The Sacrifice to the Sea King

The shore smelled like wet rope and cold salt, but underneath it Eli caught something sharp and wrong—kelp and iron—coming from Markus’s ring when he helped her climb the last step down to the sand. Night pressed close on both sides of the pier, thick as wool. The waves kept their slow, patient rhythm as if they had all the time in the world. Eli’s hands hovered near Markus’s coat, wanting to hold on, wanting to believe she was only afraid because she was nineteen and the sea was dark.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her face toward him. “Don’t look at the water,” he said softly. “Look at me.” His voice was gentle in a way that made her chest ache, even as the village behind them went quiet. Men on the pier stood with lanterns low, their shadows stretched long across the planks. Captain Rudolf was there too, jaw tight, his charm flashing when the light moved.

Eli tried to swallow around the fear. The surface always offered a young virgin to the sea, and nobody returned. Everyone knew it like they knew the tides. She had repeated it in her head for days, like a prayer that could keep the thought from becoming real. Still, her body shivered when Markus’s thumb stroked once along her cheekbone, almost tender enough to pretend he was saving her. “Markus,” she whispered. “Why are they choosing me?”