1 Chapter One

Something alluring, yet sinister resides here on the isle of Freyja. This speck of land amidst the vast Green Sea has been blotted out on most maps, labeled as a destination only fools seek out. I've seen it circled in red, scribbled out in heavy ink and stamped with the word díeriè, the Nexian term for death.

For centuries, men have voyaged across the unforgiving ocean looking for answers. With sturdy boats and weaponry, they travel in search of untold treasures, armed with high hopes of solving the mysteries of Freyja. They believe they're safe from horrors that lie beyond the edge of their own comprehension. Countless men piss away their petty fortunes constructing wooden ships and weapons forged from steel, gearing up for a battle they'll never win. Vessels bogged down with armory and their own filthy bodies' storm across the ocean as if she's theirs to command. They disregard the fluid nature of the sea and become angry with her. Men curse her by the name Calypso when tides shift or currents redirect on a different course. They want to tame something that can't be contained, to govern an entity that has no beginning or end. They try to control her unpredictable nature, but I know the truth.

The ocean never truly obeys anyone, especially not the likes of humans.

As their ships slice open the sea in search of materialistic fortunes, the wind bends in my favor every so often. Strong gusts drive their sails east, beaconing them straight towards Freyja's sandy shores. Once they've seen the tropical peaks of my home, they tense up at the sight of land. It doesn't take long before their concerns are placated and they revel in the midst of true beauty, for Freyja is a sight to behold. Majestic, broad leafed Keni trees spill their shade onto the uneven, mountainous terrain I call home. Various blush and tangerine colored fruits grow in abundance, their ripened weight bending the slender branches of Manec evergreens begging to be harvested. Clear, gentle waves roll along the ivory shoreline, tossing the sand and shells in a soft, rippling pattern. A waterfall at least ten stories tall spills from the mountainside, feeding a soothing river that empties into the ocean. The salt water turns brackish and turbidity at the delta nourishes life, the complimentary compounds blending together in a swirling concoction of splendor. The interaction stirs up nutrients for smaller schools of fish that hover in the safety of the shallows; it keeps the delicate cycle of life ticking along.

"This place is an oasis," they marvel. "Too much bliss is the only conceivable way one could die here in this paradise."

I can't help but smile at those words. What a beautiful lie to tell oneself.

In their defense, I suppose it's rather difficult to imagine a sight so divine is capable of something so sinister; that this island is a one way trip, and no human ever leaves.

Today, history repeats itself as unwelcomed invaders disembark their ships and row themselves to shore. They celebrate with vigor once their feet touch dry land. A few of them drop to their knees and kiss the sandy beach, sobbing with happiness when they realize they've made it. Made it where, they have no idea. They're just happy to be somewhere other than their sordid mainland or disease festering boats. Those maps branding Freyja with the curse of díeriè become a fleeting, unregistered concern.

My harem grows restless behind me as we observe from afar. They flick the water a little too loudly and whisper inquiries in my direction. I glance over my shoulder and give them a stern look, my icy blue gaze freezing them all into submission. They quietly slink down into the river and I redirect my focus back to the humans.

More often than not, I've got to remind them what's at stake. Things always go more smoothly when its nightfall and all the humans are on land. It gives us more of an advantage, not that we truly need it.

I watch as the foreigners unload tents that'll serve as temporary living accommodations. They haul them into the jungle and away from the water's edge, gearing up for their first and only night on a tempestuous new land. They complement their flimsy tents with piles of mining tools as if they'll find mountains of precious gemstones to unearth. Less than a handful of women wearing tattered, khaki dresses stand in congregation on the beach. They nervously glance around, clearly discontent with their unfamiliar surroundings. They're young, probably in their early twenties, covered in soot and have skin bruised like peaches, but that's all typical. Women in the patriarchal world of Saros are nothing more than baby factories or puppets. They were only brought along to serve as slaves in every form of the word; cleaning, food preparation, unwanted sex and existing as silent punching bags are the brunt of their expectations. They won't be thralls much longer, though. I'll set them free, either by death or allegiance. It's the one gift I offer every woman who comes to Freyja; a choice to live or die on their own terms.