He shakes his head.

“We’ll have to swim the rest of the way,” I decide as I say it. Dan laughs like I’ve made a joke.

Toraf nods. “Great. Just get me out of this thing.” Then he belches like a drunk.

I look at Dan and point down. “Before we turn back, can we just go lower? I want to see the water close up.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” he says, and we feel the sensation of gravity kicking in as he descends.

My breath catches as the chopper lowers. Dozens, no wait, hundreds of dark shadows skim the surface. I yank on Toraf’s sleeve and nod toward the water.

Eyes wide, he taps Dan’s shoulder. “We need to go a little farther out, please.”

“No can do. I told you, we need all of our fuel to get back.”

Slowly, I unstrap the belt. “Just a little lower please? I think I see some fish down there.”

“No prob.”

I’ve never skydived, bungee-jumped, or parasailed. As I remove the headset, I try to calculate the fall and can’t. Maybe my brain is protecting me from myself and what I’m about to do. I’m not sure of the exact numbers, but I’ve heard hitting the water from such-and-such height feels like hitting concrete at such-and-such miles per hour. In other words, it’s a bone-shattering experience. I seriously doubt those calculations are based on the Syrena bone structure though. In fact, I’m counting on it.

“No lower, okay?” Dan says, looking out his window to the water below. “Oh, you see sharks! Wow, it looks like a feeding frenzy down there. Hey, don’t touch that!”

I grip the handle harder, but the door won’t budge. Leaning back, I get in the mule-kick position.

“Emma, don’t!” Toraf yells. “Those are sharks, Emma!”

I take a deep breath. “Wait until I have them under control before you jump.” A joint effort from two half-Syrena legs sends the door flying to a watery grave.

“They want proof?” I grumble to myself as I lean into the wind, “I’ll show them proof.” Right before I hit the water, I can still hear Toraf screaming.

18

IF HIS own future weren’t dependent on the outcome of this tribunal, and if Emma weren’t entangled in it all now, Galen would find it highly entertaining.

While they wait for Toraf’s return with the alleged Half-Breed, the audience has been subjected to a match of conflicting testimonies. The Archive Odon insists that when a Syrena is on land for long periods of time, his or her eyes would fade to blue. He references the wall painting in the Cave of Memories for proof—the same painting that led Galen to conclude that Emma’s father was a Half-Breed. Galen remembers the Syrena with the blue eyes on the wall, and how Romul dismissed it as faded paint.

Which is exactly what another Archive, Geta, contends. She chastises Odon for spreading what he very well knows to be a mere myth parents tell their fingerlings to keep them away from land.

Then a Tracker by the name of Freya takes the center stone. She gives testimony that the stranger is Nalia—and she would know, since Nalia was her best friend since they were very young. Another Tracker, Fader, offers a completely different judgment. He claims he’s known the Poseidon Royals since before Nalia was born, and that sadly she is not the Poseidon heir. “I was the first Tracker to memorize her pulse,” he says somberly. “And this is not the pulse I kept close to my mind and heart.”

Galen can’t help but roll his eyes. He’s been trying to sort all this out, why so many would tell blatant lies about Nalia’s identity. What could Jagen have offered them? The Syrena do not lend themselves to greed and riches like humans do. But, what Galen has come to recognize, thanks to the human history class he takes at Middlepoint High School, is that like humans, Syrena just might crave change—whether the change is good or bad. He’s seen a pattern arise from the history of the humans, where humans get disgruntled and dissatisfied with what they have, and they long for change. They even have a proverb warning against it—the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. But most of the time, if humans have it in their mind that the grass is greener, there’s little anyone can do to change their mind.

Galen feels he’s witnessing this human trait firsthand in his Syrena brethren. And that is something the Royals are responsible for. When King Antonis divided the kingdoms so long ago, he left room for exactly this. Why wouldn’t the Syrena crave better leadership? Why would they trust the Royals after so many years of allowing this silent feud to persist? What have the Royals really done to benefit their followers?

Maybe both houses should be left to their own endeavors under Jagen’s guidance. Maybe they can make things better, more peaceful. Some human governments managed to do it, managed to pull together after an overthrow and make something great from the remnants of failure.

But if that happens, what does that mean for the Royals? A lifetime in the Ice Caverns. And a death sentence for Emma. Something he cannot allow.

It doesn’t matter what is right and what is wrong anymore. It doesn’t matter that Jagen has a valid point, despite his convoluted way of getting to it. It doesn’t matter what happens to the kingdoms, what verdict is reached at the end of this torturous tribunal. All that matters is keeping the ones he loves safe.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Galen is startled to find that Grom has taken the center stone. The entire Arena is silent, as if they sense a predator coming. Grom lets them scrutinize him, lets them take in his confident poise, his lifted chin, his squared shoulders. Grom has not been defeated.