The moon hung low and fat over the lagoon, casting silver light across the black water. Elise's boots echoed against the stone as she stepped through the broken archway, the bundle clutched to her chest—soup still warm in its clay pot, medicine in a small leather pouch, bread wrapped in cloth, fruits she'd haggled for at the market until her coin purse was empty.

She stopped at the water's edge. The lagoon was still. Too still.

"Azureus?" Her voice came out soft, careful. Like she was afraid of breaking something.

The water rippled. Two eyes emerged—enormous, blue, rimmed with silver lashes that caught the moonlight like tiny stars. He was peaking from behind the large rock near the center, only his eyes and the top of his head visible, his blonde hair spreading across the surface like spun gold.

Something cracked in Elise's chest. "Hey," she breathed. "I'm here. I'm sorry I—I got sick. I couldn't—" She set the bundle down on the flat rock, slow and deliberate, so he could see she meant no harm. "I brought food. Medicine. Please."

He sank. The water swallowed him whole, and the surface went still.

"Azureus." Her voice cracked. She dropped to her knees at the water's edge, the stone cold and damp through her trousers. She reached out, palm open, fingers trembling. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I would never leave you. I was sick. I couldn't walk."

The water stayed still.

She stayed on her knees. The minutes stretched. The moon climbed higher, and a soft wind moved through the broken arches above her, carrying the scent of moss and mineral water. She didn't move. She kept her hand out, open, waiting.

A ripple. Small. Then another.

His face emerged again—slowly, inch by inch. First his eyes, searching hers. Then his nose, his lips, his chin. The jewels in his hair caught the light, tiny rubies and sapphires woven into his soft blonde strands, none of them matching, each one a different shade of memory. He kept his body low in the water, only his head visible, and he watched her with those frantic, searching eyes.

She didn't reach further. She kept her hand out, palm up, breath held.

His gaze traveled from her face to her hand, then to the bundle on the rock, then back to her face. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then his arms appeared—pale, lean, the webbing between his fingers delicate as lace—and he rested them on the rock shelf at the water's edge. He pulled himself up, just enough to reveal his shoulders, his collarbone, the curve of his chest above the water.

Moonlight slid across his scales like liquid glass.

He sniffed. His nose twitched, and he tilted his head, looking at the bundle, then at her, then at the bundle again. She saw his throat move as he swallowed.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's for you. All of it. I spent everything I had on it. I promise."

He sniffed again, and this time his eyes met hers. And she saw it—the glisten. The way his lower lip trembled. The way his enormous blue eyes filled, slowly, like a well rising, until one crystal drop crested his lower lashes and fell.

It caught the moonlight on the way down. It hung in the air for a moment—refracting, shimmering, impossibly clear, the size of her thumbnail—and then it hit the rock beside her knee. It didn't splash. It landed with a soft click, and when she looked down, she saw it there: a crystal, perfectly formed, glowing faintly from within, casting a soft blue light on the damp stone.

She stared at it. A mermaid tear. Solid, luminous, precious beyond measure. People would kill for something like this. People would betray kingdoms for it.

She looked back up at him.

His face was wet now. More tears spilled—one, two, three—each one falling like tiny stars, landing on the rock and staying there, glowing, impossible. His eyes were red-rimmed, frantic, and he made a small sound—a whimper, barely audible, that cut through her chest like a blade.

She reached for him. He flinched and pushed back, water sloshing.

"No," she said quickly. "Please. Don't go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He stopped. He hovered in the water, his arms still braced on the rock, his body shaking.

She didn't move her hand. "I know I was gone. I know you were scared. I was sick—really sick. I couldn't even walk. But I'm here now. I came back. I will always come back. I promise."

He sniffed. Another tear fell. Then he swam forward—slow, tentative, his body moving through the water like a whisper. He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could see the individual scales on his shoulders, the faint shimmer of blue and silver and green that shifted with every breath he took.

He looked at her hand. Then at her face. Then at the bundle. Then back at her face.

She didn't move.

He leaned in and sniffed her palm. His nose brushed her skin, soft and cool. She felt his breath—warm, shaky. Then he leaned in further and pressed his cheek against her hand. His skin was cold, damp, smooth as river stone. He turned his face into her palm and nuzzled, and she felt the wetness of fresh tears against her fingers.

She cupped his cheek gently. "I've got you."

He made that small sound again—a whimper, a sob, something caught between relief and grief—and then he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her stomach, his body half-out of the water and dripping onto her lap. She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers finding his wet hair, the jewels tangled in it, the soft warmth of his scalp beneath.

He was shaking. Trembling against her like a leaf in wind.

"Shh," she murmured, rocking him gently. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled back just enough to look at the bundle. She understood. She reached over, still keeping one arm around him, and unwrapped the cloth. Steam rose from the clay pot—chicken soup, thick with vegetables, the one thing she'd asked the market woman to make special. She'd paid triple. She didn't care.

She dipped the wooden spoon in and brought it to his lips. "Open."

He looked at the spoon. Then at her. Then he opened his mouth.

The soup went in. He closed his eyes. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, and something in his face shifted—softened, warmed. He opened his eyes and looked at her, and the fear in them had faded, replaced by something raw and aching and open.

She fed him the rest of the soup, spoonful by spoonful. When the pot was empty, she gave him the bread, and he tore into it with his teeth, chewing eagerly, crumbs falling onto the rock. She gave him the medicine next—a small vial of bitter herbs mixed with honey—and he grimaced but drank it all, his nose scrunching, his eyes watering.

"Good boy," she whispered. "That's it."

He finished the medicine and set the vial down. Then he turned to her, his eyes searching hers, his lips parted. He reached up and touched her face—his cold, webbed fingers tracing her jaw, her cheekbone, the hair at her temple—and then he leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers.

His breath was warm now. The soup and medicine had done their work.

He nuzzled her palm again, then her wrist, then leaned into her chest and pressed his face against the hollow of her throat. She felt his lips move against her skin. Felt the vibration of sound before she heard it.

"Laesisse te me putavi..."

Her breath caught. His voice—hoarse, cracked, barely above a whisper, but real. He had a voice. It was elegant and fragile, each syllable shaped like something precious, and it trembled against her collarbone.

"Putabam te me reliquisse." His fingers curled into her tunic. "Doleo."

She didn't understand the words. She didn't need to. The sound of them—the way they broke, the way they clung to each syllable like each one was a wound he was finally showing her, the way they folded into her throat like a surrender.

"Me paenitet," he breathed, his whole body shaking. "Me paenitet. Quaeso, noli me relinquere. Timeo."

He buried his face deeper into her, and she felt the wetness of his tears soaking through her tunic. One hand moved to the back of his head, the other around his shoulders, and she held him as tightly as she dared—a cage of arms, a promise made of bone and breath.

He spoke again, softer this time, the words dissolving into her skin. "Timeo."

She pulled back. Just enough to see his face. His eyes were red, swollen, his cheeks wet, his lips trembling. He looked at her like she was the only solid thing in a world made of water.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

His lips were soft, salt-wet, trembling against hers. He made a small sound into her mouth—a gasp, a sob, something that tasted like relief—and his hands found her face, cupping her jaw, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. She kissed him slowly, deeply, pouring everything she couldn't say into the press of her mouth against his.

When she pulled back, his eyes were still closed, his lips still parted, his breath shallow. She touched his cheek.

"I won't ever leave you." Her voice was thick, scraped raw. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I scared you. But I promise you—on my life, on everything I am—I will never leave you. Not for a day. Not for an hour. I don't care what it costs me."

His eyes opened. The blue of them was endless, drowning, full of light and fear and something that looked like love.

He touched her lips with his fingers. Then he said her name—soft, slow, the syllables shaped like a prayer.

"Elisse."

She smiled, and the smile cracked, and she felt the tears on her own cheeks before she realized she was crying.

"Azureus," she whispered back.

The moon hung above them. The lagoon was still. The crystal tears glowed on the stone beside her knee, and she didn't touch them. She didn't think about what they were worth. She thought about the warmth of his forehead against hers, the sound of his voice speaking words she couldn't understand but felt in her bones, the way he held her face like she was something precious.

She thought about the promise she'd just made, and meant it with every inch of her cracked-open heart.