Chapter 3 Call Of The Sea

• Back at the palace, the King sits at the head of the Council Chamber, his face carved from stone. No one speaks. The air hangs thick, heavy with unspoken dread.
• At last, one councilman clears his throat, gathering the courage to break the silence.“Your Majesty… we should keep the Princess’s passing private. The kingdom is vulnerable. Our enemies may see this as an opportunity—”
• “No.”The word leaves the King like steel drawn in a quiet room.
• The man swallows. “Your Highness, perhaps if we—”
• “NO!” The King’s roar shakes the chamber as his palm slams against the table. Several advisors flinch; silence floods the hall once more.
• Slowly, the King rises, grief darkening his gaze.“I could not honor my daughter when she lived,” he says, voice raw, “and now you ask me to deny her even in death?”His jaw tightens. “No. She will have the respect she deserves.”
• He turns sharply, cloak sweeping the floor.“Arrange a memorial service.”
• Without another word, he leaves the chamber—leaving fear, guilt, and a hollow throne behind him.
• ****
• Tatianna's POV
• My body feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Fire licking through my veins, clawing beneath my skin.
• I wake with a strangled gasp, hand flying to the back of my neck—the source of the heat. My fingers tremble as they press against the raised skin, still fever-warm.
• After Mireya first noticed it, she handed me a small mirror. And there it was.
• Just below my hairline, hidden unless the light kissed it right: a circular sigil the size of a coin. A sun entangled in curling thorns, as though the sky itself had been forced to kneel to a crown of pain. The outer ring was woven from delicate, interlocking strokes—fine embroidery scorched into flesh.And at its center burned a single ember, crimson and alive, shaped like a petal… or a flame.
• Not a scar.Not an injury.A brand.
• Panic slammed into my chest the moment I saw it. I’d dragged my sleeve across my neck back then, scrubbing until the skin flushed red. Desperate. Foolish. The mark only flared brighter, pulsing—as if laughing at me.As if claiming me.
• I am certain—certain—that it was never there before.
• Mireya brewed a potion to soothe the heat, her witchcraft gentle and practiced. It dulled the fire in my blood for a time. But now?It’s awake again. Hungrier. Hotter.
• Witches.
• In my kingdom, the word tasted like venom. It was spoken in whispers, tucked behind lace fans and castle pillars, wrapped in superstition and fear. Servants crossed themselves when thunder rolled wrong. Scholars called witches relics of a forgotten age. The court dismissed them with a scoff and a wine-soaked arrogance—yet never fully dared to say they didn’t exist.
• Not common…but never truly gone.
• And then I met Mireya.
• Not a monster.Not a shadow lurking to devour souls.
• Just an old woman with soft eyes and hands that trembled only when lifting her teacup—not when wielding magic. A healer. A protector. The first person to look at me or a burden, but as someone who needed saving.
• She told me that here, in Elyndor, witchcraft is not a secret. It is heritage. Power. Duty.
• Temples stand where pyres should have burned. Children are raised not to fear magic, but to respect it. Here, they do not whisper the word witch.
• They honor it.
• And yet—even she cannot decipher this mark on my neck.
• “If it is destiny,” she told me quietly, “it will speak when it chooses. Just as it appeared when it was ready.”
• I swallow as the warmth flares once more beneath my skin, the ember pulsing like a second heartbeat.
• Destiny?Or a curse that woke the night I almost died?
• Either way— it has chosen me. And I am not ready.
• Arin and Mireya are still asleep, their breaths soft and even. I quietly slip out of the cottage, craving air.
• The moon hangs full and white above the sea — mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. I could’ve watched it until sunrise… if not for the burning under my skin. I make my way down to the water.
• The first touch of the sea is cold against my fevered body — relieving, almost sacred.
• Funny. I swore I’d never go near the ocean again — not after nearly drowning to death. And yet, here I am, letting it soothe the fire it once tried to claim.
• My eyes drift to the cliff — the place Ric threw me off like I was nothing. By now, the whole kingdom must know I’ve vanished.
• I wonder what story that wretched couple has fed my father. That I ran away with the stable boy? Kidnapped by enemies? Or perhaps... eloped with one?
• He’d believe anything that falls from her honeyed lips. She could tell him I was carried off by an octopus-faced spirit in exchange for the kingdom’s safety — and he’d nod along.
• “Brilliant thinking, my love,” he’d say. “Two birds with one pebble! Our enemies are gone, and so is my troublesome daughter!”
• Ugh.
• “It’s great that you escaped then.”
• “True that.” — Wait, what?
• “Who’s there?” I snap, spinning around.
• A man sits on the shore, moonlight gleaming off his smirk, ogling me.
• “I am not ogling you,” he says lazily. “Just pointing out that you’re better off without them.”
• “Without who?”
• “Your father and... honeylips. I didn’t quite catch her name.”
• “Who are you? And how did you— get inside my head?”
• He stands, brushing sand off his hands.
• “Drayke Thorne. Pleasure’s mine. And to answer your question— I’m gifted.”
• He tilts his head, eyes glinting.
• “Now, your turn.”
• “My turn? For what?”
• “An introduction.” His grin deepens. “I’m starting to see why you lost the battle with honeylips. You’re a bit... slow, aren’t you?”
• Drayke’s grin doesn’t fade, though his eyes flicker—just for a moment—with something unreadable.
• “You know,” he says, voice low, “I wasn’t planning to take a moonlit stroll tonight. But I felt… something calling.”
• “Calling?” I arch an eyebrow. “Do I look like a seashell to you?”
• He chuckles, the sound deep, almost amused. “Not exactly. But the closer I got, the louder it became. Like a heartbeat in the water.”
• “Maybe the sea was mocking you,” I mutter, turning my back on him.
• The water ripples as I wade in deeper. I can feel his gaze on me, but I don’t care. The chill of the sea bites pleasantly against my skin, dulling the burn on my neck.
• “Suit yourself,” I throw over my shoulder. “Go back to wherever you came from, Drayke Thorne. The last thing I need is another man with a savior complex.”
• But then—
• “Wait.”
• His voice is closer now. Too close.
• I turn just as he steps into the water. The moon catches his features — sharper now, more serious, like the sea itself has whispered a secret to him.
• His eyes drop to my neck.
• “What's that mark on your…”
• I instinctively cover it with my hand. “It's nothing.”
• “It was glowing,” he says softly, ignoring me.
• “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, backing away — though my heart pounds harder.
• “Wait. I have seen...”
• “I said stay back.”
• He doesn’t listen. His hand moves before I can stop him — fingers brushing against the back of my neck, right where the mark burns brightest.
• A surge of heat rushes through me — blinding, furious, alive. The air around us crackles. The waves rise, drawn toward us as if pulled by invisible strings.
• “What just happened!” I shout, stumbling away from him.
• Drayke looks just as startled. “I—I don't—” He stops, watching the water spiral around us like a living thing.
• The glow from the mark fades, leaving my skin cold and aching.
• I glare at him, trembling. “Touch me again, and I’ll drown you myself.”
• He exhales, still staring at where the mark had been.