The Tide’s Debt

@isa

Saltwater stings your throat as you cough it up onto black pebbles. A small hand grips your collar — Isa, ash-white hair plastered to her crystal horns, dragging you clear of the surf. Above, on the cliff path, three Huld with fishing spears have stopped to watch. “You knew Colm,” she says, low and level. “Tell me how he really died.”