The sea was calling her name. Not mine.
I felt it deep in my chest, that low, vibrating hum beneath the thunder, the same sound that had haunted my dreams since I was a child. The sound that had taken my mother from me years ago.
I remember the night clearly—the storm like a living thing, the waves taller than houses, her silhouette pulled into the darkness as if the ocean itself had a grip on her. I had screamed her name until my throat was raw, until my lungs burned. But it had been useless. She was gone, and I had been left alone with the memory, the wind, and the salt.
And now, standing on this beach, the storm felt the same. The same hunger. The same pull.
Hope stood frozen on the sand, her golden hair plastered to her face by the rain, eyes wide and shimmering with reflected lightning. Every drop of water on her skin caught the dim silver light of the storm. She looked unreal, ethereal, as if someone had plucked her from a dream and set her down on the beach.
Lightning flashed, slicing across the sky. For a heartbeat, the waves reflected her shape in perfect detail—the ocean itself seemed to memorize her form. Her image rippled and shimmered on the surface, distorted, yet impossibly clear, like the world around us had bent to make her the center of its focus.
I wanted to shout. To grab her, to tell her to run. But my body refused to move. My legs were rooted in the wet sand, my lungs frozen mid-breath.
Because the calling wasn't just a sound. It was a weight. It was a pull that twisted through the marrow of my bones, tugging at memories I had buried, reminders of promises I had made to my mother and failed to keep. The night she vanished, I swore I'd protect any person who heard the call—anyone who could be taken by it. And now, here she was.
The storm pressed closer, the wind clawing at my hoodie, the rain soaking through my shirt until it clung to my skin. The waves grew louder, each crash against the cliffs a heartbeat I could not escape. I could hear whispers in the roar, a language older than any human memory.
Hope…
It wasn't just the storm or the tide. It was the ocean itself. And it had chosen her.
I clenched my fists, knuckles white against the wet sand. I wanted to protect her. I had to. I'd fight every wave, every whisper, every pull of the current if it meant keeping her safe. But all I could do was watch—my own fear mirrored in the storm, my memories weighing heavier than the rain.
A flash of memory struck me—my mother's voice, soft but firm, the night before she disappeared.
"If you ever hear the sea calling your name, don't answer. Don't even listen."
I hadn't understood then. I was eleven, too young to know what the ocean could take. But now, watching Hope's lips part as if she could hear something I couldn't, I understood perfectly.
The sea didn't just call. It claimed.
The lightning struck again, close this time. Thunder rolled like it was shaking the world. And in that fleeting flash, her golden hair seemed to burn against the silver sky, eyes wide and unblinking. She was mine to protect—or the sea's to claim.
I swallowed hard, forcing my legs to move, forcing my heart to steady. I had to act. I had to remember everything my mother had taught me about the call, the pull, and the dangers it hid beneath its beauty.
I stepped forward, the sand sucking at my sneakers, the rain blinding me. Hope turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto mine. For a second, the storm didn't matter. Her eyes were wide, terrified, but there was something else—trust.
She was waiting for me to move.
The ocean roared again, louder, closer, as if it had heard my defiance. Foam sprayed high, glittering like shards of glass.
And in that roar, I heard it.
Her name.
Hope.
Soft. Familiar. And impossibly far away.
The sound wrapped around her like a net, invisible but strong. She swayed, just slightly, as if the tide had reached inside her chest and tugged.
"No," I whispered, my voice drowned by the storm. "Not her."
I lunged forward, grabbing her wrist. Her skin was cold, slick with rain, but real. Solid. Alive.
The sea hissed, furious.
I pulled her back from the shoreline, every muscle in my body screaming against the weight of the storm. My pendant burned against my chest, hot now, as if it was fighting too.
Hope gasped, blinking at me, confusion and fear tangled in her expression. "Xylan—"
"Don't listen," I said, my voice sharp, urgent. "Whatever you hear, don't answer."
Her lips parted, but she didn't speak. She just stared at me, rain dripping from her lashes, the storm reflected in her eyes.
The ocean was alive tonight. And Hope Starling… she was at its center.
But I wasn't going to let it take her.
Not like it took my mother.
Not ever.