Chapter 30
Far above the endless sea, a silver scaled wyvern carved a path through the clouds. Its vast wings stretched against the wind, carrying three hooded figures toward the distant island, which glimmered faintly on the horizon like a shard of obsidian rising from the waves.
The first hooded figure, a girl wrapped in shadow, brushed her fingers along the faintly glowing runes etched into her skin. They pulsed with a quiet rhythm, as though answering some hidden current in the world. Her voice was calm yet edged with curiosity. "Holon spoke of a Valkyrie among the knights. If the tale is true, I wonder will she bleed as mortals do?"
The second hooded figure, broad shouldered and restless, gripped the hilts of the three swords slung across his back. A sharp grin tugged at his lips, the hunger in his eyes burning brighter than the sun on the sea. "I care for nothing else. As long as they can fight, as long as they can keep me entertained, that is enough." His laughter rolled across the sky, jagged and raw, like steel scraping against stone.
The Raventale shuddered as it found safe harbor on the island, the storm's fury finally behind them. Shadows stretched from the ancient trees as figures stepped out of the jungle. They were members of a tribe thought to be myth. The air smelled of salt and strange flowers, thick with an unseen weight, as if the island itself breathed with forgotten power. Whispers rode the wind, hinting at gods and beasts that had slept for centuries.
Far out at sea, Tharen and the Trinity of the Abyss fought through the storm's tail. Waves crashed hard against their vessel, threatening to pull it into the abyss. Tharen, bloodied and worn, clung to the railing as salt stung his eyes. A sudden lurch of the ship threw him off balance, and he slipped toward the hungry sea.
Just as the waters reached for him, a cloud of insects rose. Their wings shimmered with unnatural light, their collective form wrapping around his body. They lifted him back onto the deck, wings buzzing against the roar of the storm.
"Do not let him die," a voice hissed among the swarm, low and cold. "He is still needed."
The insect cult obeyed Anon's will, their movements unnervingly precise. Seawater should have repelled them, yet they pressed forward as if driven by something older and darker than instinct. What did Anon see in Tharen, and what part would he play in the coming tide of events?
On the island's shore, Azre stood firm as the tribe approached. The chief came forward, flanked by two warriors whose bodies were painted with intricate markings. The strangest detail was the plain black circle etched into each of their stomachs. None spoke of its meaning.
The air grew heavy, humming with invisible energy. The warriors' hands rested on obsidian knives, ready to defend their sacred land. What ancient power did they guard, and what truths did this island keep buried?
On the beach, the chief stopped a few paces away. His face gave nothing away. He spoke in guttural tones, the rhythm of his voice carrying both weight and melody. The words seemed to hum with the island itself.
"Greetings, visitors," said a boy who stepped forward, no older than thirteen. "My name is Rubal. I will translate Chief Olka's words for you. It is an honor."
The boy's dark hair was neatly combed, his simple clothing perfectly kept. His hands clasped together as if for comfort, but his eyes held a sharp light, far older than his years.
Rubal translated carefully. "Our chief asks why you have come. If you mean harm, you will die here. If your only purpose was to wander the seas, turn back. The ocean is unkind to those who disturb its sleep."
Brooke stared at Rubal. Something stirred in her chest, a half-formed memory. She felt she had seen him before, though the thought slipped away like water through her fingers. The boy's presence scratched at her subconscious, opening doors she did not want touched.
Bruce noticed her hesitation. "Captain, are you alright?"
Brooke forced a small smile. "I am fine. Just tired." She waved his concern aside, unwilling to give her unease a voice. "Let us focus on the task at hand." Yet the feeling gnawed at her, whispering that she was overlooking something vital.
She stepped forward, her voice steady. "Are you speaking of Astares?"
The effect was immediate. Chief Olka's composure shattered into horror. He staggered back, clutching a talisman to his chest and whispering a prayer to appease the Lord of the Sea, begging for forgiveness for the transgression of speaking its name. The tribe members around him averted their eyes, murmuring ancient chants of protection. The name of the Lord of the Sea was forbidden. Even speaking it risked disaster.
The ocean heaved as if answering the word. Waves split apart, and a colossal shadow rose from the depths. Astares, Lord of the Eastern Sea, towered above the island. Its vast body shimmered with light-blue scales, mist swirling around it like living clouds. Golden eyes blazed with a fury older than the world. Its claws tore the air, and its fangs gleamed like swords. The sky darkened, the earth trembled, and the island quaked beneath its presence.
Faetalis, Azre, and Enix braced themselves for battle. Enix drew his black-bladed sword, Azre lifted his rune-carved greatsword, and Faetalis hefted his massive axe. Even Bruce and Bob, though less formidable, armed themselves with daggers, ready to stand with their captain.
All eyes turned to the monster. For most it was terror, but for one it was a living nightmare. Brooke's breath caught, her body trembling. Memories surged back in a flood: the eastern sea of Arvalione, her father's ship, her little brother's laughter, and then the shadow in the water. The serpent's rising body, the ship's timbers cracking, the screams, the ocean pulling them all away.
Her vision blurred. Sound fell away, and the sand tilted beneath her. The weight of the past crashed over her, dragging her down deeper than any sea. She collapsed, unconscious. As she fell, Rubal's expression shifted from polite concern to something akin to recognition, or even sorrow. He took a step towards her, then hesitated, his young face etched with a conflict he couldn't voice.
The island held its breath. The Lord of the Eastern Sea had returned, and its wrath would decide the fate of all who dared speak its name.