The stone felt cool against Rhys’s palm, a small, dark comfort in the chaos of his thoughts. Ffion’s face, a shimmering distortion of sorrow, remained within its depths, her ethereal tears a silent accusation against the living. Guilt, cold and sharp, lodged itself beneath his ribs. He had not protected her, not truly. Not from the man who murdered her, nor from the woman who condemned her to this half-life. Gwyllgi nudged his hand with a damp snout, a low whimper escaping his throat, his gaze fixed on the river stone. Even the hound sensed the despair pouring from the phantom woman. “She didn’t want to save you, Ffion,” Rhys began, his voice rough, thick with the unsaid horrors of the evidence locker. The words felt inadequate, ugly. “Morwenna… she wanted to *keep* you. Your spirit. Bound to her, to the family, to Tŷ Haearn. A permanent fixture, a guardian. She used Cormac, the ‘Tidal Rites’… not for rebirth, but for a twisted kind of imprisonment.” He watched Ffion’s expression, the subtle shifts across her pale features. The initial shock gave way to a deeper, more familiar pain, an echo of the grief he’d seen when she first realised her sister was the one trying to destroy her vestiges. The stone in his hand began to grow warmer, thrumming faintly. He could feel the pulse of the river outside, the building crescendo of the Thirteenth Tide, vibrating through the very foundations of Tŷ Haearn. Rhys looked up, the dim light of the lantern casting long, dancing shadows across the water that now pooled on the ground floor. It lapped at the base of the furniture, a dark, hungry tongue creeping further into the manor’s shell. The wind howled through the broken panes, a mournful dirge. He knelt by a relatively dry patch of floor, placing the stone carefully onto a faded rug, allowing Ffion’s image a clearer, more stable view. Her form in the stone had turned dense, drawn taut by the approaching swell. Her eyes, the colour of deep sea kelp, held his. “I know,” she whispered, the sound like the rustle of old paper, a breath across a still pool. Her voice was stronger than he’d ever heard it, the tidal magic lending her essence a temporary solidity. “I always knew she wanted something from me. Something… unnatural. Her ambition was a deep, cold current, Rhys. It always was. But to think… to be a captive in my own home, my own spirit… forever.” A convulsion, drawn from terror rather than cold, shuddered across her image. Rhys felt a fierce, desperate surge of protectiveness. He reached out, his open palm hovering an inch over the pebble, near her reflection. He wanted to cup her face, to wipe away those phantom tears, to offer a comfort his skin could never impart. The impossibility of it all was a brutal ache in his chest. The rising river and the threat at the door crowded his mind, demanding action, but only one truth held him fast. “I won’t let her,” he vowed, his voice raw, shaking with an emotion he could no longer contain. “I won’t let them bind you. I’ll find a way, Ffion. I don’t know how, but I swear… I will free you. We’ll find a way for you to be whole, to be at peace. To… to live again. For real. Because… because I can’t lose you. Not now. Not when I’ve finally found you.” The words tumbled out, unbidden, heartfelt, a desperate confession born of fear and an impossible, blossoming devotion. Her brows lifted in the stone's wet surface, pink tinting the gray cast of her cheeks. A tremor ran through her image, a fragile, hopeful resonance. “Rhys, I…” she began, her own confession poised on the edge of utterance, a reciprocal hope shining in her gaze. The manor’s front door exploded inward with a deafening crash, splintering wood and rotten hinges giving way under a single, violent blow. The sound ripped through the quiet moment, scattering the fragile intimacy they had built. A blast of cold, wet wind roared into the hall, carrying with it the scent of churned mire and sea spray. Silhouetted against the storm-lashed night, a figure stood in the gaping maw of the doorway. Cormac Rhystyd. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his clothes soaked, but his cruel smile, visible even in the gloom, was perfectly dry. His eyes, predatory and knowing, swept the room, landing on Rhys, then on the river stone. Behind him, another figure stepped into the light, her elegant boots splashing through the encroaching water. Morwenna. Her face was a stark mask of cold resolve, her eyes devoid of warmth. In her gloved hand, she held the salt-stained locket, its once dull metal gleaming faintly. “It’s time, little sister,” Morwenna said.

An Interrupted Confession