But now his scalp crawls with what feels like tiny fingers exploring through his hair. His legs throb with the need to stretch. His feet tingle to the point of hurting.

He feels a drop of something hit his forehead. Slowly he peers up, willing his neck to stop trembling with the weight of his head. Small tributaries of what feels like water roll down his face, his neck. Above him hangs a blue tarp stretched across the ceiling, heavy at the center, where a small hole allows a drop to fall on him every few seconds.

It’s then that he notices that what’s left of his shirt is soaked through. The rim of his jeans is dark and wet. But he doesn’t care about that. He has water. One precious drop at a time.

Opening his mouth, he leans farther back, aiming for the next drop. It hits his cheek and stings an open cut there. Again.

He repeats the process, three, four, five times. Finally a drop hits his tongue and spreads like a single tear on tissue paper. Salt.

It’s saltwater. Soaking through his shirt, his hair, down the length of him.

A frustrated growl escapes Galen’s lips, echoing off the walls.

I have to get out of here.

Tyrden opens the door then, walking in with a bucket in tow and an evil grin. Without a word or warning, he pitches the contents on Galen, dousing everything the tarp failed to saturate. The force of the splash is so great that some of the new saltwater finds its way into Galen’s mouth, his nose, all the cuts and scratches. He spits vehemently.

Tyrden snickers. “I thought you were thirsty?”

Galen doesn’t trust himself to speak. His throat is too dry to close around the words inside him. Anything he says will sound like a wheeze. I won’t let him think he’s broken me.

Tyrden drags the other chair across the room to face Galen, his usual interrogation move. Galen settles in for what could possibly be next, though he can’t imagine anything quite as bad as this.

Tyrden smiles at him through tight lips that maneuver a toothpick back and forth. “You look rough, Highness.” He removes the pick and rolls it between his fingers. Galen eyes it, wary. Tyrden glances up at the tarp above Galen and scoffs. “It’s almost half empty already.”

Galen groans in reply. It’s all he has left. Beneath him his legs begin trembling with the need to unfold, to elongate.

“What’s that?” Tyrden says, delighted. “Oh, you got a frog in your throat? Let me help you.” He pulls a silver flask from his shirt pocket and shakes it. The liquid in it makes a swishing sound. “Can I interest you in some fresh water?”

Galen nods, which makes his head throb harder. He’s in no mood to play games.

Tyrden stands and unscrews the flask. Galen doesn’t trust that there’s really freshwater in it, but what choice does he have? He’s been three days without a drop to drink. It’s a chance he has to take. Besides, if Tyrden wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be sitting here now. Right?

The older Syrena eases the flask to his lips and Galen takes a swallow. It’s fresh. He leans in for more but Tyrden pulls back. “Oh, sorry. I’ve got to save this for more questions.” He settles back down in his chair and tucks the flask away. Galen feels his shoulders sag.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Tyrden says. “Jagen and Paca failed, obviously. But how many followers did they round up? A lot? A few? Remember, a drink for an answer.”

Galen complies quickly; this is an easy question. “I don’t know,” he rasps. The words feel parched and he coughs.

“Guess for me.”

Shaking his head, Galen coughs again. He tastes blood in his mouth this time instead of the precious water. “I don’t know. Maybe a third. Maybe more.” It was more, he knows. Jagen’s number of Loyals multiplied each day Paca displayed the Gift of Poseidon. There were enough of them to persuade the Archives to put the Royals on trial at the tribunal.

Tyrden gives Galen a heaping drink from the flask. “See how that works? Honesty goes a long way.”

Another maddening drop of water falls on Galen’s head and his legs ache with the need to wrap around each other, to become one. It’s been three days since he used his fin to maneuver through the freshwater caves where they found Reed. It’s been more than that since he used it to glide through his own saltwater territory.

“Jagen obviously convinced a good amount of followers in a short time,” Tyrden says. “Someone more competent could pull twice those numbers. Sounds like the ocean dwellers are ready for change. Maybe the Royals are out of style, eh?” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Did you know that we don’t have Royals here? Sure, those who possess the Gift of Poseidon are obviously descendants of the general himself. But we don’t put much stock in that. Here, we elect our leaders.” He makes a face as if the words taste tart in his mouth. “Sometimes democracy works. Not lately though.” With a blank expression he scrutinizes the flask in his hand.

Galen feels liquid draining down the back of his throat again. In case it’s remnants of freshwater, he swallows. The metallic taste suggests more blood. He wonders if his nose is broken. “More questions,” he says. He has to take in more water. Though he doesn’t like that Tyrden is sharing information with him. Would he be divulging so much if he was going to let me go?

Tyrden laughs. “You disappoint me, Highness. For a while there, I thought you’d hold out until the bitter end.” He leans forward. Galen’s eyes never leave the vessel of water in his hands. “Grom is the Triton king and your brother, right?”