Salt clung to Darion's lips as he coughed up seawater. The waves rocked violently beneath the shattered driftwood they clung to, and the sky had begun to darken, not from time but from a looming storm front. Wind clawed at the sea, tearing long streaks of foam across the surface. The serpent had vanished into the depths for now—but its presence still lurked in the back of Darion's mind, a leviathan-shaped wound in the fabric of his thoughts.
"You think your fancy fire flare worked?" Kellen asked between wheezes, clinging to the half-sunken board.
"It worked," Seraphina said, eyes fixed ahead. "Look."
Through the sheets of rain and wind, the silhouette of a galleon loomed—dark sails against a bruised horizon, its black wood hull adorned with metal reinforcements that shimmered like oil in the fading light. As it drew closer, Darion saw its figurehead: a rearing iron stallion, with rubies for eyes and teeth that gleamed unnaturally sharp. The ship moved unnaturally fast for its size, slicing through the storm with grim purpose.
"That's no ordinary vessel," Seraphina muttered. "It's powered by more than just wind."
Within minutes, ropes dropped from the sides. Figures appeared above the railings—silhouettes with hoods and ironclad armor, their movements disciplined, too quiet for pirates. No shouting. No laughing. Just the whisper of commands and precise action.
One of the figures gestured sharply. The trio were pulled aboard one at a time by winches and hooks—not with brute force, but with unsettling silence.
Darion collapsed on the deck, soaked, shivering, and still clutching the Wakefire Core against his chest. The sailors who surrounded them did not speak. Their armor was blackened steel, etched with ancient runes, each man wearing a red sash across his chest. Their faces were hidden behind featureless masks shaped like snarling wolves.
"Who the hell are these people?" Kellen whispered, eyes darting.
"Not pirates," Seraphina replied, gripping her dagger—until she realized it was missing, lost to the sea.
Darion struggled to his feet, teeth chattering. "Thank you… for the rescue."
One of the masked figures stepped forward and raised a hand. A woman's voice, deep and resonant, echoed behind the mask.
"You are not yet safe. Follow us. Speak not unless addressed."
Darion exchanged a look with Seraphina. She gave a subtle nod: Play along—for now.
They were escorted through the ship's middeck, passing ranks of similarly masked soldiers standing at attention. It didn't feel like a crew—it felt like an army. Banners fluttered above, black with the emblem of a crimson eye wreathed in chains.
The inner corridors were dimly lit by crystal lanterns, humming with arcane energy. Magic-tech. Old, powerful, and forbidden in most parts of the known world.
Eventually, they were brought to a wide cabin carved from dark wood and filled with relics—a throne-like chair, glowing maps of the surrounding waters, and a display of monster skulls, each mounted on iron spikes.
In the center of the room stood a man cloaked in a black longcoat, one arm gloved in what appeared to be solid iron. His hair was silver-white, slicked back, and his eyes gleamed with faint gold. He held a pipe in one hand, which he did not smoke, and a saber hung from his side.
"You carry something old," the man said without turning around. "Something that should not exist."
Darion instinctively shielded the Core. "Who are you?"
The man turned slowly, and the full weight of his presence hit them like a storm wind.
He was tall, angular, with a gaunt face and a smile that never reached his eyes.
"I am Captain Alaric Vane, commander of the Iron Revenant, Knight-Captain of the Red Seers, and hunter of forbidden artifacts." He took a step forward, gaze pinning Darion in place. "And you, fireborn, have something I need."
The soldiers behind them raised their weapons—not to attack, but to remind them that resistance was not wise.
Seraphina stepped forward. "We're not here to fight. We were shipwrecked and nearly devoured by a sea serpent. That artifact saved our lives."
"Yes," Vane said softly. "The Wakefire Core. One of the Flame Relics—relics created to bind the ancient sins of this world. And now, they awaken… all because of you."
Darion's throat tightened. "I didn't choose this. I found it in Gravesend. It called to me."
Vane smiled, slowly. "Of course it did. The Core seeks a bearer. It doesn't care about morality—only strength."
The captain walked a slow circle around them.
"You must understand. The waters are changing. Something is stirring in the Abyssal Trenches—an intelligence. A hunger. The Red Seers have monitored it for decades. The artifacts like yours were designed to seal it away. Now they call out, glowing like beacons. You, fireborn, are both a signal and a weapon."
Darion's grip on the Core tightened. "So what now? You take it from me?"
"No," Vane said, amused. "I let you keep it. Because you are going to dive deeper than any of us ever could. And we are going to follow."
The air in the room thickened.
"In other words," Seraphina said carefully, "we're bait."
"Not bait. Pathfinders," Vane corrected. "You attract the dark. We observe. Learn. Prepare."
"And if we refuse?" Kellen asked.
Vane shrugged. "Then we leave you adrift in the cursed sea, prey to the very thing you've stirred."
The silence stretched.
Darion stepped forward, fire burning in his eyes. "We don't serve anyone. You saved us, and I'm grateful—but we're not pawns in your game."
Vane's smile thinned. He raised his iron-clad arm—and the entire cabin hummed. The relics on the walls vibrated. The Wakefire Core responded, glowing in Darion's hand.
"You already chose your path when you touched the flame, Darion of the Blue Coast. The deeper you go, the more it consumes."
"How do you know my name?" Darion asked, breath catching.
Vane tapped a crystal orb on his desk. A projected image appeared—Darion, years younger, standing in a military uniform. His family insignia burned on his shoulder.
"You were once marked for greatness. Until you vanished. Now you return, holding a lost relic. Don't act surprised that we've been watching."
Seraphina stepped between them. "Enough. We're not your enemies. But we'll never be your tools either."
Vane regarded her for a long moment. Then he bowed slightly. "Fair. Then let us offer… an alliance. Temporary."
He stepped aside and gestured to a detailed map of the Eastern Reaches—an archipelago of shattered islands and forgotten ruins.
"Your next destination lies here: Ashvale Atoll. A place lost in storm and blood. There lies another relic—the Chain of Echoes. If the Wakefire sings to you, the Chain will scream. Retrieve it. And perhaps… we all live a little longer."
Darion looked at the map, then at Seraphina and Kellen.
"We go where the answers are," he said. "But not for you—for us."
"That is all I ask," Vane said with a smile. "Dinner will be prepared in your quarters. Do rest. You'll need your strength."
The guards stepped back. The door opened.
As the trio exited, Seraphina whispered, "He knows more than he's saying."
"Of course he does," Darion replied, his thoughts swirling.
But one thought lingered above all else.
"The Wakefire chose me. But why?"