The letter appeared where it shouldn't have.
That was the first wrong thing about it.
I'd left my desk empty when I went to shower—no papers, no notebooks, nothing except my pendant resting near the lamp. Steam still clung to my skin when I came back, my hair damp, the room quiet in that late-evening way that made every sound feel louder than it should have.
The room smelled faintly of salt.
Not strong. Not sharp.
Just enough to notice.
And on the desk—
An envelope.
Black.
No stamp. No name. No return address.
My breath caught.
For a second, I didn't move. I just stood there, towel clenched in my hands, staring at it like it might dissolve if I looked too hard.
The sea was quiet.
Too quiet.
I stepped closer.
The envelope was real. Solid. Sitting where nothing had been before.
I picked it up.
Cold.
Not paper-cold. Ocean-cold. The kind that seeped into your skin and stayed there.
Inside was a single sheet, thick and smooth, the edges darkened as if they'd been brushed by ink—or shadow.
Three words, written clean and deliberate:
Stay. Away.
That was it.
No explanation.
No signature.
No threat spelled out.
But I felt it anyway—heavy and deep, like pressure building in my chest.
I turned the paper over.
That's when I saw it.
A faint mark near the bottom. Almost invisible. As if it had been written and then erased in a hurry.
An address.
Not a human one.
No streets. No numbers.
Depth markers. Current lines. Symbols that made no sense and yet felt familiar in a way I couldn't explain. Like my hands knew how to read them even if my mind didn't.
My pulse spiked.
"He messed up," I whispered.
The door creaked softly behind me.
Xylan stopped the moment he saw my face. "What happened?"
I didn't answer. I just handed him the letter.
He read it once.
Then again.
Then flipped it over.
His jaw tightened. "That's not supposed to be there."
"No," I said quietly. "It's where he is."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"You realize what this means," Xylan said slowly.
"He sent it himself," I replied. "Not the sea. Not the city. Him."
"And kings don't write letters," Xylan added, "unless they want control—or they're losing it."
My fingers curled around the edge of the desk. "He knows I exist now."
Xylan exhaled through his nose, pacing once before stopping. "You're not planning to answer him."
I met his eyes. "I am."
He went still. "Hope."
"Not like that," I said quickly. "Not a confrontation. Not a challenge."
I folded the paper carefully, smoothing the crease. "I'm not writing to him."
Xylan frowned. "Then who?"
"The messenger," I said. "The one who brought it."
He considered that. "He's allowed to come up."
"I know."
"He follows orders, but he's not bound to the throne the way the king is."
"Exactly," I said. "Which means he can choose who reads it first."
Xylan's gaze sharpened. "And that's the risk."
"Yes," I admitted. "It could reach the king instead."
Silence settled between us—not heavy, but sharp. The kind where every thought mattered.
"But you're not worried about the messenger," he said.
"No," I replied. "If he didn't hurt me before, he won't now."
Xylan nodded once. "Then we don't threaten. We don't beg."
"We plan," I said.
We sat at the desk together, the black envelope between us like a line neither of us crossed lightly. The room felt charged—not dangerous, but expectant.
I picked up a pen.
"What do we say?" Xylan asked.
I thought for a moment. Then began to write.
~
To the one who carries messages between water and land,
We received what was sent.
The warning was clear.
The command was understood.
We are not coming in defiance.
We are coming because the sea already knows us.
If you are ordered to return for us again, do not force it.
Do not take us under unwilling skies.
Meet us where the tide turns but does not pull.
Where land still remembers water.
We will follow when invited, not dragged.
We will descend when the current allows it.
This is not a request for the throne.
This is not a refusal of it.
It is only a meeting—
before the sea decides on its own.
—H.S. & X.T.
~
I set the pen down.
Xylan read it slowly. Once. Then again.
"You didn't say when," he said.
"No," I replied. "If the king reads it, he'll think he controls the timing."
"And if the messenger reads it first," he said, thoughtful, "he'll know we're choosing the terms."
I nodded. "Either way, we learn something."
He folded the letter carefully and slid it back into the black envelope.
"No seal," he noted.
"No," I said. "If someone wants it hidden, they'll hide it themselves."
We placed the envelope back on the desk.
Stepped away.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the air shifted—subtle, almost polite. The pendant near the lamp hummed once, soft and low.
The envelope slid forward slightly.
Then disappeared.
Just enough to say: taken.
Xylan's face expressed surprise.
Xylan let out a slow breath. "So now we wait."
"No," I said softly.
"Now," I corrected, "we get ready."
Far below us, beneath layers of dark and salt and memory—
The sea adjusted its course.