The harbor district of Stella Maris was alive with motion—ropes creaked, gulls cried, and the tide lapped against the stone piers like a whispered chant. Gondolas bobbed between merchant ships, and the scent of brine and citrus hung in the air. Amid the bustle, Thomas Langton moved with practiced ease, his sleeves rolled, his voice warm as he directed his cousins through the morning’s cargo.
Then she appeared.
Sister Nimue stepped from a gondola, her ocean blue robes glistening with golden embroidery, her pearl white hair adorned with delicate fins, shimmered in the sun. She moved with the grace of someone who had never rushed, her gaze steady, her presence quiet but immense. The dockhands paused. Even the gulls seemed to hush.
Thomas blinked, then smiled, "That’s her, isn’t it?" His words were exhaled like a prayer.
His cousin muttered, "She’s not just any woman, Thom. That’s a Chamber priestess. One of Anselm’s own."
Thomas wiped his hands on his trousers. "Then I’ll ask her to bless us."
Before his cousin could protest, Thomas jogged forward, weaving through crates and coiled ropes until he reached her. Nimue turned, her expression unreadable.
"Sister," he said, bowing with a flourish that was more charm than ceremony. "The tide’s against us today. My family’s got three ships to unload and not enough hands. But with your blessing, I swear we’ll move mountains."
Nimue studied him. Her eyes held the weight of the deep, the kind of gaze that had seen truths too vast for surface minds. And yet, something in Thomas’s smile—unguarded, earnest, foolishly brave—made her pause.
"You believe a blessing will change the tide?" she asked.
"I believe you might," he said.
A silence passed between them, filled with salt and possibility. Then Nimue raised her hand, fingers glistening with seawater.
"Then may the goddess grant you strength," she said softly, touching his brow.
Thomas beamed. "We’ll get it done, Sister. You’ll see."
As she walked away, her robes trailing like waves, Thomas returned to the docks with a new lightness in his step. His cousin stared, slack-jawed.
"You’re mad," he said.
"Maybe," Thomas replied. "But I think she smiled."
And somewhere beneath the domes of Stella Maris, the tide shifted.