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distinct plunks from the surface. Grom looks past Nalia. Two metal ovals, distinctly human-made, with red angular symbols painted near the tails. Two miniature death ships falling sinking falling.
    No no no no .
    There is no time.
    A flash of light. Once. Twice. Uncountable times.
    Deafening thunder.
    Devouring heat.
    Blackness.
    Quiet.

    He senses Freya first, the closest to him. Then his mother, his father. Even Nalia’s father, King Antonis. But the pulse so familiar to him, the one he cherishes most, the one he’d sense half the world away, is gone.
    He knows. Before he opens his eyes. Before he looks up at what he knows will be Freya’s stricken face. Before he feels the pain of his burns over the length of him. He knows.
    “She’s dead,” he says. There is no question.
    “I’m sorry,” Freya chokes out. “I’m so sorry, Grom.”
    It takes great effort for him to open his eyes, since he doesn’t see the point in doing so ever again. He drinks in the somber faces surrounding him, keeping their distance from him and each other in different corners of his chamber. He tries to push himself up out of the pit where he sleeps, but groans when pain shoots through him.
    Antonis swims over to him, but doesn’t offer to help him up. Instead, the Poseidon king hovers over him. “What did you do to my daughter?”
    Grom’s mother gasps. “Antonis, please—”
    But the Poseidon king holds up his hand, cutting her off. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your son.” He returns his glare to Grom. “Answer me.”
    Grom swallows, suddenly aware of how it all looks. People saw them having a disagreement, saw him chase after her, saw her angry with him. “We got into an argument. She got angry and left. I followed her. Into a mine. A new one. She was trying to get out, but the humans set off the explosion.” It’s as if he’s recounting what he ate for his morning meal. The words feel hollow, meaningless, callous as he says them and he wonders if they sound that way too, or if it’s just the numbness taking over, oozing out from the vicinity of his heart.
    Nalia is dead.
    Nalia is dead.
    Nalia is dead.
    “What were you arguing about?” Antonis says, his voice condescending.
    Grom closes his eyes again. What is he to say? That Nalia admitted she made regular trips to the Big Land? That his own mother was part of it? That she wanted to continue to break the most serious of all Syrena laws?
    No, he can’t say that. He won’t. He will not allow the memory of her to be tarnished in that way. Will not allow the guilt his mother would go through. No, he’ll absorb the responsibility for it all. Keep it close to him. Antonis can think what he wants.
    “I’d rather not say,” Grom says, finally.
    “Grom,” his mother coaxes.
    “No.” He sets his jaw. Stares at the knobby rock ceiling of his chamber.
    Antonis comes unhinged. “Of course you’d rather not, you slithering eel. Because you killed her! Because you’ve hated her since the moment you saw her, and you found a way out of your mating ceremony and took it.”
    “Antonis, old friend, don’t be unreasonable,” Grom’s father interjects.
    Antonis turns on the Triton king. “That’s very easy for you to say, isn’t it, old friend ? Especially when you know I can’t prove any of it. Don’t worry. Your only heir is safe.” He whirls back to Grom, nostrils flared. “But I swear by Triton’s trident, you’ll never mate. Not ever. Your seed will die with you.”
    Grom is about to tell him that he’d never want to mate with anyone other than Nalia anyway, but his mother interrupts. “What are you saying, Antonis? The law pledges your firstborn heir to him, to pass on the Gifts of the Generals. Your next heir must be mated to—”
    Antonis laughs then, a laugh full of bitterness and loss and poison. “There will be no heir. I will never take another mate. The Gifts of the Generals will die with his generation.”
    “Antonis, I know