The sea, for once, had calmed.
After their harrowing encounter with the leviathan and Selkira's ominous reappearance, the Sea Wraith drifted quietly along the outer edge of the Mourning Veil. The air smelled of salt and ozone, the kind that clung to the sky after lightning had kissed the earth. The crew moved in silence, repairing rigging and patching sails, their minds still haunted by the sight of that colossal beast and its mistress.
Darion stood on the quarterdeck, bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. Each breath was a reminder of Selkira's power—a phantom pain that lingered in both body and spirit.
He gripped the rail and stared into the mist-choked horizon. The Chain of Echoes pulsed faintly on his forearm, but for once, it didn't whisper. It was quiet, contemplative, as if digesting what it had seen.
She remembers me. She called me the last Core-Wearer. But I've never seen her before in my life…
Or had he?
He barely noticed Seraphina until she placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Her eyes, a rare mix of steel and warmth, searched his face.
"You're thinking too loud again."
"Am I?" Darion smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes.
She sat on the railing beside him, her fingers brushing her braid over one shoulder. "We'll reach Brightmoor within a day if the winds hold. A real port, with real beds and fresh bread."
"And maybe some answers."
"Or more questions."
"Knowing our luck—both."
The wind picked up then, faint but steady. Harrow adjusted the sails and called out to the crew.
Darion's eyes drifted downward, to the waves breaking against the hull.
Something floated there—round, glassy, glinting in the sun.
"Kellen!" Darion barked. "Bring it up."
Kellen, who had just emerged from the galley with a half-chewed biscuit in his mouth, frowned and leaned over.
"Looks like a bottle."
"Get it."
The younger man leaned over the side with a long pole and snagged the object. It was indeed a bottle, sealed with black wax and wrapped in seaweed like it had been marinating in sorrow. Inside was a single curled parchment, tied with a strip of faded crimson ribbon.
They brought it to Darion. He examined the bottle first. It wasn't glass—it was obsidian, black and weighty, covered in symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.
"Don't open it," Seraphina warned.
"We've survived a leviathan and a necromancer sea-witch. A letter's the least of our problems."
With a slow breath, Darion cracked the wax and removed the parchment.
It was damp, but the ink held. Elegant script, written in a hand both familiar and alien. The message was short, but its weight hit like cannon fire.
"To the one who bears the Chain: You are not the first. She remembers you because you were once hers. In the time before tides. Find the Wound Below. Only there will the truth breathe air once more."
Darion's vision blurred as the words sunk in.
Once hers.In the time before tides.
His grip on the bottle tightened. Seraphina leaned in.
"What is it?"
"A memory I didn't know I lost."
Below Decks
Night came quickly. The fog cleared behind them, revealing a black sky dusted with stars. Below deck, the crew huddled near lanterns, mending clothes and humming sea shanties to keep their minds off the silence of the sea.
Darion sat in his quarters, the letter unrolled before him. The Chain's pulse had quickened. It responded to the words on the page like a dog to its master's call.
"The Wound Below…"
He looked to the corner, where a chest of old books and scrolls scavenged from the Temple of Echoes rested. He rifled through it until he found a sea chart older than any sane sailor would carry—one from before the islands had been named by civilized tongues.
Near the southern edge of the chart, half-covered by salt stains, was a faded marking.
A jagged tear in the paper.
The Wound Below.
There was no landmass. No island. Only depth. A crevasse so deep it was said to drink sunlight.
If the Chain is right… that's where this started.
He was so absorbed that he didn't notice Seraphina until she sat across from him.
"You're scaring the crew."
"I'm scaring myself."
She tilted her head. "Because of the letter?"
"Because it makes too much sense."
He slid it toward her.
"Someone knew this would happen. Someone knew I'd find the Chain. That I'd wake the storm. Selkira called me 'hers.' Not her enemy. Not her hunter. Hers."
Seraphina stared at the parchment, eyes narrowing.
"You think you knew her? Before all this?"
"I think… I may have been someone else. Someone dangerous."
She didn't argue. Instead, she reached out and took his hand gently.
"Then we'll find out together."
A Dream of Drowning
That night, Darion dreamed.
He stood on a shore made of bone-white coral, watching a sea of black water rise into the sky like a living wall. In the distance, a woman stood with her arms wide, her veil flapping in a wind he couldn't feel.
She turned.
It was Selkira—but younger. Her eyes weren't cruel, but sad. She held out her hand.
"You swore you'd return. You never did."
Darion tried to speak, but salt water filled his throat. His lungs burned. The ocean collapsed, swallowing everything.
He awoke choking, drenched in sweat, fingers clutching his sheets.
The Chain flared once—then dimmed.
"You were once hers."
Port of Brightmoor
By morning, the Sea Wraith sailed into the wide cove of Brightmoor, a coastal trading port built on stilts and courage. Colorful sails flapped from ramshackle homes, and taverns spilled music and laughter into the humid air. It was loud, it was filthy, and it was alive.
Kellen practically wept at the smell of fresh bread.
"We're staying for a week," he said. "Minimum."
Darion smiled faintly but didn't answer. He was already planning their next move. Supplies. Maps. And a diver's bell that could reach the Wound Below.
As the crew disembarked, Darion looked to the south.
Somewhere beyond that horizon lay a truth buried too deep.
And he was ready to unearth it.