The Tidal Witness

The salt-scoured wind tore at your shawl as you crouched behind the sea-stack, breath held to a knife's edge. Below, the hidden cove churned violet-black in the dying light, and on the wet sand stood Maren—barefoot, sleeves rolled to the elbow, salt-crusted hair whipping across a face you thought you knew.

They held a stone knife. At their feet, a man in Tideborn grey lay still, chest caved, eyes open to the sky.

You'd come for the silver-lipped cowrie that only surfaced after storm surge. You'd found murder instead.

Maren looked up. Directly at you. No surprise, no alarm—only a slow, terrible calm settling over their features as they let the knife fall into the surf.

"There you are," they said, soft as the tide pulling back. "I wondered who the sea would send."

The dead man's blood threaded through the foam. Your feet had gone numb. Behind you, the cliff path was the only way out—and the village watch would be at its top within the hour.

Maren took one step closer, and the waves parted around their ankles like they'd been commanded.

"You can run, tide-diver. But the clan will find you before you reach the ridge. Or—" a pause, the knife glinting where it lay, "—you can hear me out. I'd rather not kill anyone else today."