Rain fell in relentless sheets, hammering the battered deck of the Duskwind like a relentless drumbeat of war. The scent of salt, blood, and smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the cries of those still alive and the silence of those who were not. The battle at the Bleeding Citadel had shattered the illusion of Mallik's invulnerability—but it had also taken a toll heavier than any of them had dared to imagine.
Mara stood with unyielding posture amid the carnage, her boots firmly planted on the slick planks, eyes scanning the horizon beyond the curling smoke. The sky was a steely gray, the sun a dull glow behind thick clouds. The sea churned with the bodies of fallen sailors, splinters of shattered ships, and drifting debris—a graveyard floating on an endless, unforgiving tide.
Victory had come at a price.
The Bleeding Citadel, that twisted fortress rising like a wound from the ocean's depths, was breached. Yet, in the wake of their assault, the true horror emerged—Mallik's new champions, the Ironclads. These were no ordinary warships. They were monstrosities, forged from the bones of the drowned and the grief of the forgotten, towering vessels cobbled together from wreckage, bound by dark magic and fueled by sorrow.
Their hulls groaned and creaked as they sliced through the water, sails tattered yet fierce, emblazoned with sigils that burned like embers in the gloom. Ghostly oarsmen rowed in eerie synchronization—souls trapped between worlds, chained to their eternal servitude. The sheer weight of these behemoths seemed to press down on the waves themselves, warping the sea's natural rhythm.
Darion knelt beside Lirien, her face pale but fierce despite the blood seeping through her fingers clutching a dagger. She had taken a grievous wound during the assault, a blade that pierced ribs and flesh, threatening to claim her life in the cold.
"She's holding," Darion said quietly, urgency in his voice. "But without a skilled medic, she won't last long. We need help from the Bladed Mirth."
Mara nodded, biting back the knot forming in her throat. She raised her arm, signaling the lookout to fire the green flare—a beacon of hope and desperation. The flare hissed as it shot into the overcast sky, bursting into emerald flames that danced like will-o'-the-wisps against the gloom.
From the port side, Abyr limped forward, cloak torn and soaked, his face streaked with soot and salt. His eyes held the haunted glint of a man who had glimpsed the abyss and returned changed.
"We took the Citadel," Abyr said, voice rough as gravel. "But it was a trap."
Mara's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
He unfurled a map, soaked and stained, placing it with deliberate care near the helm. "This breach… it was a diversion. The real prize—the Wreath—is still out there, hidden beneath the waves. And the Ironclads guard it."
Silence fell heavy in the cramped war room, broken only by the crackle of dying embers and distant thunder.
The Wreath of Chains
The map revealed a fortress unlike any other—a massive ring-shaped structure, submerged deep beneath the sea's surface. The Wreath encircled a yawning sinkhole descending into the Veiled Deep, a place where light vanished and crushing pressure tore at the flesh and bone of any who dared approach.
Mara traced her fingers over the ancient runes marking the fortress's circumference—symbols older than memory, known only to the Driftborn, etched in bone and coral.
"Mallik is draining the sea itself," Mara said, voice low, "using the Wreath as an anchor for whatever dark power he's trying to unleash."
"What does he hope to gain?" Darion asked, eyes narrowed.
From the shadows stepped Red Veil, his form emerging like mist, eyes glazed with otherworldly knowledge. "He seeks to awaken the Leviathan of the Drowned Moon. The Wreath is its cradle—the cage where it sleeps."
Gasps echoed among the crew.
"That's just myth," Abyr growled, shaking his head. "Stories mothers tell their children to keep them close to shore."
"So were we," Red Veil replied solemnly. "Until fire and fury proved otherwise."
The weight of his words hung like a thundercloud. For a moment, even the raging storm seemed to hold its breath.
Mourning and Motion
The Duskwind, wounded but unbowed, limped toward the shelter of Emberdrop Island, its reefs a natural fortress against further assault. Survivors tended the injured and mourned the dead. Names were whispered into the night, and rituals began—ancient rites of salt and fire honoring the fallen, marking them not as lost but as fuel for the coming fight.
Mara walked among them, hands steady despite the turmoil inside. For every soul claimed by the battle, she poured two handfuls of salt into the sea—one to honor their sacrifice, one to pledge the vengeance yet to come.
At the campfires, stories wove through the smoke—of homes lost, families left behind, dreams shattered and yet kindled anew. The weary voices, ragged but resolute, sang ballads that would one day become legend.
The wind brought a bitter whisper—a warning carried on the breath of the ocean.
Mallik was moving faster now. The old gods beneath the waves stirred, and the chains of the Leviathan rattled ever louder.
"We'll have to go deeper," Mara told her closest council one cold night, staring into the fire's hungry glow. "We must descend into the Wreath itself."
Abyr's eyes narrowed. "That's madness. The pressure alone could crush us. And the darkness… it will swallow us whole."
Mara rose, determination burning in her gaze. "So is letting him summon a god of destruction. So is standing idle as everything we've fought for drowns beneath his ambition."
Red Veil nodded, the faintest smile touching his lips. "The deeper the dive, the more the world forgets you. But the tide remembers. If we anchor our souls to the sea, perhaps we can return. Perhaps we must."
Darion ran his hands through his sodden hair, exhaustion carved in every line of his face. "It's a gamble. A desperate one."
"But it's all we have," Mara whispered.
The rain continued to fall, relentless and cold.
And the sea waited, hungry and patient.