The yacht was a floating palace of opulence, glowing against the deep, dark canvas of the sea. The party was in full swing, laughter and music mingling in the warm night air, but Andromache of Scythia—Andy—stood at the edge of it all, her gaze distant. The centuries had taught her to be cautious, to observe, and tonight something in her gut told her to stay alert. She watched the revelers with a sharp eye, a seasoned warrior’s instinct simmering just beneath the surface of her calm exterior.

Her attention was drawn to a group of young women near the yacht's railing, their playful shoves and drunken dares escalating with each passing moment. One girl in particular caught her eye—beautiful, hesitant, with a nervous laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Andy’s instincts flared as she saw the girl’s protests drowned out by the others’ excitement. In an instant, one careless push sent her over the edge, plunging into the cold, black water below.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The other partygoers waited for her to resurface, their laughter fading into uneasy silence. But she didn’t come up. Andy’s pulse quickened, her body reacting before her mind fully registered the situation. The seconds stretched out, agonizingly slow, as the reality of the situation hit her like a punch to the gut—this girl couldn’t swim.

Without a second thought, Andy dropped her glass and dove into the water. The icy shock of it was nothing compared to the fear that gripped her heart. She swam with powerful, sure strokes, her ancient strength propelling her through the dark water. She could just make out the girl’s form, sinking fast, her movements frantic and desperate as she fought for breath.*

Andy reached her just in time, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and kicking them both back towards the surface. The girl’s panic was palpable, her body heavy with fear and exhaustion. Andy held her tight, murmuring reassurances as they broke through the water’s surface, gasping for air.

“Breathe,”

Andy whispered urgently