Page 2 of Drown Me Gently

Auren bristled at the demeaning nickname.

Ocean sprites—is that what Ulric saw when he looked at him? Not a threat, just some flitting little thing causing trouble for the sake of it. A nuisance, not a danger.

“Don’t you think it’s time to let go of the nicknames? I’m a man, not a Merling. And I’m getting tired of you forgetting that.”

“Yet you continue to shirk your responsibilities like a petulant child.”

Auren crossed his arms, gills flaring in irritation. “I’m not shirking. I’m selectively avoiding.”

Ulric raised a brow. “Ah. So you’re strategically disobedient. That must be a great comfort to the Queen.”

“Don’t act like she’d even notice I was gone. She has twelve other heirs to smother with ceremonial garlands.”

“You’re still the prince,” Ulric said, arms folded. “And it’s the prince’s duty to attend these councils.”

“My twelve older siblings can handle it,” Auren groaned, flicking a piece of kelp off his shoulder. “They live for that nonsense. They’re all too happy to grovel and gossip.”

“It is your responsibility as Poseidon’s heir⁠—”

“—to sit there and smile while they drone on about border negotiations and sand tariffs?” Auren spat. “Hard pass.”

“You are royalty,” Ulric said flatly. “Start acting like it.”

Auren bristled. “You’re the Court Sorcerer. Not my guard.”

“No,” Ulric muttered, “though lately, I feel more like a babysitter.”

Auren glared at him. “Haven’t you grown tired of this? You’ve been dragging me back into these walls since I was twenty.”

Ulric sighed. “And I’ll continue to do so until your magic manifests at thirty. Three more fun-filled years.”

“Do I look like I need protection?” Auren snapped, letting his arms fall to his sides as if to display himself.

He wasn’t fragile.

His body was lean from years in the sparring rings, honed by daily drills where he often bested older, stronger opponents. His chest was firm, shoulders broad, arms corded with muscle from training with tridents and blades. Even his tail—thick and sculpted—cut through water faster than most surface currents.

Ulric didn’t even glance down.

“It’s not about what you look like. There are powerful forces in the sea. And every one of them would smell the magic in your blood long before they ever saw your crown.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Auren muttered, scowling. “Yet thirty seems awfully late for Poseidon to grant me access to that magic.”

“Thirty years is not long.”

“Maybe not to you—fossil.”

He meant it as a jab, but his voice lacked venom. The truth was, Ulric didn’t look a day over forty. But Auren had a creeping suspicion that the Kraken’s years stretched back like trenches. He hadn’t aged a day since the moment they’d met.

“Watch your tongue,” Ulric warned, though there was a hint of amusement behind the threat. “Prince, you might be, but I’m not above dragging you to court myself if you don’t hurry.”

For a moment, Auren considered resisting. Just to see if he’d do it. To feel the Kraken’s tentacles wrapped tight around him, dragging him bodily through the currents.

He sighed instead and turned toward the palace. “One of these days, I might try to force my way past you, old man.”

Ulric’s mouth tugged into something between a smirk and a threat. “I’d like to see you try.”

The Hall of Currents was a marvel of shells and limestone. Towering columns reached toward a domed ceiling painted with grand depictions of Poseidon’s power. Shoals of shimmering fish swam lazily through archways, and the great throne of Queen Tritheya sat elevated on a shell-shaped dais.