Where The Sea Remembers

It was a day carved from joy. The castle courtyard thrummed with music and color, as nobles mingled seamlessly with townsfolk beneath green and gold silken banners that danced in the crisp spring breeze. Laughter echoed through the stone corridors, mingling with the enticing scent of warm bread, honeyed nuts, and roasting meats. The air itself seemed alive with celebration of the Emberwake festival, for spring had finally arrived in Eldoria. Queen Miralys moved among her people like a vision plucked from the stars. Her midnight velvet gown trailed behind her in shimmering ripples, embroidered with tiny silver constellations that caught the sunlight with every step. Her golden hair was elegantly braided, laced with sapphires that mirrored the glacial hue of her observant, steady, and ever-watchful eyes. Beside her was her young son, Prince Alaric. At barely six years old, he had a mop of golden curls and sea-glass green eyes. He happily stayed close to his mother's skirts, his sticky fingers eagerly pointing at the passing jugglers and trays of sweets, delight bubbling from him at the sheer joy of the festivities. Young newly married couples were seen leaping over a small fire, as was an Eldorian tradition for luck and fertility. Miralys noticed a woman standing on the other side of the fire. As she got closer, she saw it was Eldoria's most powerful mage, Thalira. Thalira was a woman of quiet power and commanding presence, known across the realm not just for her unmatched magical skill but for the calm certainty she carried like a second skin. In her mid-fifties, her beauty had only deepened with age—her face bore fine lines etched by laughter, sorrow, and the wisdom of decades. Her eyes, a striking shade of sea-glass green, shimmered with arcane knowledge and an ever-present sense of knowing more than she said. Her long silver hair was braided with dried herbs, feathers, and tiny gemstone charms—each one a token of a healed soul, a cured plague, or a promise kept. She wore flowing robes of deep forest green and dusky plum, the colors shifting slightly depending on the light and her mood. Her robes were embroidered with ancient runes and protective sigils in gold thread—symbols of healing, memory, and divine balance. Upon closer inspection, she could see a tiny baby swaddled up in her arms. Seeing Thalia and her infant daughter was both a joy and a heartbreak because Thalia's husband had not survived the Battle of Duskmoor Vale. Above them, King Roderic stood atop the dais like a storm forged into flesh. His broad frame bore a golden brown, fur-lined cloak that rustled with each shift of the wind, and his armor gleamed with the royal sigils etched in gold. A scar curved down his jawline—a sharp reminder of battles long past. Though he smiled with his people, his very presence carried the weight of command. He stood and walked down the steps to light the bonfire for the staff to start roasting the meats that his hunting party caught earlier that day. And then—a scream. The music halted mid-note. Heads turned, and silence swept the courtyard like a chill wind. From the far edge of the crowd, a woman staggered forward, parting the sea of revelers with her mere presence. She was a mess of blood, seawater, and torn fabric. Her dark auburn hair hung in wet clumps, her cloak clinging to her like a second skin soaked in terror. Her face bore bruises, a split lip, and one eye nearly swollen shut. But in her trembling arms—held close as if her life depended on it—was a bundled infant. "Your Majesty," one of Miralys's guards warned, stepping forward, hand on his sword. But the queen was already running towards the battered stranger. She clutched her skirts tightly as Alaric raced after her, his little legs pumping fast to try to keep up. King Roderic motioned for the guards to survey the crowds as he walked towards the scene trying to calm the crowd as he went. The woman collapsed before her, sinking to her knees on the cold stone. Her voice escaped cracked and frail, no louder than the wind. "Please... her name is Nasrin..." Miralys knelt, her breath catching as she glimpsed the baby nestled within the folds of cloth—a girl, small and pale, deep blue eyes streaked with shifting silver, like moonlight on water framed by thick dark lashes and her hair dark as the storm-tossed sea framed her small face. Her skin held an ethereal glow, not magical but otherworldly, as if kissed by the sea mist itself. "She's not mine," the woman rasped, her voice breaking. "Her mother... is in grave danger... she begged me to run. Said she would follow if she could". The woman glanced back at the castle gates towards the forest as tears streaked down her face. Alaric hid behind his mother's skirts, carefully peering around her at the terrified woman holding the tiny baby. The infant stirred, releasing a soft sound, and as the cloth shifted, something glinted against her tiny chest. Miralys's eyes narrowed. Around the baby's neck hung a delicate silver chain, far too fine for an infant, with a single small stone suspended at its center. Smooth and glass-like, the gem shimmered faintly, shifting between opalescent blue and deep sea-green. A shard of tideglass, but she hadn't seen this stone for ages. The longer Miralys gazed at it, the more it seemed to hold movement—like the tide itself had been trapped within. Broken from her thoughts, the woman gasped again. "She must stay within your gates. She is not safe beyond them." Roderick put his hand on his wife's shoulder, carefully assessing the stranger. "Who sent you? What does this mean?" Roderick demanded, his voice sharp with urgency. The woman's eyes rolled back, her breath faltering. Her final words emerged in a whisper, drowned in dread. "Watch the sea... and be careful who you trust... not everyone is who they claim to be..." Her arms spasmed one last time—then stilled. The baby slipped from her grasp, but Miralys surged forward, catching her just before she hit the stones. "Roderick!" she cried, rising swiftly to her feet, the infant clutched tightly against her chest. The king's eyes hardened to flint. "Seal the gates!" he bellowed. "No one leaves. No one enters. Double the guards. I want every step this woman took traced—now!" The iron gates groaned as they closed, drowning the courtyard in oppressive silence. The celebration was shattered. Joy curdled into unease as the people stood frozen in shock at the scene that unraveled before them. Voices could be heard asking the same questions. "Who was that woman?" "Where did she come from?" "Who does the baby belong to?" Miralys held the baby tightly, feeling the warmth of her tiny form, the fragile thrum of a heartbeat against her own. The stone around the infant's neck still seemed to be moving, and Miralys swo she could hear a light melody emitting from it. "Mama?" came a small voice. Little Prince Alaric tugged at his mother's skirts, peering up with wide, earnest eyes. "Who's the baby?" "She's someone who lost her family, so she's going to come live with us now," the queen whispered. Roderick looked at the baby then at his wife, "Darling, do you think that's wise?" Miralys nodded," She's only a baby, she can't fend for herself " "I'll help keep her safe," Alaric declared solemnly, puffing his chest out with knightly pride and brandishing his tiny wooden sword. Miralys looked down at him—her son, her promise of tomorrow—and then at the girl in her arms, this child dropped into their lives like a secret wrapped in storm clouds. "I believe you will," she murmured softly. There was no reason for her heart to ache this deeply for a child she didn't know. And yet, the moment she touched her, something in Miralys's soul recognized her. Roderick looked at his family, his pride and joy, the very ones that he fought to keep safe each time he stepped on the front lines, and sighed, "As you wish, my queen. Little Nasrin is welcome in our home". As the stone gates sealed with a final, echoing clang, the sky dimmed slightly, as if even the sun knew that something had just changed. Nasrin had arrived. And with her, the winds of fate had shifted.