen.

"Be careful," was all he said, but I caught the undercurrent of worry. Thatcher had spent our entire lives being careful on my behalf, watching for signs of attention, distracting suspicious eyes, creating cover stories when needed.

"Always am," I replied, bumping his shoulder with mine. "Besides, I've got you to watch my back."

It had been this way for generations now—mortals manifesting powers that once belonged solely to the gods. It began centuries ago, when the veil between the divine and mortal realms thinned, allowing cosmic energy to seep into our world like water through a cracked dam. At first, just a few drops. Small gifts, barely noticeable.

But over time, the leak widened. More mortals began showing signs of divine blessing. The ability to manipulate fire, to speak with animals, to heal wounds with a touch. But that type of power was never meant for mortal hands. And the gods noticed, of course. How could they not?

So they created the Trials of Ascension. Every decade, those with gifts were gathered, tested, broken down, and rebuilt in the gods' image. A few would ascend to join the pantheon. The rest would die, their power reclaimed by the Aesymar.

That was the story spread by the priests—that the gods benevolently allowed worthy mortals to join their ranks. What the stories didn't say was that participation wasn't optional. Those who refused the honor were taken by force. Those who hid their abilities were hunted down, sometimes executed as examples.

By late afternoon, our baskets were empty and our coin pouches satisfyingly heavy. As we packed up our stall, I noticed an unusual level of activity around the harbor. Additional boats were arriving, larger vessels than the everyday fishing skiff. My stomach knotted as I watched the fine ships with their pristine sails. The priests of the Aesymar always arrived in such vessels, beautiful and terrible in their perfection.

They came for the Trials, yes, but also for their quarterly duties—collecting offerings, ensuring coastal shrines were properly maintained. Mortal servants of divine masters, wielding borrowed authority that made them nearly as feared as the gods themselves.

Thatcher followed my gaze, eyes narrowing. "Early arrivals for the festival."

The word sent a chill through me despite the warm afternoon sun. I'd been successfully ignoring the approaching date, pushing it from my mind whenever it surfaced. The festival marking the start of the Trials was still two weeks away.

The cooper's son hurried past, nearly colliding with our stall. "Sorry!" he called over his shoulder, not slowing. "Have to tell Keth, he’ll need to begin preparations!"

"It's fine," Thatcher said quietly, reading my tension through our bond, the one we’d had since birth. When we were close enough, our voices could travel down the string connecting us. Otherwise it was just feelings or ghosts of thoughts.

But it wasn't fine, and we both knew it. The festival was always preceded by priests searching for those with gifts. The blessed, they called them.

Dinner that night was a strained affair. Our father, Sulien, had clearly already heard the news about the priests' arrival. Though he said nothing directly, it showed in the extra drinks he poured, in the lines around his eyes as he glanced between Thatcher and me.

"Good haul today," he commented, pushing food around his plate.

"Sold everything," I confirmed. "Got Breen to pay extra for his wedding order."

Sulien gave a strained smile. "That's my girl. Always driving a hard bargain."

Thatcher kicked me gently under the table, a silent signal passing between us. I gave a tiny shake of my head. I knew what he wanted me to say, but I had no intention of bringing it up. Instead, I launched into a story about Dorna's gossip from the market, drawing a reluctant chuckle from our father.

"So, the Priests…" Thatcher said suddenly, shooting me a look.

Sulien's hand tightened around his cup so hard I thought it might shatter.

"They’re early this year," I added when he said nothing.

"It’s an inevitability." he finally replied, his voice low and tight. He refilled his cup, spilling drops of dark wine that looked like blood against the wooden table. "The festival approaches. They always come."

"Two weeks early though," I pressed, unable to stop myself. "That's unusual."

Sulien drained half his cup in one swallow. "Nothing about them is usual. Nothing about them is right."

The bitterness in his voice silenced us all for a moment. We so rarely spoke directly about the gods, about what had happened to our mother.

"What if we left?" I suggested softly, not for the first time. "Go somewhere else."

"Where?" Sulien laughed without humor. "The cities? Where priests walk every street? The mountains? Where every traveler is scrutinized? At least here we're just oyster farmers—no one looks twice at us." He shook his head. "This tiny village is the closest thing to safety you'll ever have."

His words hung in the air like a death sentence. I stared at my plate, appetite gone. Thatcher's hand found mine under the table, a brief squeeze of solidarity.

"He doesn't deserve to still have this power over us," I whispered, the rage I usually kept carefully banked flaring hot in my chest. "After what he did to her."

Sulien's eyes snapped to mine, but softened at whatever he saw in my face. "No," he agreed quietly. "He doesn't."

She'd traveled inland for the solstice twenty-seven years ago. The grand temple there drew thousands for the God’s descent. She'd gone with other young people from the village, seeking blessings for marriage and healthy children, never imagining she'd catch the attention of a member of the Twelve. Just another faithful worshipper in the crowd when he arrived in all his golden glory—when a young woman could vanish for three days and her traveling companions would be told she'd fallen ill, staying with temple healers.

Sulien said she never spoke of those missing days. Not even to him. But when she returned to Saltcrest hollow-eyed and quiet, when morning sickness came months later, he'd pieced together the truth.

There was only one fate for any mortal woman who carried a half-blood child to term. Death. At least in Elaren.

Only one mother had ever survived the birth, and she had done so in the divine realm.

A heavy silence fell over the table, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. I could feel the weight of unspoken fears, the same conversation we'd danced around for years finally demanding to be acknowledged.

"You remember what you promised me," Sulien said quietly, his eyes finding mine across the table. It wasn't a question.

My throat tightened. "I remember."

"Never reveal yourself." His voice cracked. "I couldn't survive it. Not after what it cost your mother just to bring you into this world."

I'd made the promise years ago, when my power first manifested. Sulien had made me swear on our mother's memory that I would never seek the priests out, never reveal what I could do. The man who had raised us as his own, who had loved our mother more than anything—I couldn't break his heart.

"I know," I whispered. "I won't."

Thatcher's eyes moved between us, understanding the weight of what bound me even if he couldn't fully share it.

We'd always expected Thatcher to develop gifts too. Divine blood ran through his veins just as surely as mine, and most powers manifested in adolescence alongside the first stirrings of maturity. But years had passed, and while I'd learned to hide constellations between my fingers, Thatcher remained stubbornly, safely normal.

By the time we'd reached our twenties, Sulien had stopped watching him with the same careful anxiety he reserved for me. We'd all quietly accepted that whatever cosmic lottery had granted me abilities had passed Thatcher by.

But that blessing came with its own curse. Thatcher was free to live normally, to make real friends, to build lasting relationships. Yet he didn't. None of us did. My secret had become our family's secret.

We were twenty-six years old and still living like children under Sulien's roof—or rather, in the connected cottages he'd built when we came of age, close enough that we still shared meals every night but far enough apart to maintain some illusion of independence.

Sulien had never remarried, never even courted anyone seriously, though I'd seen the way some of the village women looked at him. How could he risk it? How could he bring someone close enough to notice the careful way we lived? How could he put them in the same danger we faced?

And Thatcher... He laughed and flirted and kept everyone entertained, but I saw the loneliness in his eyes sometimes. The way he pulled back just when things started to get real.

They were both trapped by what I was. Living half-lives because of me.

And neither of them resented me for it. They should have—Gods know I resented myself enough for all three of us. Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking about how different their lives could have been if I just... wasn't. If I volunteered willingly and freed them from the burden.

The thought always brought me back to Sulien's promise, the chain that bound me to this life. But sometimes, in my darkest moments, I wondered if honoring it was actually an act of love or the ultimate selfishness.

“Thais?” Sulien broke through my thoughts. “Do me a favor, go out with Jorik’s crew this week. I know he’s been looking for extra hands. Thatcher and I will handle the beds.”

I nodded slowly. Safer out at sea than on land with the priests looming.

After dinner, I escaped to the beach. The night sky spread above me as twilight deepened to true darkness. I walked along the shoreline until I found a secluded cove, hidden from village eyes by a curve of rocky headland.

Here, I could finally let go. I raised my hands, feeling the connection to energies that pulsed millions of miles away yet somehow lived inside me. Light gathered around my fingers.

I shaped the light into a sphere that hovered before me, casting blue-white illumination across the sand and water. The release was exhilarating, the constant pressure in my chest finally easing.

But even as I reveled in it, the familiar disgust crept in—this gift, this curse, was his. These abilities flowed through my veins alongside his blood, making me both weapon and wound. I was living, breathing proof of tyranny—my very existence the result of violence. Sometimes I wished I'd simply been born blessed like the random mortals who occasionally manifested abilities. At least then my power would have been mine alone instead of a sick, constant reminder of him.

"Impressive," came a voice from behind me.

I didn't startle—I'd felt him through the bond. "Hovering again, are we?" I asked, not turning.

Thatcher moved to stand beside me, his face illuminated by the glow of my light-sphere. "You're getting stronger."

I was. Each year, the power grew more insistent and harder to contain. "Does it scare you?" I asked with a kind of vulnerability that I rarely allowed myself.

"No," he answered. "It's beautiful."

We stood in silence, watching the light dance between my hands. After a while, Thatcher spoke again. "The priests won't find you. We've hidden it this long—two more weeks and they'll be gone again."

I let the lights fade, plunging us back into darkness. "And then another ten years until the next Trials. And then another ten after that. Always hiding, always careful, always afraid."

"Would you rather be taken?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.

I considered the question, looking up at the night sky. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like. To be free to use this power. To see what I'm truly capable of."

The truth was, I'd imagined it countless times—standing in some grand arena, drawing down the stars, reshaping their light into weapons of my own. In my fantasies, I was never afraid, never held back by the constraints of secrecy or the limitations of my own understanding. I was simply... free. Powerful. Complete.

My dreams of liberation inevitably soured into self-loathing as I despised myself for even daring to imagine such things.

Sometimes I fantasized about entering the Trials not to ascend, but to destroy. About using what flowed through me not to please the gods, but to hurt them. To make them pay for what they'd done to my mother, to countless others. The darker part of me whispered that it would be fitting justice—to turn the very power he'd forced into existence against him. But that would mean leaving Thatcher behind. Leaving Sulien behind. Betraying Sulien.

"They kill more than they elevate," Thatcher reminded me. "Being taken isn't freedom—it's almost certain death."

"I know." I sighed, feeling our reality settle back onto my shoulders. "It's just... don't you ever wonder what else is out there? Beyond Saltcrest?"

Thatcher was quiet for a moment. "I've never needed to wonder," he finally said. "I've always had everything I needed right here." He bumped his shoulder against mine. "Besides, I'd be bored without you around to keep me in line."

I laughed despite myself. "As if anyone could keep you in line."

Thatcher’s profile was outlined against the night, his expression relaxed and unconcerned. He'd always been the optimist between us, convinced that our luck would hold, that we'd continue our comfortable, if constrained, existence indefinitely. I'd never had the heart to tell him that sometimes I didn't know which I feared more—being discovered or spending my entire life hiding.

"Do you ever think about him?" I asked, the words rushing out of me.

"Who?"

"Him. Olinthar." The name felt strange on my tongue.

It was the first time I'd said his name aloud in years. The King of Gods himself, ruler of the Twelve Aesymar, master of light. The creature who had sired us.

Behind us, a star blazed across the heavens, burning bright before vanishing into darkness. I didn't need to turn to know it had fallen.

The Endeavor sliced through the swells, bleeding white foam in her wake, her hull groaning with the weight of the morning's catch. I hauled another net aboard, muscles burning as the rope bit into my palms and grinned as silver bodies writhed in the mesh. The other fishermen watched with grudging respect as I hefted the load onto the deck.

"Damn, Thais," wheezed Old Henrik, wiping sweat from his weathered brow. "You're making us look like children."

"Maybe you should eat more of what you catch," I shot back, earning a round of laughter from the crew. "Might put some muscle on those scrawny arms."

The captain, Jorik, shook his head with a grin. "Should've known better than to bet against a Morvaren. Your brother warned me you'd clean us out."

We'd been out since before dawn, following the deep currents where the best fish ran. I'd volunteered for the expedition at Sulien’s request, but also because I needed something to do with my hands. Physical work had always been my cure for restless energy.

"One more haul," Jorik called, pointing toward a promising swell of dark water. "Then we head back before the tide turns."

I positioned myself at the net, sea spray cooling my sun-heated skin. The work was brutal, but there was honesty in it—no pretense, no hidden dangers, just muscle against the sea's bounty. For a few hours, I could forget everything else, lose myself in the rhythm of cast and haul.

"You're enjoying this too much," Henrik observed, wiping his brow as he watched me coil rope.

"Better than shucking oysters all day," I replied, testing the weight of the net. "At least out here, the only thing trying to cut me is the rope."

"Aye, but oysters don't fight back when you haul them up," Tam added with a grin. "Fish have more spirit."

"So do I," I shot back, earning another round of laughter.

The final net went down heavy and came up like it wanted to drag us all to the bottom. I grabbed my section of rope and pulled, the familiar burn starting in my shoulders. Around me, the other men were grunting and swearing as they hauled.

Without thinking, I pulled harder. The net crawled up the side of the ship, cutting through the water like it weighed nothing.

"Well, shit," Tam said, staring as we made quick work of what should have been back-breaking labor. "Either we got lucky with the current or⁠—"

Oh, fuck.

I let go so fast I nearly sent Henrik sprawling.

"Careful there!" he barked as the rope jerked in his hands.

"Sorry." I grabbed the rope again, this time letting its full weight hit me. My shoulders screamed in protest—not from the effort, but from suddenly having to pretend it was difficult. Thatcher and I had always been stronger than we had any right to be. Just another consequence of our parentage

"This thing's heavier than it looks," I said.

"No kidding," Henrik grunted, his face red and slick with sweat.

The net finally cleared the water, fish cascading onto the deck. The men looked pleased.

"Good day's work," Jorik said, surveying our catch. "You did well, Thais. Most landlubbers can't handle a full day like this."

The compliment warmed me despite my worry. "It was good to get out on the water," I replied. "Thanks for letting me join the crew."

The harbor buzzed as we tied up at the docks. The priests had indeed arrived, and they'd brought enough attendants to fill the village.

"Thais!" Lira, the village healer, approached with a confident stride, gray-streaked hair braided with small shells. She'd tended every scraped knee and fever in Saltcrest for as long as I could remember.

"Lira," I said, curiosity replacing my unease. "What brings you to the docks? Someone need patching up?"

She laughed, the sound rich and infectious. "Just keeping an eye on our illustrious visitors. Making sure they don't frighten the children too badly." Her expression grew more serious as she glanced toward the priest ships. "They're asking questions, Thais. More than usual."

"Have they..." I swallowed hard. "Have they mentioned anyone specifically?"

Lira's weathered hand found my arm,. "No names yet. But they seem particularly interested in young people. Anyone between twenty and thirty." Her eyes, sharp despite her years, held mine. "Be careful, child. Both of you."

Lira had never asked for details, but she'd been present at our birth—one of the few who'd witnessed our mother's final moments. She'd helped Sulien through those first terrible weeks when we were too small, too fragile, and he was too