The Duskwind creaked beneath Mara's boots, a slow, aching groan that echoed through the hull like a wounded animal whispering to the deep. The storm from the night before had not left entirely—it lingered on the horizon like a threat half-spoken, a reminder that the seas no longer held patience for those who wavered.
Emberdrop Island's jagged silhouette vanished behind curtains of mist as the ship cut through the choppy waves. Black sails half-raised, the Duskwind approached a point on no map, where even sea charts went blank. The Wreath. A name carried by salt-worn tongues in whispers and warnings, feared more than the Iron Tide's wrath.
Mara stood near the forecastle, cloaked in drift-hide, breath rising in slow puffs of fog. Around her, the deck buzzed with quiet readiness. They were going under this time—into the deepest wound the sea had ever bled. Not to raid, not to flee, but to confront the source of the abyss Mallik had torn open.
Red Veil stood barefoot near the stern, painting runes into the wood with a paste of salt and powdered coral. Her chants layered with undertones of forgotten dialects, words that made even the wind shudder. Abyr, despite the gash running down his shoulder, moved with methodical purpose—checking cable clamps, testing dive seals, muttering curses under his breath.
Darion leaned against the rigging, eyes narrowed on the horizon. "The Wreath's just a myth to most sailors. Until they feel it pulling."
"It's not the pull that kills," Mara murmured. "It's what you hear in the silence."
A hush fell as the final preparations were made. Below deck, sailors whispered prayers to nameless tides, hands clutching salt-pouches and tokens. Some pressed their foreheads to the Duskwind's ribs, as if hoping the old ship would remember them.
The Descent Begins
The Threnody was unlike any vessel that had ever left the Duskwind's hold. A spherical descent capsule crafted from reinforced drift-metal and lined with pressure-dampening runes etched by the Tideborn's mystics. It looked like a prison built to house desperation.
The capsule was lowered by a crane rigged to the Duskwind's spine. Inside, a crew of six prepared in silence—Mara, Darion, Red Veil, Abyr, and two others: Kien, a harpoon specialist whose family had been taken by the Iron Tide, and Elsha, a mute cartographer who spoke through her hands and knew the sea's language better than any sailor alive.
Each had volunteered, though none were certain they'd return.
Strapped into padded harnesses, they began their descent into the yawning maw of the Wreath. It took nearly twenty minutes before light from the surface disappeared entirely, and even longer before the water stopped trying to whisper their names.
Outside the portholes, skeletal coral rose like cathedral spires, each one inscribed with ancient mourning glyphs that pulsed with faint blue light. Creatures drifted by—twisted shapes born in darkness, never meant to feel sun. Some had eyes, others none. All stared as if they remembered what air once felt like.
"There," Elsha signed suddenly, pointing.
Abyr squinted through the glass. "By the gods..."
The Wreath sprawled below them in terrible beauty. A circular trench of jagged ruins and luminous wreckage surrounding a massive obsidian dome. Chains the width of galleon hulls stretched out like a spider's web, holding it in place.
At the center, like a heart still faintly beating, was a forge.
The Heart of Chains
The capsule docked at a ledge of bone-white stone, grown smooth from centuries of pressure. The crew exited with harpoon-lances and pressure cloaks. Their boots magnetized to the surface to keep them grounded in the slow drift of water.
Each breath in the dive suits felt borrowed. The water's weight was different here—heavier, hungrier. Sounds came slowly, bent by pressure. Lights danced in strange patterns.
Red Veil's runes lit the path forward. "Follow only the light. The dark speaks lies."
The ruins pressed inward as they moved—a labyrinth of drowned altars and shattered idols. Stone faces stared with hollow eyes, mouths open in silent screams. Abyr broke into a jog, then slowed at a faint moan that echoed from within the dome.
There were signs of struggle. Bones in ceremonial armor. Broken tridents. A trail of crushed shells that pulsed faintly as if recently disturbed.
Inside, they found the Chainforge.
A massive dais of rusted metal surrounded by six smaller forges, each feeding energy into the center. Hovering above it was a sealed sarcophagus-like altar. Chains ran from it in every direction. And inside, pulsing faintly, was a presence. Something old. Something dreaming.
"It's real," Darion said.
"It's waiting," Mara added.
And then it stirred.
The Guardians Awaken
One by one, spectral constructs emerged—guardian spirits shaped from armor, salt, and the memories of drowned warriors. They struck fast. Spears of bone, shields made of condensed grief.
Abyr met the first head-on, his axe cleaving the specter's arm from shoulder. It reformed a moment later.
"They don't die," he growled. "They remember how to stand."
Mara dodged between them, ducking low as one swept overhead. She planted an explosive rune beneath its shadowy chest and detonated it with a flick of her wrist. It screeched but did not fall.
Red Veil reached into her cloak and withdrew a vial of Leviathan blood—a rare relic they'd stolen from one of Mallik's forward vaults. She smashed it against the forge altar. The blood hissed against the metal. The chains convulsed.
And the dome split open.
The guardians shrieked, light spearing from their forms, fading like dying stars.
The Leviathan Stirs
It rose not as a beast, but as an idea—a shape too vast to comprehend. Eyes like suns opening beneath the sea. It looked at Mara. It saw her.
"Daughter of breakers," it rumbled without sound. "You wear your mother's shadow."
Mara stepped forward, breathing hard. "I don't want her fate."
"Then make your own."
A great chain rose from the dome, glowing red-hot with grief magic. It twisted toward the Leviathan, ready to bind it once more.
Mara leapt.
With a cry that shook the water, she brought down Abyr's reforged axe and shattered the chain.
Light exploded outward. The forge imploded.
The Escape
Currents surged in every direction. The sea screamed as the Wreath's spell collapsed. Red Veil clutched Elsha, pulling her into a retreat corridor. Darion carried Kien, who had taken a wound to the side.
Mara remained, staring upward as the Leviathan rose.
Not as a monster.
But as a god freed.
And then it vanished.
They reached the capsule and rose as the Wreath crumbled behind them. Coral snapped. Chains shattered. Ghosts sang.
Back aboard the Duskwind, Mara collapsed to her knees. The sun pierced the clouds above. A single ray struck her forehead.
Not as a crown.
But as a warning.