“Why not the liver?” Hæra said.

“Tradition. Something of the struggle must remain behind. It floats to the surface afterward.”

“Did you take a human form to lure him?” Asgall asked eagerly.

Alban shook his head, his splendid black mane drifting in the water. “That’s one way to deceive them, but I consider it the basest. Besides, they keep developing weapons and devices that make it more difficult. Such weapons make our victories more glorious—but it grows increasingly likely that we would expose our existence to them, and thus it’s not worth the risk.”

That made sense. Her father had told them that Each-uisge, selkies, and other unseen creatures were known to humans through legends and stories of their past exploits. But stories and proof were different things. Humans could hunt the herd easily now, and they would be doubly likely to if they saw a horselike creature shapeshift.

Alban continued, “Unfortunately, like all unseen creatures, our race is tied to the humans we’re near to. We can speak their language. We can take their forms—but none other. And nothing but a human, my son, can make you a Stormhorse. Why this should have pleased the Great Mare and Stallion, I don’t know. But I can’t deny that the best ones put up a fight worth winning.”

Hæra and Asgall bobbed their heads in understanding.

After a curiously long pause, Alban added: “I find much to admire in some humans, truthfully. There are times I don’t wonder if we’re too judgmental of them and their ways.”

She and Asgall hadn’t known how to respond, so they’d said nothing. You weren’t supposed to voice that sort of thing, ever. At least not out loud.

“But the penalty for anyone but a Stormhorse going to the surface is a beating at best, and banishment from the herd at worst,” Alban said briskly. “And the closer you venture to the shore, the more severe the penalty. Don’t forget.”

He’d looked at Hæra pointedly. In spite of his words, because of his fondness for her curiosity, he’d taken her on one secret trip to the surface—one of her most treasured memories. She’d heard this warning before.

“Yes, Father,” she’d said obediently.

That had been long ago. Now, Alban was gone, and so were the wooden ships his captain had sailed. More and more people had left the islands. Hæra had fewer options, especially because she had to be so cautious about going to the surface: to avoid not just humans’ eyes but those of her herd as well. Thanks to her caution, time was running out. It would be easy to despair.

No. The Great Mare of the Depths would heed Hæra’s call, even if the Great Stallion ignored it. She must hear the justice of it.