Home.

I had been gone for maybe three days—maybe. But it felt like an eternity, each second stretching to years, aging me much faster than I would’ve liked. I had felt things at an intensity I never thought possible, seen things I had only read in mythos. War, death and conquest… those were frightening things. Things I’d be happy to never experience ever again as long as I live. But I had also felt a strange adrenaline rush, felt the cold stone of a trident in my hand, the thrill of combat, the low of loss, the high of protecting something precious.

Though the bad outweighed the good, my mind was set. I needed to go back, somehow, some way.

But for now, I was home.

I stood outside the door to our rock cottage, my forehead feeling a wash of feverish cold. I really didn’t want to go inside, really didn’t want to face my father so soon. I could already picture his face, twisted into a wrinkled scowl, his voice sharp enough to flay my skin, spittle flying from his mouth with every yell. He’d say I’m back too early, call it dumb luck. Claim the Immortal Tentacle God answered my prayers in the worst way possible, bringing me home over the corpses of braver men. He’d yell I should be thankful, eternally gracious. As if I wanted all this death and destruction, as if it were my fault.

How in the world did my father survive all those years on the battlefield, anyway? How is he not plagued with thoughts of his dying colleagues every day, every night? Or, maybe he doesn’t have any memories like that. Maybe his platoon, his men, were simply too good to die.

The door creaked as I opened it, the familiar scent of kelp broth and simmering needlefish invading my nostrils, a reminder of the normalcy I belonged to. Before I could take another step, before I could silently reminisce any further, I was greeted by my mother's arms around me, her cool, clammy skin pressing against mine.

“Firth! You’re home.” She murmured, voice catching. Cracking. She was hugging me as if I had just come back from the dead. But I wasn’t Shea. I was still alive and breathing. I suffered no injuries, no mortal wounds.

“Happy to be back,” I replied, though the words were hollow. Her embrace—it suffocated me. It wasn’t comforting, not at all. All it achieved was reminding me of times before I was part of Neptune’s army, before my parents forced me into active duty. And, unfortunately, it made me think of my dead platoon leader. How his mother would never hold him like this again. How I was the last person to embrace him. How I stole that honor from all those that deserved it much, much more than I did. So, I didn’t even try to return the hug. I just let her wrap her arms around me until she finally pulled away, eyes watery and searching my face.

“You’re alive,” she murmured, like she couldn’t quite believe it. “Oh, thank goodness. Your father and I should never have sent you there, should never have hit Accept…”

Obviously. Tch. Each word she spoke made my irritation mount—why was she suddenly so sympathetic? Where were these concerns when the notification blinked in front of them? When my parents happily made the choice to thrust me into the maw of active duty?

Behind us, I could hear my father’s pacing beat—his tail swooshes heavy, the currents rippling around the room he was brooding in. His anger was clear, and it was directed right at me. Right at my return. Just as I had assumed earlier.

My mother tried to smile, despite my distraction. “Why don’t you come sit? Dinner is almost done—”

“I’m fine, mother.” I cut her off, too tired to do anything but trudge into the cellar and back to my room. Everything was the same as I had left it three days ago. The bed was messy, covers strewn haphazardly on the floor. Scrolls from Herbalist Haven were open and wrinkling in the chilly, basement waters. It was like I never left, like everything was the same, and I was simply returning from a trip into town.

I closed the door behind me, cradled my head in my hands, and collapsed onto the bed. Soft. So, so soft. Much better than those disgusting, scratchy, salt-coated mattresses in the tents. And safe. This room… was my tiny alcove. My sanctuary.

I buried my face in the pillow, hugging it close and taking a deep breath. I could smell the ocean on it. Feel the salt sting in my nose. But it only made my chest ache, the heaviness of defeat sinking deep into my bones. I’d failed. Kicked out of the military—out of Neptune’s military—the military that was desperate for new recruits, fresh meat… willing to take the worst of the worst, giving even the weakest soldiers some honor.

An insatiable urge to view my Player Profile washed over me, and I happily obliged. After all that trauma, I had to Level up, right? At least a little? Unless that stupid “PANIC debuff” was still wrecking me. What’s the point of those, anyway? How are they supposed to help? I shook my head and ignored the annoyance.

I don’t know and I don’t care enough to give it any more thought.

I gazed at my Screen, looking at the tabs in front of me—one of them in particular caught my interest, derailing my desperation. The messages tab. I pressed it, tilting my head and seeing if I could still pull up Shea’s old share.

Surprisingly, I could.

But, unsurprisingly, it was not the same anymore.

[Name: Shea Sonas]

[DECEASED: Spear to the heart. Failed Resurrection Mission.]

Ouch.

My fingers tightened around the edges of the pillow, squeezing it hard. I wanted to scream, to tear the plush fabric apart, to throw something. But I only sobbed instead, my cries making it hard to hear the door crack open, or hear the footsteps that followed.

“You’re back.” My father said, though it wasn’t much of a greeting. More like a disappointing fact. “What happened?”

I offered him no answer, still clinging to my pillow like a child.

“You weren’t chosen to join a different platoon?”

I wish he’d just go away. But I knew he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

“No, I wasn’t. They let me go.” I said with a sigh.

“They? Who is this ‘they’ that you speak of?”

“Ariel MacNam… something. The lieutenant with the red hair.”

“Of course.” My father said, his voice filling with disdain. It seemed I had hit a nerve. “Of course Ariel is the one to reject you. He probably took one look at your face, at your embarrassing display and knew you were soft. He saw what I’ve been saying all along—no potential. Nothing. Just…”

He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line. We stared at one another in silence for a long moment, before I opened my mouth to speak. I wanted to tell him I had improved, I had learned things, I had even tried. But, before I could, my father continued.

“You think the military has time for coddling? For holding onto corpses in the middle of a battle? You’re a Ridire. We’re supposed to be warriors, not whatever you are.”

My grip on the pillow tightened absentmindedly, my nose twitching in momentary disgust. That’s what he’s concerned about? That? Not the fact that I was trapped in battle, hardly able to hold my own with a spear, not the fact I was the slowest swimmer, unable to get away, but…

That?

“I didn’t—” I tried to retort, but my father interrupted. He was always a relentless, old man, that was for certain.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t mean to fail? To make a fool out of yourself and then be discharged after three days?” With a shake of his head and a raise of his voice, my father pointed an aggressive finger at me. “Three. Days. THREE! And you were sanctioned in Shea’s platoon. The weakest of the weak, the worst of the worst. You couldn’t even survive THERE! What are you, Firth? A man? Or an infant, forever dependent on your parents?”

I sat up rather abruptly at that, my brows knitting together, my frown deepening. I wanted to snap back, fight, maybe even brawl. But I was far too tired to care. Far too tried to do anything but relent. “I’m just… trying my best. I joined, did I not? I went, I served. I even battled… stabbed someone. It’s not my fault that everything went wrong, father. I asked Ariel to reconsider, and he said no.”

“Firth Ridire, you failed. Do not act as if you did anything worthwhile by not dying. That is the bare minimum. That is—”

My father’s next tirade was cut off by a loud knock echoing all throughout the cottage, ringing in my ears like a death toll. It was coming from the front of the house—someone pounding their fist in a strange melody against the stone of our home, following the same rhythm as Neptune’s bells. My father shot me a look, one filled with questions I knew I’d be unable to answer.

“Stay.” He commanded, leaving without another word. I stayed on the bed, listening to the swooshing of his hammerhead tail in the water, making his way to the door.

I wondered if it was someone from the military, here to drop my one belonging off. Or, on a more hopeful note, Ariel paying me a visit, telling me he reconsidered my dismissal. If my father opened the door to that… that would be incredible.

He’d definitely feel stupid. Maybe even give me an apology I’d have the pleasure of rejecting.

“I have a letter for Firth Ridire.” A voice spoke out from the front door, echoing into my room. It was smooth. Formal. Not local at all. I straightened up, my finned ears stretching out, trying to hear better.

“From who, exactly?” My father replied, his tone less-than-welcoming. He was always cautious, overly so.

“His Majesty, Neptune.”

Neptune?! Neptune wrote a letter? To me?! Didn’t Ariel say any reconsiderations would come from the King himself?! Perhaps my earlier beliefs weren’t just wishful thinking! Perhaps I really had been let back into the military!

Not something I had ever thought I’d be excited about, but I rushed out of my room nonetheless, arriving at the scene just in time. Upon noticing my eager presence, my father stopped mid-dismissal, no longer able to slam the door in the messenger’s face. Standing there was a merman in shimmering armor, holding a sealed scroll with Neptune’s crest emblazoned on it.

“For me?” I asked, tilting my head.

The messenger nodded, his face void of any expression, and handed me the scroll. My fingers trembled with excitement as I took it, unrolling the letter carefully.

But it wasn’t a reconsideration.

It wasn’t an offer to rejoin the military, no.

It was an invitation. To Shea’s funeral.