The kingdom-wide call to The Gathering at Ban-Keren's keep was usually a sombre affair.

The people would stream from their homes, not in jubilant celebration but like mourners travelling behind a funeral procession, their gait slow and heavy, their mood full of dread and foreboding. There were not many left alive who could recall the Moontide Markets first-hand. Tales of those long-ago tides were told as bedtime stories to children, wistful yarns narrated in awe-tinged whispers, the memories almost obscured by time, as if viewing the coastline through the thickened sea mist.

This tide, however, the mood was different. It rolled in tumultuous waves through the crowds who had left their homes without protest and now strode with mindful fervour, as opposed to the usual march of the celebratory dead—called to pay homage to a new god they neither loved nor wanted.

Elara walked among them, the hood of her cloak pulled up and a scarf wrapped loosely around the bottom half of her face. She had barely slept, and her body ached with exhaustion, but her blood was alive in a way she had not felt in many moons. The song of her foremothers rarely stayed with her unless she trod in the subterranean temple of the Naiad, bare soles moulding to the slick black rock, but she heard it this tide, a constant wild hum of noise flowing beneath her skin, heating her veins.

By her side, her friends Anton, Kelena and Bazel walked with her, all four of them blending into the bustling throng. They were buoyed by the furious chatter and noise that filled the air, carried along by the anger and frustration that had reached boiling point throughout Grimefell.

On any other tide, she wouldn't dare to walk these streets knowing she was still wanted by The Order for questioning about the death of Koh-Miralus. One whisper in their ear from a scoundrel hoping to earn a coin or two, one sidelong glance, and she would be dragged from this place and that would be it.

But not this tide. No, on this tide, the people cared only for one thing, and that was to march their frustration and their thirst directly to the gates of King Aldolus Ban-Keren himself.

Riggs Cree had played his part and played it well, not that Elara had ever doubted he would.

She had always known Grimefell would listen to him. In another life, he would have made an expert politician, such was his influence. There were many impressive qualities to Riggs—and not just those she'd discovered within the bedchamber—but his powers of persuasion were second to none. Of course, some would say that Riggs' authority only came with the threat of the blade and a swift end in the Setalah for all those who crossed him, but Elara knew better. Fear him they did, but Grimefell still housed a respect for the migrant Carraterrean gang boss and not a begrudging one either. Riggs was brutal but not cruel, and although he sought to leave this place one tide, until then, he would sweat blood to bring the elite of Druvaria to their knees.

She could see him, further forward in the crowd, his tall frame at least half a head above most others, ever alert and moving with purpose. He too was hooded, but she'd have recognised him anywhere, not to mention the half a dozen brutes who lingered close by, ready to protect him should he be picked out by the Highguards, who, by all accounts, still wanted him for his role in the bloody skirmish at the port.

By now, Riggs had already reached the edge of the slum quarters. His gang of rats, who had run barefoot above the procession of people, skipping deftly along the rickety balconies and narrow walkways of the buildings that rose on either side, jumped into the mob. Elara could see them spread out, heads bobbing, catching onto those nearest and continuing to feed the fury that pushed the people onwards.

As the streets widened into the mid-echelon, their route upwards through the citadel was carved by the Highguards lining the roads, forcing all to follow one path directly up to the black castle itself. On the surface, The Order appeared unmoved by the tension in the crowd, but look closer, and it was easy to spot their unease in the way their eyes scanned the moving sea, alarm singeing the edges of their usually firm resolve. They knew something was amiss. How could they not? This was not a cowed and submissive march but one of determined intent that possessed a strength most had no doubt not seen from Grimefell. Even the uprising at the port, while also fuelled by fury and the wild thump of blood in the temples, had not held the same magnitude of tension as this.

"By the dead gods, can you feel it, Elara?" Anton murmured in her ear, echoing her thoughts. He had pulled his cloak tight about his head, and his face was scrubbed clean of his usual glitter and gloss. Instead, his eyes were lined with indigo pencil, beautifully dark upon his skin, and the colour made Elara yearn for the deepest pockets of the Setalah.

"I'd feel it better if I could slip my hands into the cloak of that merchant up ahead," grumbled Bazel, eyeing the short, slight noble who had descended the steps of his home in the mid-echelon to join the procession that marched past his house. "Did you see the size of his purse? I wager there's a whole half-moon's worth of water nestled inside and maybe enough left for a plump hog." He groaned and licked his lips. "Can you imagine?"

"Poor Bazel," Kelena said with wry amusement, even if it did not reach her eyes. "What it is to have a purpose other than thievery."

"I don't expect you to understand," the boy went on, his gaze almost feverish as he watched the noble push his way through the crowd. "It's not purely purpose; it is a compulsion. My fingers itch. It's like a blade to the chest to lose such a prize."

"Your fingers itch from handling too much riverweed, you insufferable wretch," Kelena replied. "I once heard of a man who bit his own right down to the knuckles because the itch of the weed drove him to distraction."

"Brogboar shit," spat Bazel. "He probably got the itch from stuffing his fingers up too many..."

"Hush now," Elara said, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm trying to listen."

The boy grumbled some more but soon lapsed back into the hum of the crowd, just as was Elara. She half-expected the vocalised rage and frustration to dampen the closer they got to the black gates; such was the fear the king's palace instilled in the citizens of Grimefell. Instead, fuelled by the constant flow of vitriol and suspicion spewed from Cree's gang, the wave was simply gaining power. Anton was right. She could feel it. They all could. The tide had turned in the slums, and they were taking it straight to the courtyard of the king himself.

Although Elara had often avoided The Gatherings, instead choosing to take advantage of a deserted Grimefell so she could swim down to the Naiad temple and pay homage to that in which she did believe—blessed foremothers, blessed waters, stay with me now—she had been here more times than she cared to remember. To kneel before he who had slaughtered the Naiad, he who had ripped her mother from her side, had always been a torture, but no more. She had never seen so many from Grimefell attend The Gathering as she did this tide. How many of those who usually cowered in cellars and attics and hidey-holes to avoid this farce had left their homes to join the protest? How many had come to raise their voices? How many had come with the will to fight?

As they swarmed through the gates, the black towers on either side like dark sentinels stretching high above, Elara caught a glimpse of the striking red and black uniform of Ban-Keren's Elite Guard positioned in front of the mammoth doors to the palace. On the days of The Gathering, this is where they always stood, waiting to escort their new god to where he would bathe in the glory his people were forced to bestow upon him. She wondered if Juda was there among them, the ancient dagger concealed under his cloak, but she was too far away to see through the barrier of Druvari priests that lined the edge of the platform.

It pained her to be apart from him more than she cared to admit. To know he had walked those very corridors where her own mother's bloodied footprints had painted the stone floors, to know he was inside the king's lair, terrified her more than she had ever believed it would. She had spent so long holding emotion at bay, keeping it locked outside of her heart, that the force of her feelings for Juda Vikaris had weakened her foundations.

She had, of course, refused his plea to board the Dreynian ship and flee this place, but in truth, the thought of it hadn't been entirely beyond her grasp. She had thought about it. A fleeting dream of standing on the deck and watching the shoreline of Druvaria fade into the mist.

Only she had not been alone.

She had been with the water and with him. The sting of the sea spray upon her face and the heat of his body pressed against her back; his hands clasped about her waist.

Blessed foremothers, stay with him now. Please, I beg of you.

An eruption of protest ballooned from somewhere behind, and she glanced back to see the Druvari attempting to close the gates, but to no avail. The crowd gathering was too large. They congregated on the sloped street leading down into the heart of the citadel, a jostling mass that sent ripples through the impatient throng. The nobles had gathered in their allotted section of the courtyard, a space far larger than necessary for their numbers, protected by a rigid line of Highguards whose duty it was to keep the scum of Grimefell away. Grimefell, on the other hand, was to be hemmed in like brogboars in a holding pen, crammed into the rest of the palace square, but for once—to Elara's delight—they simply could not be contained.

Fingers curled around hers, and she grasped Kelena's hand, squeezing. Had they really done all this? Hope fluttered gossamer wings against her breastbone.

The noise was deafening, the waiting crowd teetering on a blade's edge of rage. She smiled behind her scarf, despite the storm that surged all around her.

Finally, just when Elara had decided the king would not dare to make an appearance after all, the monstrous doors to the palace opened with a crack and a rumble of old wood against stone. With a thump of fists across their chests and a thunderous hail that broke through the din of the waiting crowd, the Highguards lining the courtyard offered their salute.

"Long life to Ban-Keren. By our blade, we protect him. By our blood, we honour him."

Some in the Gathering echoed the first salute, as was customary, but they were heckled and jostled by those around them. A fight broke out close to the steps, fists slamming into flesh, blood flying from noses before the culprits were yanked from the mass by two Highguards who appeared almost reluctant to move against them.

Elara squeezed Kelena's hand once more and felt Bazel shift closer. The boy didn't much care for physical gestures of affection and shrugged off every gentle touch with a sneer, but he was still a boy, after all, and he still felt fear—despite his protests to the contrary. And well he might feel it this tide, for this was new territory for them all.

A war was coming. The taste of it hung in the air. Bristled against her skin.

Flanked by a visibly larger escort of Elite Guards than was usual, the king walked onto the raised stone dais centred on the platform. He cut a formidable figure, seemingly unaged by time, apart from the grey that streaked one temple. That grey, she noticed, was more prominent than it once was, the streak thicker, contrasting sharply with his long, dark hair. Clothed entirely in black, he looked barely older than Cree, and yet she knew he carried the weight of far more moons than his appearance did suggest.

The Naiad inside her veins seethed at the sight of him. With the knowledge of what he had done. Of what he was.

A king whose throne was drenched in the blood of her foremothers.

A monster masquerading as a god.

A tense hush fell across The Gathering as Lord Dageor—that ghoulish priest who served as Ban-Keren's most trusted advisor and the man who Roth claimed was creating an army of Druvari warriors—stepped forward. He surveyed the people as if they were nought but dung-moths, his expression haughty and indifferent to the dissent that rippled through them.

"Well met to all those who have gathered here upon this momentous tide," he said, his thin, reedy voice carrying out across the courtyard. "It is truly a testament to the great honour you bestow upon your king, His Most Exalted, Father of the Kingdom of Druvaria, His Eternal Holiness, King Aldolus Ban-Keren."

Silence followed and the hair on Elara's neck prickled as she glanced around. Now was not the time for hush. This was when the people were to answer Lord Dageor in a worshipful salute.

Long life to Ban-Keren. All hail His Eternal Holiness. On our knees, we honour him.

And yet nobody answered. Nobody knelt.

Unruffled, Dageor continued. "To see so many pay homage, let it be known your king is truly grateful."

"If he's so grateful, give us the fucking water!" A voice called out from the crowd, bitter with anger.

Dageor's eyes narrowed, the turn of his head slow. Elara could almost hear the creak of his neck from where she stood.

A momentary beat of silence followed as if the people could scarce believe that someone had spoken up in such clear dissent, despite the purposeful rage that had driven them here.

"Yeah, when are you going to give us the water?" Another voice rang out, screeching in desperation.

"Tell us what you did to the Naiad!"

Rebellion rippled. The crowd almost swayed with the force of it, the fury catching hold once more, flames stoked and burning brighter.

"You killed the witches. You brought this curse down upon us all!"

The crowd began to move, pushing forward, and Elara found herself almost carried upon the wave, her hand grasping tighter onto Kelena's in fear they might get dragged under if they resisted the force of it.

"Bazel, stay close," she cried, clutching onto his wrist, as they shuffled closer to the steps.

The boy pushed against those behind, snarling at them and baring his teeth. "Stop shoving me, you drouzkas!"

Anton sidled into a gap, and pushed his hand into the chest of a man who was moving forward with such blind fury that he barely saw the boy and would have trampled him underfoot if Anton was not barring his way. "You heard him. Back off before I take my blade to your belly and spill out your miserable innards, you gutter slug!"

A missile sliced through the air, missing its mark, and exploded against the stone steps—small shards of black rock flying. Another rained down, this time closer, prompting Dageor to take a step back. With one gesture to the nearest Druvari, a cry went out and, throwing back their cloaks, Elara finally saw the truth in what Roth had claimed. Each Druvari—once armed only with scripture—were now armed with bone-hilted xiphos swords, and leather breastplates adorning their torsos.

Audible gasps filtered through the Gathering, the shouts and protests fading as Dageor held up one hand—whether to attempt to silence them or give an order to the Druvari, Elara was uncertain, but a hush fell across the crowd once more, as the High Priest's voice rang out.

"Good citizens of Druvaria, humble servants of our great kingdom, His Most Exalted, King Aldolus Ban-Keren knows your plight and listens to your pleas. A great injustice has been served upon our mighty citadel. An evil that nestles upon our shores, infects our waterways, and indeed has inflicted hardship upon you."

"Yes!" A woman spoke up, her voice brittle and shaky. "Upon us, not you!"

"The king wishes to acknowledge this hardship, this great evil—an evil that seeks to persist and divide this kingdom, tear it apart, just as it did so many moons ago. An evil that seeks to mislead you all. An evil that lies."

He spat the word, his eyes flashing.

"It is the king who lies!"

Elara's head whipped in the direction of Cree's voice, deep within the throng, his statement echoed by those around him. Anger simmered once more, and voices rose.

High on the platform, the king said nothing, his face impassive and unmoved.

Even now he does not care. Even now he thinks himself invincible.

"I can assure you His Most Exalted would never lie to his kingdom," Dageor called out, holding up his hands, almost as if to placate the angry mob. "His Holiness understands why you, his people, seek his assurance now—an assurance you will be provided with. This kingdom—this great land of ours—has many enemies. Enemies who envy our might. Enemies who have tried and failed to conquer us, and make no mistake, they will try to conquer us again. Even now, outside forces plot against us, against Druvaria. Spies from Dreynia, from Drogia...from Carreterra."

Elara sucked in a breath, urging herself not to seek out Riggs in the crowd again. There wasn't many Carraterreans on these shores and everyone knew Riggs' origins. Unease filtered into the pit of her stomach.

"Our enemies have long memories, but so do we, and we know the power of a united Druvaria puts fear in all those who seek to bring about our downfall. And seek it they do. But this is Druvaria and Druvarian rock does not crumble. They can send their spies on the cargo ships. They can send assassins to murder members of the king's court. They can even make attempts on the life of the king himself."

Gasps rang out, eyes widening at this new revelation, but Elara could only stand as stone, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. An attempt upon the king's life?

This could only mean one thing.

Juda's plot had been discovered.

She desperately searched for him in amongst the ranks of the Elite Guard, but each face looked like the other, each one like a clone of the man standing next to him. Panic blurred her vision and she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, attempting to clear the haze.

Blessed foremothers, please, please, I beg of you...

Dageor's voice rose, clearly catching onto the shock that had rippled through the courtyard.

"Yes, yes, an attempt upon the life of His Most Exalted, and yet, he, our living god, Father of Druvaria prevailed against this evil that would be done upon him. Just as Druvaria has prevailed against the great evil that was enforced upon our majestic kingdom—the greatest evil in history known to be inflicted upon any nation—but did we fall? No, my fellow Druvarians, we did not. Our waters may have been cursed, but our great nation lives on. Our enemies envy the Druvaria spirit. What other nation could have persisted in the face of such evil? None but Druvaria!"

The priest paused, wetting his lips with his tongue, his piercing gaze sweeping slow and steady across the crowd.

"And yet..." Another weighty pause and Dageor's face became downcast. "Our enemies have seen our strength, our resilience, and they seek now to do the only thing that can destroy us: they plot to divide us. To drive a wedge between us all. To make us mistrust our neighbour. Turn on one another."

He steepled his fingers, shaking his head in disbelief, his eyes misting with sadness.

"To make you turn upon your king."

Elara tore her gaze from the platform, scanning the faces in the crowd, dismayed at what she saw. Confusion. Doubt. Uncertainty. Guilt.

"And why do they do this, Druvaria?" Dageor asked, not expecting an answer. Perspiration shone on his bald head, fervour lining his face. "Because they know they cannot conquer us through war. Druvaria has not once fallen in its entire history. It is because they know, the only way to destroy us, is to deceive us from within. To chip away at the very foundations beneath our feet. To make us question our beliefs. To make us question our faith in our king. These people—these spies, these traitors—are the reason you have been suffering."

He paused again, letting his words seep into the crowd. Elara could feel the drip-drip of his poison sliding down her spine.

"The murders of Novice Luca Zar-Kuron and the Noble Mica Koh-Miralus. The bloody battle at the port. All part of a devious plan to point the finger of blame against Grimefell and bring the king's reckoning down upon your heads. To make you suffer. Make you thirst. To bring you here in protest, not worship and gratitude. This plot—this treasonous, monstrous plot—has thankfully, been discovered just in time, and now King Aldolus Ban-Keren knows the truth of it all and seeks your forgiveness for the punishments enacted upon you."

"What the fuck is happening?" whispered Anton. "What the fuck..." His hand gripped Elara's shoulder.

"But alas..." Dageor continued, his face drawn and almost bereft. "The crown fears this plot has all but succeeded. The divide between us all may be too great, the wound too savage to heal with words from the court of your king. It is true I stand before you, a noble-born man. What good is my voice when it is perceived as so very different from your own?" He shook his head once more, holding out his hands, palms up. "No, no, you need the voice of one who understands. One who knows your struggle, who has experienced the same suffering, the same thirst."

"I told you all that this was a momentous tide for Druvaria, not just because you are all here, not just because your glorious strength and resilience have been awakened, but because upon this great tide, the court of King Aldolus Ban-Keren has news which will bind us in ways our enemies cannot tear asunder. At last, this kingdom will be united upon a new common ground—a fairer nation that favours all, not just the few."

With a word to the closest Druvari, another cry rang out, and their short swords were withdrawn and holstered. Lord Dageor took a step forward.

"Upon this tide, we bring word to you all of a new heir to the throne of King Aldolus Ban-Keren. A new Crown Prince of Druvaria, not noble-born, but born of Grimefell itself!"

The Elite Guard and the Highguards of the Order thumped their chests in salute once more.

"Long life to Ban-Keren. Long life to the Crown Prince of Druvaria."

There was a moment when Elara was sure the waters of the Setalah had risen, just as her foremothers had sworn they would. She was sure that the ocean had engulfed the entire kingdom, submerging everything in its depths, slowing life almost to a stop. But instead of relishing its embrace, she felt the violent rush of the water fill her ears, and the weight of it inside her lungs and it was she who was drowning. The undertow was pulling her down, down...

Everything was still except for one lone Elite Guard who had moved from his position behind the king and was now slowly walking towards the front of the platform, the sharp clip of his boots against stone the only sound she could hear.

The sides of his head were shaved, as was customary for the king's special guardsmen, but the slash of the Batak oil remained upon his face and the eyes housed within that deep, awful blackness were unmistakable.

Had she not lost herself in them time after time since they had first met?

Had she not been thrilled by their coldness and warmed by their heat?

Had she not looked into them as she dug her fingers into his back and spoken words she had scarcely believed she would ever say to one such as he?

My love...Juda, my love.

"I don't understand..." murmured Kelena. "What in the dead gods is he doing...?"

Juda approached the end of the platform and stopped beside Dageor, who, inclined his head in a reverent bow and stepped away, not turning his back just as was customary when addressing the king himself.

Reaching to his shoulders, Juda unclipped the gilded clasps that held his thick cloak in place and let it drop to the floor.

"My name is Juda Vikaris, son of Aleina Vikaris," he said, looking out at the crowd. "Some of you here may remember her, may have been her neighbours, her friends, even. You may have worked with her and conversed with her. She was one of you, just as I am one of you. I was born of Grimefell. Raised on the same streets. And when she was betrayed and shipped to the dead fields, it was your streets upon which I scavenged to survive. It was in the gutters of the slums, that I fought for every morsel, every scrap, every single drop of water, just to live another tide."

His hand moved across his chest and began to unbuckle one of the leather straps upon his breastplate.

"Not long after, a noble-born by the name of Roth Vi-Garran, once Special Commander to King Ban-Keren and now Master Librarian to the King's Vaults and traitor, took me in as his ward and trained me to be what you see before you this tide: a soldier of The Serpent Order. A slum rat in an army of nobles who never believed I deserved to wear the uniform because I was not born into privilege. I have had to fight every tide of my life, first upon the streets, and then in the bloody square, to prove my worth."

Another buckle was unfastened, then the next, until he could open the heavy leather breastplate protecting his torso and slip it from his body, dropping it to his feet. Removing his soft leather tunic and his undershirt, he threw them to the side, until he stood before them all, bare from the waist up.

Elara's chest tightened, a dull pain pulsing inside.

Juda slapped a palm to his naked chest. "Every scar, every mark upon this flesh is a testament to who I am and where I came from—not the pampered, soft beds of the nobles and not a golden throne of the royal palace. I do not stand before you as a noble-born man but as a slum rat—a slum rat with the blood of Grimefell and Ban-Keren in my veins."

"Do you want the truth of it? And I mean the real truth and not the gilded words of a member of the royal court or a priest of the Druvari sect. This place you see before you..." He pointed at the black palace. "It means nothing to me. I care not for a crown or a title. I care nothing for riches and a throne. I care not for the whims and fancies of the nobles. But I do care for this kingdom, and I swore an oath to protect it, and I tell you now, as a man who bares himself before you, that the story that brought you here this tide is a lie."

"By the dead fucking gods..." rasped Bazel.

Juda stepped down off the dais, approaching the edge of the stone steps and drawing closer to the crowd, but his voice rang out clear and cold.

"There is a Naiad in Druvaria, that much is true, but that is where the truth ends. It was the Naiad who killed the Novice Luca Zara-Kuron, holding him under the water of the Setalah until his body was nothing but rot and then letting Grimefell bear the brunt of her crime. It was the Naiad who drowned the silk merchant Mica Koh-Miralus, using her sorcery to torture and drown him. This I can tell you with absolute surety for I was an unwilling witness to this unspeakable evil."

Cries of shock rippled through the crowd and Elara juddered on hearing them, rocking back onto her heels, the firm placement of Anton's hands gripping her shoulders the only thing keeping her upright.

"I, myself, was almost a victim to her sorcery," Juda continued. "It was only my training that enabled me to escape her clutches, and now, aided by traitors and Carraterrean spies, the Naiad attempts to infect this kingdom with her poison. Not content with the devastation and suffering her foremothers created when they cursed our waters, the witch seeks to destroy Druvaria completely—manipulating the people into outright civil war and revolt against the king. Then, when she has the kingdom on its knees, she will realise the prophecy of the Last Water Witch as foretold by the ancient Druvari and she will raise the cursed waters of the Setalah and slaughter us all. Every man, woman, and child."

Juda paused as a wave of terrified murmurs rippled through the courtyard. The murmurs grew in volume, voices rising and falling, until the crowd was alive once more.

Before it could spiral out of control, Juda called out again, and the sound of his voice stilled the unrest.

"People of Druvaria, you have no reason to trust the crown. You have no reason to trust me. I just stood before you wearing the uniform of the Order. I have followed the instructions of my superiors and enacted punishment upon those mistakenly held responsible for the Naiad's crimes. And then I am to tell you that I am of royal blood? The heir to the throne? Let us not lie to one another. You care about as much for that as I do for this palace and all the riches that it houses within its black walls."

Motioning to one of the Elite Guards, Juda held out his hand, only for the guard to hand him a flask of water which Juda held aloft.

"Right now, this is what you care about. You want your rightful share of the water, and I declare that it is your right to have just that. It is your right not to thirst. Not to suffer. Not to die. Upon this tide, as your Crown Prince, I declare that the next shipment of water—the shipment that heads towards these shores now—will not be withheld. The next shipment of water will be Grimefell's and Grimefell's alone, and not only that..."

No, no more, Juda. Please, no more. Enough, enough...

But it was coming, and Elara knew it was. It was as sure as the tide itself.

"I will tell you who seeks to destroy our great kingdom. I will tell you who uses Grimefell as a shield to conceal her true identity..."

He paused and then spoke, his tongue a dagger, his mouth the jagged edge of a blade.

"The Last Water Witch is Elara Consuli."