That week, Marcus spent every moment he could with Caspian, determined to stay by his side. It wasn't just love that tethered him—it was the unshakable need to protect the merman king from the dangers that seemed to circle him like sharks in dark waters.

But there were times when it was impossible to stay with Caspian, whether due to royal duties or the many demands of the Onyx Kingdom. During those moments, Marcus often found himself in the company of Morgan and Atlantis.

One morning, as they floated in the castle's training hall, Marcus broke the silence. "I want to learn how to fight."

Atlantis paused, his golden eyes widening in surprise. "Are you sure?"

A knowing smile spread across Morgan's lips. "Does this have anything to do with Caspian?" he teased, though his tone held genuine curiosity.

Marcus's silver eyes dropped to the floor. "I want to protect him," he murmured softly, his voice almost hesitant. "I don't want to be a burden on his shoulders." It wasn't the full truth. Ever since he'd crossed the gates of the Onyx Kingdom, a strange, simmering desire to wield a weapon had been growing within him—a yearning he didn't fully understand. He'd never displayed violent tendencies before, but now the thought of holding a blade felt... right.

Atlantis's brows furrowed as he circled Marcus, studying his slender form with an appraising eye. "Perhaps dual swords might work best for you," he mused. "But it's best to try every weapon before deciding."

He turned to Morgan. "What do you think?"

Morgan's cat-like eyes flicked between Marcus and Atlantis before landing on Marcus again. "I agree. Dual swords suit him." A playful smirk crossed his lips. "But only if he can wield them."

"I hear talk of weapons," Caspian's deep voice cut in, startling Marcus as the king swam up behind him. Strong hands rested on Marcus's shoulders, and the warmth of his touch sent a shiver down Marcus's spine. "You're not planning to start a war, are you?" Caspian teased, his black eyes gleaming with amusement.

Marcus giggled softly, tilting his head back to look at him. "None at all, my love. I just want to learn how to wield a weapon."

Caspian's expression shifted to one of thoughtfulness. After a moment, he nodded. "I can help you with that."

____________________________

When Caspian led Marcus into the armory, Marcus's lips parted in awe.

The room wasn't just large—it was immense, stretching farther than he had imagined possible. Weapons and armor lined the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming beneath a soft, otherworldly glow. It felt less like a storage space and more like a sanctum, a shrine to centuries of battle and craftsmanship.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Morgan murmured, leaning closer to Marcus with a knowing smile.

"It's incredible!" Marcus exclaimed, his tail propelling him forward as he darted among the racks. He moved from display to display, marveling at the sheer variety. Swords of every size and shape rested on intricately carved stands, some with elegant curves, others jagged and menacing. Shields adorned the walls, their centers marked with strange, ancient symbols that seemed to hum faintly under his gaze.

But as Marcus wandered deeper into the armory, something different caught his eye. In the far corner of the room, hidden in shadow, was a pair of swords unlike any he'd seen. They weren't polished like the others. They sat atop a black stone pedestal, their dull, tarnished blades covered in barnacles that had grown so thick, the metal was barely visible.

"What's this?" Marcus asked, his voice soft as he swam closer. The air around the blades felt... different. Heavy, almost oppressive, as if the weapons were more than they appeared.

Caspian followed his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Those? You won't be able to lift them, love," he said, his voice light but certain. "They're heavier than anchors. Not even the strongest servants could lift them to polish."

Atlantis's golden eyes gleamed with challenge. "Perhaps the servants were simply weak," he said, a cocky grin spreading across his face. "I'd like to try."

Caspian smirked, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture. "Be my guest."

Atlantis swam forward, rolling his shoulders as he approached the pedestal. His movements were purposeful, confident. He rubbed his hands together, before wrapping his fingers around the hilts of the blades.

He tightened his grip and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Atlantis grunted, his muscles rippling beneath his white skin as he heaved again, the veins in his arms standing out with effort. The swords didn't budge, not even a millimeter. His golden eyes narrowed in frustration, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tried a third time, his tail coiling for leverage. Still, the blades remained fused to the black stone as if they were a part of it.

"They seem so light," Atlantis muttered, his brows furrowing. "I don't understand."

Morgan giggled, breaking the tension. "Perhaps they simply don't like you," he teased, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

Caspian chuckled softly, shaking his head. "They've been here for centuries. Whatever secrets they hold, they aren't for us to uncover."

Marcus, intrigued, drifted closer. "Maybe it's the barnacles?" he suggested. Grabbing a smaller blade from a nearby rack, he carefully scraped at the crusted shells. As he worked, a faint shimmer ran along the blades' surface, so subtle that Marcus almost missed it.

Setting the knife aside, Marcus wrapped his hands around the hilts. The metal was icy cold against his palms, sending a shiver through his body. He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Caspian, whose amused smirk suggested he expected nothing to happen.

Marcus pulled.

The blades slid free with an ease that startled him. The room seemed to hold its breath. Caspian's jaw slackened, and Morgan's playful smirk vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed stare. Even Atlantis looked stunned, his usual composure faltering.

But before Marcus could speak, a strange vibration ran through the hilts, coursing up his arms and into his chest. It wasn't just a feeling—it was alive, humming with an ancient energy that seemed to resonate with something deep inside him.

The air around him grew heavy, and the world tilted as a sharp dizziness overtook him. Symbols on the blades began to glow faintly, their intricate patterns pulsing in time with the vibration.

"Marcus!" Caspian shouted, his voice sharp with alarm.

But it was too late. The room spun, and darkness swallowed Marcus whole

_____

Everything felt strange, as if Marcus's body were being tugged backward and stuffed into a too-small locker. The sensation was eerily familiar, dredging up memories of high school, where he'd been shoved into cramped spaces to the sound of muffled laughter.

But this time, there was no laughter—only the clash of swords and the anguished cries of war.

When his vision cleared, the scene before him was both alien and unsettlingly familiar. Smoke hung thick in the water, curling around the bodies of fallen merfolk. Shadows loomed in the distance, grotesque shapes moving with unnatural fluidity. The water was tainted, dark with blood, and the metallic tang of violence seemed to saturate his senses.

What is this? Marcus thought, trying to move, to take in his surroundings. But his body wouldn't respond. It was as if he were trapped inside someone else, his gaze forced in a direction not of his choosing. His limbs moved, but they weren't his to control. His thoughts raced. What's going on?

A voice rang out beside him, sharp and commanding. "Ashur!"

Marcus felt his body respond instinctively, his arms raising a pair of familiar swords to block an incoming strike. A strange creature lunged at him, its grotesque form writhing with tentacles. The blades in his hands moved with precision, slicing through the beast's appendages with ease. Black ichor spilled into the water, staining the battlefield.

Those are the blades I touched, Marcus realized, his heart pounding. But here, they weren't dulled or encrusted with barnacles. They gleamed, radiant and deadly, pulsing faintly as if alive.

The creature reeled back, preparing for another attack. Marcus braced himself, every muscle in his body coiling like a spring. But before the beast could strike, a blade came from nowhere, piercing its flesh and releasing a flood of black blood. The beast convulsed before sinking lifelessly to the ocean floor.

A figure swam into view, a merman with bright green eyes and jet-black hair. His movements were fluid, effortless, and his mischievous smile held an unmistakable confidence. Marcus's heart stuttered, the feeling painfully familiar—something he always felt when Caspian was near.

"You seem a little slow today, my friend," the merman said, his tone teasing as he twirled his sword with practiced ease.

Marcus's voice—no, Ashur's voice—scoffed. "Silence, you fool. I could've handled that beast myself."

The merman rolled his eyes, still grinning. He waved his sword around mockingly, his voice lilting with exaggerated bravado. "'I am strong. I am a god.' Honestly, Ashur, no need to keep all the action to yourself. Some of us are here to help, you know."

Ashur chuckled, his voice warm, the tension of the battle momentarily forgotten. Marcus felt their bodies drift closer together, their proximity charged with an unmistakable intimacy. "I know," Ashur said softly. "It's one of the many reasons I love you."

Marcus felt himself mentally squirm, caught in the vivid emotions of someone else's memory. His heart raced as their lips met, the kiss intense and all-consuming.

"Gods, Deleri, you kiss like the heavens," Ashur murmured when they pulled apart.

A light blush dusted Deleri's sharp cheekbones, his green eyes shining with warmth. "And you kiss like a god," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ashur's response was immediate, a grin tugging at his lips. "That's because I am a god."

The dream began to fade, the vivid colors and sensations slipping away like sand through his fingers. Reality seeped back in—dull, distant, and cold—but Ashur's final words echoed in Marcus's mind, loud and unshakable:

That's because I am a god.

________

Marcus blinked as the worried faces of his friends and his mate slowly came into focus. His body felt heavy, every muscle aching as if he'd been through a rigorous battle.

"Oh, he's waking up," Atlantis said, relief softening his usually stoic expression.

"Marcus!" Caspian's voice was frantic, his calloused hands cupping Marcus's cheeks with a gentleness that belied his strength. "Are you alright? Speak to me."

Marcus's body trembled as he struggled to sit up, the soreness in his limbs making even the smallest movement feel like an effort. "I had the strangest dream," he murmured softly, his silver eyes searching Caspian's. "What happened?"

"You picked up the weapon," Morgan said, his sharp cat-like eyes glittering with curiosity, "and you fell unconscious. Just collapsed."

Marcus's gaze shifted to the twin blades still resting on the pedestal beside him. They were no longer dull or encrusted with barnacles. Now, they gleamed with an almost otherworldly radiance, their surfaces alive with faint patterns of light that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

Morgan watched the flicker of confusion and unease cross Marcus's features, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Whatever Marcus had seen, Morgan could sense it was important—far more than anyone else in the room realized.

He coughed lightly, drawing everyone's attention. "Atlantis, Caspian," he said, his tone firm but calm. "I'd like to speak with Marcus. Alone."

Caspian frowned, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Why alone?" he asked, his protective instincts flaring.

Morgan raised a hand, his expression patient but unyielding. "I promise, it's only to understand what happened. It won't take long."

Atlantis's golden eyes darted between Morgan and Marcus before he gave a small nod. "We'll be outside," he said, his voice low and measured.

Caspian hesitated, his hands lingering on Marcus's shoulders. "I'll be just outside the door," he murmured, his gaze locking with Marcus's for a moment before reluctantly following Atlantis out.

Morgan waited until the door closed behind them, his gaze lingering briefly on the entrance before shifting back to Marcus. The room felt quieter now, heavier, the faint glow of the twin blades casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.

"What happened, Marcus?" Morgan asked gently, settling next to him. "What did you see?"

Marcus hesitated, his hands brushing over the smooth hilts of the swords. The blades pulsed faintly under his touch, as though they recognized him, responding to his very presence. "I saw... something," he began, his voice unsure. "It was strange and terrifying, but... it also felt familiar."

Morgan's eyes narrowed slightly, his focus intensifying. "Familiar how?"

Marcus lifted the blades, their light casting an almost ethereal glow on his pale skin. "I was in a battle," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly as the memory resurfaced. "The world was dark, filled with smoke and blood. I was holding these swords—but they weren't like this. They were pristine, glowing, just like now."

Morgan leaned closer, his curiosity evident. "Go on."

"There was a creature—a monster with tentacles. I fought it, but I wasn't alone," Marcus continued, his silver eyes distant as he relived the dream. "There was someone with me. A merman with bright green eyes and black hair. He called me..." Marcus hesitated, the name feeling heavy on his tongue. "Ashur."

Morgan's expression shifted, a flicker of recognition flashing across his features. "Ashur," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue as if it carried meaning. "And the other merman—what did you feel?"

Marcus's blush deepened, though his trembling voice didn't waver. "There was... something between them. Something deep. They loved each other. And Ashur... he said he was a god."

Morgan straightened, his sharp features unreadable for a moment before he spoke. "A god," he echoed, his tone low, contemplative. "And these blades... they belonged to him?"

Marcus nodded. "Yes. They were his."

Morgan's gaze fell to the swords, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach for them but thought better of it. "Ashur... I've heard that name before. A figure from an age long past. A warrior, a protector, revered by many—and feared by even more."

Marcus's grip on the hilts tightened. "But why did I see through his eyes? Why did it feel like I was him?"

Morgan studied him for a long moment, his green eyes glinting with an enigmatic light. "I don't know yet," he admitted, though his tone suggested he had his suspicions. "But one thing is clear, Marcus—these blades chose you for a reason. And whatever that reason is, it's tied to Ashur."

___________________

Destan slipped quietly into the dimly lit dungeons, his wife, Aceso, by his side. The air was thick with dampness and the faint, metallic tang of despair. Shadows danced on the stone walls as a flickering torch illuminated the narrow corridor.

"He isn't the one pulling the strings," Aceso murmured, her voice soft yet resolute. Her grey eyes, always sharp, lingered on the trembling figure in the cell ahead. Her hand absently caressed the swell of her growing belly, a gesture of both comfort and protectiveness.

Inside the cell, Elric's whimpers echoed off the stone walls. He was curled tightly into himself, his hands clasped over his ears as he rocked back and forth, muttering words that made no sense—or perhaps too much sense in his fractured mind.

"What do you suggest?" Destan asked, his voice quiet but edged with tension. He trusted his wife's wisdom, yet her gaze unnerved him. There was a faraway look in her eyes, the kind she often wore when she communed with forces beyond his understanding.

"The goddess tells me to send him with Morgan," Aceso said, her fingers brushing against Destan's as she sought his steadying presence.

Destan stiffened at her words. "You can't be serious," he replied, his tone laced with disbelief. "He nearly killed Morgan, Aceso. Atlantis will be furious."

"I know," she whispered, her voice tinged with both sorrow and determination. Her gaze flicked back to Elric, her expression softening with something like pity—or perhaps understanding. "But there's more at play here than we realize. The goddess is clear—this path must be taken."

Destan's jaw clenched, his thoughts warring with his instincts. Elric was dangerous, unpredictable, and sending him near Morgan again felt like inviting catastrophe. And yet, Aceso rarely spoke so plainly of the goddess's will unless it was of utmost importance.

"You believe this is the only way?" he asked, his blue eyes searching hers for any hesitation.

"Yes," she said firmly, though her voice was gentle. "The goddess has seen it. Elric holds a key, Destan. But it will only be revealed in Morgan's presence."

Destan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And what of Atlantis? You know how fiercely he protects Morgan. He won't take this lightly."

"We'll face his fury if we must," Aceso said softly, resting a hand on her husband's arm. "But the goddess doesn't make mistakes."

For a long moment, they stood in silence, the sound of Elric's muttering filling the space between them. Finally, Destan nodded, though his shoulders remained tense. "Very well," he said. "But I'll handle Atlantis. You focus on keeping yourself—and our child—safe."

Aceso smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around his. "Thank you, my love. You'll see—this will lead us to what we seek."

As they turned to leave, Destan cast one last glance at Elric, who rocked in the corner of his cell, oblivious to the weight of the decision that had just been made. Whatever lay ahead, he knew it would test them all