The wind cut cold against his sweat, and for the first time he felt the full bite of his wounds. His thigh throbbed with every heartbeat, his arm burned where the blade had carved him, and his chest heaved as though every breath had to be dragged from stone. He took one step, then another, sand shifting treacherously beneath him. The tide whispered at his boots, climbing higher with each wave, beckoning him down into the dark. He meant to turn back toward the villa, meant to make himself walk, but the horizon swayed, tilting and rolling until he couldn't tell sea from sky.
The dagger slipped from his fingers. His knees buckled. He dropped hard into the wet sand, bracing with one arm but barely managing to stay upright. The adrenaline was gone now, burned away with the last of his strength. Only exhaustion and blood-loss remained. His head hung forward, hair plastered to his brow by seawater and sweat, eyes half-lidded.
Not tonight, he had said. Yet as darkness pressed in at the edges of his sight, Cassian couldn't help but wonder if the sea had been waiting patiently for him all along.
He let himself sink sideways, the cold surf rushing against his cheek. The lanterns of the villa were distant now, blurred smudges of gold far up the shore. Too far. His last thought, before the blackness closed in, was of Sibylla, her smile, poised yet fragile, and the promise he had made himself to never let her stand alone.
"Not tonight," he whispered again, the words barely breath.
How was he still here...
Cassian stirred weakly as the tide rolled higher, foaming waves spilling across the sand and over his body. Saltwater soaked through the bloodied fabric of his tunic, burning in his wounds until he hissed between clenched teeth. The sea did not care that he was Abrantes, nor soldier, nor noble. To the sea, he was only another broken thing cast upon its shore. Each wave struck like a drumbeat, rushing in, washing over his legs, his side, his arm, then pulling back again. The rhythm was steady, relentless, a lullaby and a threat all at once. He forced his head to turn, cheek pressed to wet sand, but the horizon swayed and blurred. The stars above smeared into streaks of silver light, indistinguishable from the spray.
Stay awake. The thought scraped through his mind like gravel. He had survived assassins, steel, blood, and yet now it was the sea that would finish what they began. His hands clawed weakly at the sand, finding no purchase. Another wave washed over him, this one higher, spilling across his chest, his jaw. For a heartbeat he was beneath it, mouth full of salt, lungs burning with the taste of the abyss. He coughed hard as it receded, body convulsing, then sagged again. His strength was nearly gone.
Still, some part of him clung stubbornly to the shore, to the memory of Sibylla's steady smile, to the oath whispered long ago before his father. I will not be taken so easily.
But the waves kept coming, washing him down, pulling him further into the dark. Cassian's eyes fluttered half-closed, and in the silver shimmer of the tide he thought he saw figures, old comrades, faces lost to war, beckoning from the foam. His lips formed words, a prayer or a curse, he did not know.
Then another wave broke, and Cassian slipped deeper into darkness as the tide took him.
The dagger slipped from his fingers. His knees buckled. He dropped hard into the wet sand, bracing with one arm but barely managing to stay upright. The adrenaline was gone now, burned away with the last of his strength. Only exhaustion and blood-loss remained. His head hung forward, hair plastered to his brow by seawater and sweat, eyes half-lidded.
Not tonight, he had said. Yet as darkness pressed in at the edges of his sight, Cassian couldn't help but wonder if the sea had been waiting patiently for him all along.
He let himself sink sideways, the cold surf rushing against his cheek. The lanterns of the villa were distant now, blurred smudges of gold far up the shore. Too far. His last thought, before the blackness closed in, was of Sibylla, her smile, poised yet fragile, and the promise he had made himself to never let her stand alone.
"Not tonight," he whispered again, the words barely breath.
How was he still here...
Cassian stirred weakly as the tide rolled higher, foaming waves spilling across the sand and over his body. Saltwater soaked through the bloodied fabric of his tunic, burning in his wounds until he hissed between clenched teeth. The sea did not care that he was Abrantes, nor soldier, nor noble. To the sea, he was only another broken thing cast upon its shore. Each wave struck like a drumbeat, rushing in, washing over his legs, his side, his arm, then pulling back again. The rhythm was steady, relentless, a lullaby and a threat all at once. He forced his head to turn, cheek pressed to wet sand, but the horizon swayed and blurred. The stars above smeared into streaks of silver light, indistinguishable from the spray.
Stay awake. The thought scraped through his mind like gravel. He had survived assassins, steel, blood, and yet now it was the sea that would finish what they began. His hands clawed weakly at the sand, finding no purchase. Another wave washed over him, this one higher, spilling across his chest, his jaw. For a heartbeat he was beneath it, mouth full of salt, lungs burning with the taste of the abyss. He coughed hard as it receded, body convulsing, then sagged again. His strength was nearly gone.
Still, some part of him clung stubbornly to the shore, to the memory of Sibylla's steady smile, to the oath whispered long ago before his father. I will not be taken so easily.
But the waves kept coming, washing him down, pulling him further into the dark. Cassian's eyes fluttered half-closed, and in the silver shimmer of the tide he thought he saw figures, old comrades, faces lost to war, beckoning from the foam. His lips formed words, a prayer or a curse, he did not know.
Then another wave broke, and Cassian slipped deeper into darkness as the tide took him.
