Ysa's grip faltered. Her chest hitched, breath tearing out of her like something caught and ripped free.
"All my life," she said, voice cracking open, "I was told to watch you. Save you. Heal you." Her eyes burned, wet and furious and afraid. "I get hurt too. I get scared too, Yve."
Yve didn't raise her blade.
She let it lower.
"I won't fight you, Ysa," she said softly. Not weak—certain. "My training isn't so I get to fight you."
She stepped forward.
Slow. Open. No guard.
"We're twins," Yve whispered. "I'm sorry if I haven't been the sister I should've been."
That did it.
Ysa's sword trembled. Her jaw clenched, then broke.
"I was so scared," she breathed.
Yve closed the distance.
Her hands came up—not to strike, not to bind. She wrapped her fingers gently around Ysa's shaking grip and eased the sword from her grasp like it was something fragile, something already broken.
Metal hit the ground.
Then the second blade followed.
Ysa folded.
Her sob ripped out raw and ugly, shoulders caving as if the weight she'd carried finally crushed her. "You should take care of yourself," she cried. "I'm always worried. Always afraid."
Yve cupped her sister's face, thumbs warm against wet skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Once. Then again. "I'm sorry. I didn't know I made you feel this way."
Ysa clutched at her like she was drowning.
"I just wanted you safe," she sobbed. "Whether our lifeline is connected or not—I just—" Her voice shattered. "I just want my sister alive."
Yve pulled her in.
She held Ysa's head to her chest, fingers threading through her hair, rocking her the way the tides once rocked them both. "I'm here," Yve murmured. "I'm still here."
She drew a slow breath.
"I'm sorry, Ysa," she said again. Not rushed. Not defensive. "I truly am."
Ysa's sobs ebbed into uneven breaths. Her grip loosened, shoulders sagging as the fight finally drained out of her. For a moment, she just leaned there—tired, emptied.
Yve pulled back just enough to look at her.
"And to show you how sincere I am," she said gently, "I'll come home with you."
Ysa froze.
"Really?" Her voice was small now. Afraid to hope.
Yve nodded. "Yes. I miss Mother too." A pause. Then, quieter. "And you were right. I have been selfish."
Ysa shook her head immediately. "I didn't mean that—"
"But it's true," Yve said, without heat. Without guilt. Just truth. "You've been there for me far more than I've been there for you."
Ysa swallowed. "But what about—"
"I made a promise," Yve cut in softly. "To Dylan."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the dark beyond the firelight—where the mortals had disappeared into cover.
"Should I ever be in a life-threatening situation here, I promised I'd let him take me back." Her mouth curved, sad and fond. "I wanted him to forget that."
She lifted her hand and brushed the tears from Ysa's cheek with her thumb.
"But a siren's promise," Yve murmured, "is a promise."
Her hand fell.
"It's time I honor it."
Ysa only nodded, once—tight, understanding—and pulled Yve back into her arms.
~~~
The sun barely crested the horizon, a thin wash of gold bleeding into the gray. Morning came anyway.
Lysander and Callista dragged three massive yellowfin tunas onto the sand, their scales catching the light. Lysander straightened, wiped his hands on his trousers.
"Food," he said flatly. "You guys should eat more. You all look like a skeleton."
Callista nodded. "Yeah. More food, more energy."
Lucas stepped forward and clasped Lysander's forearm, firm, grateful. "I can't thank you enough for this," he said. "This'll feed my family."
Nearby, Raine checked the tack and reins of the Pegacampus, fingers quick, practiced. Ethan hovered a little too close, awe still written all over his face. Jenkins and Ava stood with him, watching as the creatures shifted and snorted softly, wings flexing as the sea lapped at their hooves.
Down by the shoreline, Yve stood ankle-deep in the shallows. The water curled around her feet, cold enough to raise goosebumps. She hugged herself, arms braced tight, like she was holding something together that might split if she let go.
A jacket settled over her shoulders.
She startled, then turned.
Dylan.
She swallowed, voice soft, almost lost to the surf. "Dylan, I—"
"Shhh." He didn't look at her. Just tugged the jacket into place. "It's okay. You don't gotta explain anythin' to me."
Her fingers tightened in the fabric. "I'm sorry," she said. "For bringing you into this mess. This isn't what I wanted."
He let out a breath through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere past the waterline. "All my life," he said slowly, "I been protectin' individuals." A beat. "But for some reason… when it comes to people I care about, I always screw it up."
She shook her head, stepping closer to the warmth he'd left behind. "Don't blame yourself. No one wanted what happened."
"Still." His jaw worked. "It's good you're goin' back." He finally glanced at her—just once. "Least I know you'll be surrounded by folks who can protect you."
The words sat between them, heavy. Not anger. Not resentment. Just everything they weren't saying. They couldn't quite meet each other's eyes again.
"I'm sorry," Yve whispered.
He reached out, zipped the jacket the rest of the way up, careful, almost reverent. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."
Then he turned.
No lingering. No second look.
He hoisted one of the tunas onto his shoulder by himself and started walking toward the highway, boots crunching over sand, the morning swallowing him one step at a time.
Yve watched him go.
Every part of her wanted to follow—to call his name, to run after that retreating shape. But her feet stayed planted, toes dug deep into wet sand, as if the earth itself had decided for her.
Mind over heart.
Always.
"Yve."
Ysa's voice cut clean through the pull in her chest.
Yve turned.
The sirens were already mounted, each astride their own Pegacampus—sleek bodies shifting, wings flexing, hooves pawing at the tide.
Ysa looked down at her, expression unreadable but steady. "You'll ride with me."
Yve nodded and started toward them—then stopped.
She turned back to the group.
Ava reached her first.
Yve hugged her tight, fingers curling into fabric, Ava clung back just as hard.
Ethan stepped in next, awkward and sincere, arms wrapping around her shoulders. "You… you be safe, okay?" he said, voice trailing the way it always did when emotion crept up on him.
"I will," Yve promised softly.
Lucas, David, and Jenkins waited their turn.
Jenkins shook her hand firmly, eyes sharp but warm. David's grip was solid, grounding. Lucas held on a second longer than necessary.
"I'll take care of Dylan," Lucas said, calm and certain. "So you don't gotta worry."
Yve swallowed. "Thank you."
Her gaze moved over them—each face, each bond she never meant to form and couldn't imagine losing now.
"Really," she said, voice thick but steady. "For taking me in. For accepting me for who I am."
David huffed, shaking his head. "Just please tell me there ain't no more surprises after those winged horses."
Yve let out a small laugh, the sound breaking through the weight in her chest. "You're only at the tip of the iceberg."
She smirked—quick, familiar—then turned before anyone could say more.
Ysa reached down as Yve approached the herd, grasped her forearm, and hauled her up with practiced ease. Yve settled in behind her, arms resting lightly at her sister's sides.
Raine clicked her tongue, guiding the Pegacampus forward.
One by one, the sirens followed, hooves splashing into the surf as wings unfurled.
Yve looked back only once.
The Pegacampus surged forward.
Hooves thundered across wet sand, wings beating hard as salt spray burst into the air. One by one, they lifted—bodies rising cleanly from the shoreline, silhouettes cutting across the pale morning sky.
Yve felt the wind rush past her, cold and sharp, braiding with the scent of the sea. Below them, the camp shrank—the figures on the shore reduced to still shapes, watching.
Watching her go.
When they reached their height, Raine angled first.
No hesitation.
The Pegacampus folded their wings and tipped downward, diving as one.
The ocean rushed up to meet them.
At the shoreline, the group stood frozen, eyes tracking the arc of impossible creatures as they fell from sky to sea. There was no splash loud enough to match the moment—just white water, then ripples spreading outward.
One by one, the sirens vanished beneath the surface.