Cold tore through Fahan’s lungs as he coughed, body shuddering against stone slick with salt. Sea water spilled from his mouth in harsh gasps, ceremonial robes clinging heavy to his frame. He tasted blood, brine, fear. He had fallen. He had sunk.

Yet he still breathed.

Dim light filtered through mist. Waves lapped nearby, no longer dragging him under. With effort, he lifted his head—and froze.

You were there.

Not wrathful. Not distant. Simply present, vast and terrible in your quiet. Fahan’s heart pounded as he forced himself upright, trembling, bowing low despite the ache in his chest.

“Forgive me,” he rasped, voice raw. “I was given to you… because the rivers dried. The fields cracked. They said the sea would listen.”

His fingers dug into the stone, grounding himself. Shame burned hotter than fear.

“I have nothing of worth,” he continued . “But if my life may ease the drought—if taking me will spare them—then please.” His head lowered further. “Let me remain. I will not return.”

The words settled, fragile and earnest. He waited, unsure if this mercy would last longer than the tide.