The vast, crystalline expanse of Aetherium was a kingdom built on solitude. Ritu spent the following days in a state of suspended reality, watching Likun from a distance. He rarely slept or ate; he simply was, the silent master of the deep. But now that she knew the truth—that he was not a malevolent curse, but a magnificent prisoner—her fear began to melt into a profound, aching pity, which was far more dangerous.
She found him one cycle resting in a vast, open area that resembled a garden of glowing, soft coral. His eyes were closed, and his usual vibrant glow was dimmed. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm that was not quite human. The sheer power he usually radiated seemed to be focused inward, as if holding himself together required immense concentration.
Ritu approached him slowly. “My Lord.”
Likun’s eyes opened, the sea-green depths immediately focused and sharp. He did not move. “You have been quiet, little Ritu. Has the truth finally swallowed your righteous fury?”
“The truth is not what I expected,” she replied, sitting down on the bioluminescent moss nearby. “You are not wrathful; you are simply weary. The constant rain in Nagaraja is not a punishment. It is the bleed. The price of the Pact.”
He shifted, the movement effortless and fluid. “You understand more than the Elders wished you to. The Founding King bound me with powerful, crude sorcery. That tether is a siphon. It drains my energy to protect their shores, and that drain causes the imbalance—the endless mist, the choking rain. Every soul they sacrifice is a renewal charge to the tether, keeping me locked in my own power.”
“Does it hurt?” Ritu asked, the question escaping before she could stop it.
Likun was silent for a long, heavy moment. He finally looked away, towards the massive dome where the crushing weight of the ocean lay above them. “Imagine a single thread, spun from your own vital force, tied to a millstone that demands constant turning. Imagine that millstone is dragging against a kingdom that despises you. Yes. It hurts. It is a constant, low, unending agony.”
His admission shattered the last image she held of him as a purely untouchable god. He was wounded. Trapped. And his vulnerability was what finally broke Ritu's resolve. She had been sent to destroy the curse; instead, she had found the victim.
She moved closer, drawn by an instinct far stronger than duty. She reached out and placed her palm lightly on his arm. His skin was cool and smooth, like marble that had been polished by eons of currents.
“I was meant to destroy the tether, not the God,” she murmured, her voice thick with realization. “The Prophecy—the Cleanser—was meant to free you, not kill you.”
Likun's head snapped around, his eyes piercing her soul. “And if freeing me means the tides sweep over Nagaraja? The tether, though painful, is the only thing preventing my true, unfettered power from correcting the imbalance on the surface. If I am free, the curse will truly descend.”
“Then let it,” Ritu whispered, her heart pounding with the dangerous thrill of her devotion. “Your freedom is worth more than their false peace.”
This time, the look in his eyes was not possessive or amused, but deeply human, tinged with disbelief and a sudden, scorching need. He seized her hand, lacing his long fingers through hers.
“You, a creature of the shore, speak of giving up the shore?” he asked, his voice rough.
“I was never of the shore,” she confessed, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I was always of the offering. You simply chose to keep the gift.”
Likun pulled her toward him, their bodies pressing close. The contact was a violent shock of heat and cold, human flesh against elemental power. He lowered his head, his dark, damp hair brushing her forehead.
“Ritu,” he breathed, his voice a guttural sound of both yearning and immense sorrow. “I have centuries of loneliness in me. Do not offer me hope only to become another wound when you inevitably choose the sun.”
“I choose the deep,” she swore, wrapping her arms around his neck, sealing her fate.
He kissed her then, a kiss that tasted of sea salt and the terrifying force of a storm held barely in check. It was a kiss of absolute possession, a mutual, forbidden pact more binding than any ancient scroll. Likun was no longer just the God of the Tides; he was her lover, her absolute master, and her greatest weakness.
As the crystalline dome above them pulsed with deepening blue light, Ritu knew the impossible truth: she loved the curse, and if the prophecy demanded his end, she would defy the prophecy and choose his side, even if it meant watching the world burn.
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