The rebel camp broke at first light, moving with practiced silence along a narrow mountain trail that only the nymphs' gift had revealed. By midday they reached the headwaters of the Silvermere—a wide, slow river that wound through the heart of Veloria like a vein of molten glass. The Church controlled every major bridge and ford for a hundred leagues, but the rebels needed to cross unseen.
Rowan's scouts had returned with grim news: a Church patrol was sweeping the southern bank, burning villages that refused to pay tithes. If the Crimson Thorn were caught in the open, they would be slaughtered.
Elara stood at the river's edge, staring into the clear depths. Something moved beneath the surface—not fish, but shapes too graceful, too deliberate. A flash of iridescent tail, a ripple of long hair.
Thorne crouched beside her, nostrils flaring. "Merfolk," he muttered. "Or something close. They keep to themselves, but they hate the Church as much as we do. The Pale Sun dammed their sacred spawning grounds years ago."
Rowan joined them, voice low. "We've tried bargaining before. They took our gifts and vanished. We can't wait for another route—this is our only window before the patrol circles back."
Elara felt the Crimson Lust stir, responding to the water's cool pull. "Then let me try."
Rowan hesitated, then nodded. "Alone. They spook easily around large groups. Take what you need, but don't promise what we can't give."
She stripped off her boots and outer tunic, leaving only the thin linen shift the rebels had given her. The fabric clung to her curves as she waded in up to her thighs, the chill raising gooseflesh along her arms. The filigree on her chest glowed faintly beneath the wet cloth.
The water stilled.
Then she rose.
A siren—taller than any human woman, skin shimmering like moonlit pearls, hair a cascade of sea-foam green streaked with silver. Her lower body was a powerful, coiling tail of sapphire scales that faded into translucent fins. Eyes the color of deep ocean stared at Elara with ancient wariness.
"You are not like the others who come begging passage," the siren said, voice carrying the hush of waves on shore. "You smell of old blood and older moons."
"I am Elara," she answered. "Born under the Blood Moon. These people are under my protection. We need to cross your waters safely, unseen by the Church."
The siren circled her slowly, tail brushing Elara's legs beneath the surface. "I am Nerys, Voice of the Silvermere. We do not grant favors lightly. The land-dwellers poisoned our young with their dams and prayers. Why should we help you?"
Elara met her gaze steadily. "Because the Church fears what I carry. Help us, and when I break their power, I will break their dams too. Your spawning grounds will flow free again."
Nerys studied her for a long moment, then flicked her tail. Three more sirens surfaced around them—two females with hair of kelp and coral, one male with a warrior's bearing and scars across his chest.
"The promise of a land-walker means nothing," Nerys said. "But power… power can be tested."
She swam closer, until their bodies nearly touched. The water around them warmed, carrying a subtle current of magic that made Elara's skin tingle.
"Stay with us until sunset," Nerys murmured. "Share breath and truth beneath the waves. If you can bear our depths—and if we find you worthy—we will carry your people across under veil of illusion. All of them, unseen."
Thorne growled from the bank, but Rowan held him back with a firm hand.
Elara felt the weight of the choice. Sirens were notorious for luring mortals to watery graves, but she also sensed truth in Nerys's words. This was a test, not a trap.
"I accept," she said.
Nerys smiled, sharp and beautiful. "Then come."
She took Elara's hand, and together they dove.
The river closed over Elara's head, but instead of choking cold, warmth enveloped her. Nerys pressed her lips to Elara's, breathing air into her lungs—sweet, oxygenated, laced with siren magic. Bubbles trailed from their joined mouths as they sank deeper, the world above fading to green silence.
They reached a hidden grotto beneath an overhanging cliff, lit by bioluminescent algae that cast everything in shades of teal and violet. Air pockets shimmered above sunken stone benches carved by centuries of water. The other sirens followed, surrounding them in a loose circle.
Nerys released her, and Elara found she could breathe easily in the pocket of air, though water lapped at her waist.
"Truth for truth," Nerys said. "We will share our memories of the Church's crimes. You will share what awakens when the Blood Moon rises."
She placed a hand over Elara's heart, directly on the glowing birthmark. The male siren moved behind her, strong hands settling on her shoulders. The two females flanked them, fingers trailing lightly over Elara's arms.
It began slowly.
Nerys kissed her—not seduction yet, but communion. Images flooded Elara's mind: the Silvermere in its prime, teeming with life; Church priests blessing iron dams that choked the flow; eggs smashed, young sirens drowning in stagnant pools. Grief and rage poured into her, raw and ancient.
In return, Elara let them see fragments of her own awakening—the ruined shrine, the spirit's claiming, the surge of Crimson Lust that had shattered her fear. She did not hide the pleasure or the power, letting them taste the edges of what she could become.
The male siren—Kaelen—growled low in his throat, hands sliding down to cup her breasts through the soaked shift. The fabric tore easily under sharp claws, baring her to the warm water. Nerys's mouth followed, closing over one nipple, sucking gently as Kaelen's fingers rolled the other.
Elara gasped, arching into the touch. The two females pressed closer, one kissing along her throat, the other sliding a hand between her thighs to part her folds beneath the water.
It was different from the nymphs—slower, deeper, every touch carrying the weight of shared memory and grief. Pleasure built like a tide, inexorable.
Nerys pulled back, eyes glowing. "Show us," she whispered. "Show us what your power can do for us."
Elara understood.
She let the Crimson Lust rise—not wild, but focused. Crimson light bloomed beneath her skin, spreading through the water in gentle waves. Where it touched the sirens, old scars faded, exhaustion lifted. Kaelen's breathing deepened, his cock—ridged and tapering like a dolphin's—pressing hard against her hip.
The females moaned, grinding against her thighs as the magic soothed centuries of pain.
Elara reached for Nerys, pulling her into a fierce kiss. Hands moved with purpose now—tearing away the last of her shift, spreading her legs wide on the stone bench. Kaelen entered her first, slow and deep, the strange shape of him dragging against places that made her cry out into Nerys's mouth.
The females took turns—one riding Elara's fingers beneath the water, the other guiding Elara's mouth to her breast. Nerys straddled her face, slick folds pressing down as Elara licked eagerly, tasting salt and sweetness.
They moved together like a single organism, water churning around them. When Elara came, the Crimson Lust surged outward in a controlled pulse—healing, strengthening, binding. The sirens followed one by one, their releases feeding back into her magic, creating a perfect circle.
Hours passed in the grotto, bodies entwined in every combination. Kaelen took her from behind while she devoured Nerys; the females explored each other with Elara between them, fingers and tongues working in harmony.
When sunset finally painted the surface world in gold, they surfaced together—Elara carried in their arms, glowing with shared power.
The rebels waited anxiously on the bank.
Nerys raised a hand, and the river responded. Illusions shimmered into being—dozens of decoy rafts floating downstream, drawing the distant Church patrol away. A path of solid water formed across the Silvermere, hidden from any eyes but theirs.
"Cross," Nerys said, pressing a kiss to Elara's lips. "And remember your promise."
Rowan stared in awe as the entire camp moved safely across, not a boot wet. On the far bank, the sirens sang—a low, haunting melody of gratitude and farewell.
Elara turned back once. Nerys met her gaze, tail flicking in silent promise.
When the next Blood Moon rose, the dams would fall.
And the Silvermere would run red with more than moonlight.
That night, camped safely on the northern bank, Rowan approached Elara by the fire.
"You gave them hope," he said quietly. "And you gave us a miracle."
Elara smiled, weary but triumphant. "We're just getting started."
In the distance, the river sang its ancient song, carrying the echo of shared pleasure and unbreakable oaths.
The Crimson Thorn had crossed the first great barrier.
Many more waited—but now they walked with the waters themselves as allies.