The tide knows her claim—unchallenged, certain.

Her song hums through the mist, calling all to surrender. Death answers—silent, unwavering. Her dutiful servant. He walks where shadows lean, where breath falters, where neither fear nor sorrow can speak.

Steady. Composed. Indifferent. The sea whispers no doubt into him. He does not falter. He does not waver. He does not ask questions. He does not hesitate. For he is her perfect servant.

And yet—

There, beneath the surface, an annotation—unexpected, unnatural. A body does not sink. A figure rises.

𝐀 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞.


Not the drowning girl. She sank as fate decreed, obedient to the current's pull. But the imposter—how does he breathe? How does he surface?

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚’𝐬 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞?


Fate did not write this. Fate does not err. Fate does not twist what is certain.
But there he stands. Dragging that girl from the tide, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧.

But it is no matter. For death does not falter. He does not waver. He does not ask questions. He does not hesitate. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭.

Yet—

His steps slow. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭.
Not fear. Not doubt. Not hesitation—no, no, he does not hesitate.
For that would be a 𝐥𝐢𝐞. An 𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 in the telling. A 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 in the verse.

He moves forward, as he always has. He reaches, as he always will. He takes. As he 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭.

And yet—

His fingers release without command. His breath lingers without reason.
How foolish. How utterly unbefitting of death.

And yet—


The stranger blocks his path. Defies the tide. Speaks in a voice fate has never written.
The stranger does not belong here. Not among the shore. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.

And yet—

He stands. Unmoved. Undrowned. Unbroken. 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.
A mistake. A parasite. 𝐀 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞.

And yet—

He stands. 𝐀𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

What a reckless intrusion.


Death looms, shadowed and certain. His gaze does not waver. His grip does not loosen. He does not hesitate. He does not wait. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤.

Except—

The stranger watches him. Knows him. Sees through him. He tilts his head, 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺."

Lies. Deception. Twisted words from a voice fate does not recognize.

"𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚."

The command is 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥. It 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 be obeyed.

And yet—

The stranger does not obey. He does not cower. He does not fear. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚.

Instead—

He 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬. Softly. Gently.
As if death is an equal. 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.
How insolent.


"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦."

The stranger’s voice carries no force, no malice, no challenge. And yet—it cleaves through the silence like a blade.

But it is no matter, for fate does not write hesitation into death. Fate does not allow uncertainty to linger in his grasp.

Yet—

Death’s fingers do not close around his throat. The traitor’s breath does not vanish.

No, he does not waver. He does not question. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭.

"𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚, 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚."

The command is 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞. The voice sharp. 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥.

And yet—

The stranger does not move. Does not flinch. 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝.

"𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦."

He watches. Studies. Understands something that fate insists 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭.

𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭.  

And yet—


"𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩."

𝐒𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐩, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫.

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰. 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. A fool’s defiance. A voice drowned in 𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

Fate does not falter. Fate does not bend. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭.

Except—

He still does not take Alcyone’s soul. He stands. He waits. He listens.

How foolish. How utterly unbefitting of death.

And yet—

"𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒄𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍."

A 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞. A law written into the tides themselves. There is no room for hesitation.

But then—

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐬.


Softly. 𝐀𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫.

"𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘯𝘰. 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩. 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘖𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘸. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳…


𝘈 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯."


The words cleave through certainty. Through inevitability. Through death’s understanding—no, no, there is nothing to understand. 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞. No, no. That can’t be right. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥, 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭.

When death hears those words, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐑𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.

“…𝙄’𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮. 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠."

And yet—

𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.


"𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴."

𝐀 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤. 𝐀 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲. 𝐀 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

And yet—

Death does not refute. Does not impose. Does not take. 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞.

How foolish. How utterly impossible.

And yet—

"…𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙙?"

He speaks. He commands. He threatens. He claims.

Not a question. No hesitation. Never the breaking of certainty.

"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴?"

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Silence lingers. Tension stretches. 𝐀 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭.

Ah, but not hesitation. No. Death is silent in an act of defiance. He knows the imposter 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬.

"…𝙂𝙤 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣."



The imposter smiles with false appreciation and turns to that pathetic, shivering, cowardly girl’s soul. Daring to turn his back on the servant, death. What a foolish decision. It is for this which death has waited, to take him by surprise!

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵."

Yet—

The imposter still speaks! Still lives! That useless servant still watches in silence!

The Sea stirs. Seethes. 𝐑𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧.

"𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾! 𝖨 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝖾! 𝖨 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾—𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖢𝖾𝗒𝗑!"

Alcyone’s voice is firm. 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬. More certain than The Tide permits.

And yet—

"𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦?"

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧. 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩. 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.

Except—

Alcyone hesitates. Recalls. Knows.

And yet—

"𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾𝖽!?"

"𝘛𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳."


The word lingers, 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞.

"𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘺. 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

Fate rejects the empty promise. 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞.

"𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦."

𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬. Foolishness. Impossibility.

And yet—

Alcyone’s soul listens. Pulses with consideration.

“𝖨 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇. 𝖳𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽? 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖽? 𝖠𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇? 𝖶𝗁𝗈 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎?”

"𝘕𝘰, 𝘈𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.

𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦."



Before the traitor and the tern’s departure— Before the flight beyond Fate’s grasp, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 turns—

To death. To hesitation. To silence.

"𝘞𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯?"

That useless servant does not refute him. Does not command The Tide to reclaim him. Does not move.

"𝑬𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒐𝒓 𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒎𝒆. 𝑰…𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕."

How foolish. How utterly impossible.

He has no preferences. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲, 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭.

And yet—



Lies! Lies! Lies! A twisting of the story. A defiance against what was written. 𝐀 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝.

This is wrong. This is unacceptable. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥!


He should not wait. He should act. He should take. He should impose. He should force. He should reap the soul before him, before it flees beyond his grasp.

And yet—

He does not.

A mistake. A betrayal. 𝐀 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞.

The stranger does not falter. Does not fear the wrath pressing upon him. 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲!

Instead—

He leaves. He carries her away. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

And death—

Waits.

And yet—

The Sea cannot reclaim him. Cannot tear him from the shore. Cannot 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡’𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐲.

Why?

Why can he hesitate? Why can he allow defiance to stand? Why can he let them go?

He should punish. He should impose. He should act.

And yet—

That useless servant waits. For something unknown. For something unspeakable. For something supposedly forgotten. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭!

But The Tide pulls—

And death—waits.

The Tide pulls. The Sea calls. The weight presses upon him.

And yet—

That useless servant does not take. Does not move. Does not impose.

How foolish. How utterly impossible.

And yet—


𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥.


That useless servant should have struck them down. Should have obeyed what was written. Should have taken the soul marked for burden.

And yet—

The burden lingers! The weight remains! Not upon the girl. Not upon the stranger.

Upon 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

This cannot be! This cannot stand! This cannot— But he waits. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

He hesitated. He faltered. He questioned.

No! No! 𝐍𝐨!

He waits. He should wait for punishment. Yet he waits for revelation. For something unknown. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭!

The Tide commands! The Waves pull! The Sea roars in fury!

And yet—

That 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 waits!


𝐇𝐨𝐰. 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐇𝐞. 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐲. 𝐌𝐞.