The Black Trident groaned, its deck ablaze with sparks and splinters as the metallic swarm tore through its defenses. Men screamed as beams of pale light seared across the hull, burning holes through shields and flesh alike. The ship listed under the assault, its bow dipping dangerously into the waves.
"Prince!" Caspian roared, cleaving one of the constructs in two with his axe before three more surged up the rail. "We cannot hold! We'll sink if we stay!"
Enzo's voice cut in, sharp and desperate: "Theseus, order the retreat before it's too late!"
The Serpent Prince's knuckles whitened on the helm, veins bulging with the strain of forcing the sea to his will. His compass burned in his blood, tugging not forward into the leviathan's maw, but sideways—toward a hidden path between the surging currents, one only he could sense.
"Retreat," he spat, as if the word itself were poison. His jaw clenched, sea-gray eyes blazing. "Very well. But we will not flee without striking back."
He slammed the heel of his hand against the helm, his voice booming across the deck:
"Okeanos—RISE!"
The sea shuddered. From beneath the Black Trident, two colossal shapes coiled upward, serpents wrought of abyssal pressure, water and tide. Their scales shimmered with bioluminescent glow, their eyes like lanterns in the deep. They writhed around the ship, their bodies smashing into the metallic swarm, shattering them like tin against a storm.
The crew erupted in a roar, their despair breaking for a heartbeat as the serpents struck. One serpent whipped its tail across the submarine's flank, slamming it with a force that sent waves towering. Another coiled around one of the swarm's larger constructs, crushing it until the sea swallowed it whole.
"Now!" Theseus barked. "Oars to port! Sails high! Follow my course!"
He pulled hard on the helm, his Navigation Mystery igniting fully. His vision blurred with rushing lines of current, hidden channels in the ocean that no mortal chart could capture. He saw them as glowing threads across the sea, weaving a path between the swarming constructs, a way to slip through the tightening noose.
The ship leapt under his command, as though the Black Trident itself shared his hunger to live. The oars bit deep, the sails caught the sudden wind he summoned, and the vessel surged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Bolts of alien light chased them, searing the water into boiling plumes, but Theseus's hands never faltered. Every turn of the helm bent the currents, every command of his Mystery shifting the tides to throw the projectiles off course.
Behind them, his serpents clashed with the submarine's swarm, buying precious moments with their titanic struggle. But Theseus knew—they would not hold forever. Already the metallic leviathan's lights flared again, its weapons preparing another volley.
"Row, you sons of Pelagia!" Caspian bellowed, rallying the men. "The Serpent Prince guides us!"
The crew strained with every muscle, sweat, and blood soaking their tunics. The Black Trident surged through the darkened waves, serpents lashing in defiance as they carved a path away from the monster of iron and light. For the first time since the battle began, escape seemed possible—if only the sea did not betray them now.
The Black Trident raced through the currents, driven hard by Theseus's will, the sea itself bending into channels only he could see. Behind them, his summoned serpents thrashed against the metallic swarm, but their roars were weakening, their coils shattering under the alien onslaught. The submarine's lights burned brighter, its weapons charging with a low, bone-deep hum.
"Faster!" Caspian roared, his voice ragged as he hacked down another construct that leapt onto the deck. The men strained at the oars until their arms trembled, their eyes fixed on their prince at the helm.
Theseus felt it then—a pressure from the leviathan greater than before, a tide not of water but of annihilation. His compass pulled, his veins burned, and with a sharp cry he thrust his hand to the sea.
"Logoi of the Deep—RISE!"
The words shook the air, an ancient expression of power that commanded more than tide or wind. The sea obeyed violently, rising into a towering wave that curled above the Black Trident like the jaw of a god. The men stared in awe as their prince pulled the ocean itself into a weapon, the crest crowned in white foam, ready to crash down and crush the metal beast.
But the submarine answered.
Its central slit split wide, light searing outward in a concentrated beam. It struck the wave head-on. For an instant, sea and light clashed—and then the wave evaporated. Steam exploded outward in a blinding curtain, the air itself screaming as water became mist in a heartbeat.
The backlash hit Theseus like a hammer. The heat tore across the deck, searing wood and flesh. He staggered, the force threatening to hurl him from the helm.
"THESEUS!" Enzo's voice cracked as he lunged.
The beam swept across the deck, and Enzo threw himself between his prince and the burning light. It caught his arm before he could fully shield him. The blast seared through flesh and bone, vaporizing the limb to the shoulder. The smell of char and salt filled the air as Enzo collapsed with a howl.
Theseus caught him before he fell, dragging him behind the helm as the deck pitched. The prince's heart thundered with rage, with helplessness.
"Enzo—"
"Don't waste it!" Enzo hissed through clenched teeth, blood soaking his tunic, his eyes wild but clear. "Get them home. Now!"
The submarine's hum rose again, but Theseus did not falter. He gripped the helm, veins alight with his Navigation Mystery, forcing the Black Trident into a final desperate surge through the hidden current his compass revealed.
The ship leapt forward, breaking through the last ring of constructs. Behind them, the serpents of Okeanos coiled one last time before dissolving back into the abyss. The metallic leviathan did not pursue. It lingered, its pale lights watching, as though to mark its victory.
Only when Pelagia's coastline broke the horizon hours later did the Black Trident ease its pace. Half its crew were dead. Its hull was cracked and smoking. And Enzo, his left arm gone, lay unconscious but alive at his prince's side.
Theseus's sea-gray eyes burned as he looked back toward the dark horizon. "You've proven your power," he whispered, jaw tight. "But the sea is still mine. And I will drag you from it."
The crew, battered and broken, heard him—and though none cheered, a fire stirred in their eyes. Their Serpent Prince had survived, and that alone was enough to keep their fear from breaking them entirely.
****
The great hall of Pelagia was a cathedral of the sea. Its vaulted ceiling shimmered with mosaics of sapphire and pearl, while pillars carved with the likeness of sea serpents coiled toward the rafters. The light of dawn filtered down through crystal panes, casting the chamber in shifting hues of blue and green, as though the ocean itself pressed against the walls.
Prince Theseus stood at the center of it, no longer the salt-streaked captain of the Black Trident, but dressed in royal garments—dark sea-green robes embroidered with silver waves, the coral charm of his lineage gleaming at his throat. His hair was bound back, his face washed clean, but nothing could conceal the sharp line of his jaw or the storm still burning in his eyes.
Before him, upon the high throne of shell and steel, sat the King of Pelagia. Broad-shouldered despite his age, his beard streaked white like seafoam, his eyes as cold and gray as stormbreak. He leaned forward, gripping the trident-shaped armrest with knuckles gone white.
"You disobeyed me." His voice cracked across the hall like thunder.
The court stirred. Nobles in jeweled finery whispered behind raised fans, commanders in scaled armor shifted uneasily. To one side stood Theseus's family—his sisters pale and tight-lipped, his younger brother watching with wide, fearful eyes. At the far edge, draped in pearls and gauze, stood his betrothed, her gaze torn between worry and reproach.
"Theseus," the King said again, rising to his feet, his voice booming now. "I gave strict command: no vessel leaves harbor without the unity of the Thalassarchates! Yet you—my son, my heir—took the Black Trident into the deep, and for what? To return with half a crew, a shattered hull, and shame burning on our banners!"
The words lashed the air. Nobles murmured louder, some nodding, others glancing nervously at the prince.
Theseus stood straight, chin high. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid with discipline, but his jaw tightened with each syllable.
"I went," he said, voice controlled but sharp, "because something stalks our waters. Something no oar or sail has faced before. I saw it with my own eyes, Father. It was no storm, no raiders' trick. It was—"
"Silence!" the King thundered, slamming a hand down on the throne's arm. "I will not hear tales of shadows to excuse your arrogance! The fleets of the Thalassarchates exist to defend all the Aegean. You risked them for glory!"
The accusation struck like a blade. Theseus's betrothed flinched, her lips parting as if to speak, but she held her tongue. Caspian, standing at the edge with bandaged soldiers, bristled but did not step forward.
Theseus's eyes burned, his voice rising now, no longer restrained. "Glory? I watched it consume ships whole! I saw its weapons rend the sea itself! It is no shadow—it is real, and it will come again. What I did was not arrogance—it was a warning!"
The hall erupted in whispers, nobles gesturing, priests of Okeanos muttering prayers.
The King's face reddened, his beard trembling with fury. "And for your warning, how many sons of Pelagia lie dead in the deep? How many widows curse your name this night? Even your own man—Enzo, your shadow—lies maimed because you could not hold your hand!"
Theseus's composure cracked. He stepped forward, his voice like steel dragged across stone. "Enzo lives because he chose to stand between me and death. His sacrifice was not in vain. Would you rather we had all died in silence, without knowing what haunts us? Would you rather we let the sea itself slip from our grasp?"
The court fell silent. Every gaze fixed on father and son, the storm between them threatening to split the hall apart.
The King's voice dropped, heavy and cold as the abyss. "You are heir to Pelagia. And yet, you gamble your crown like a drunkard's coin. One more defiance, boy, and you will find the sea throne does not pass to reckless sons."
Theseus met his father's glare without blinking, though his heart hammered. In the silence, his betrothed's hand tightened around the rail before her, knuckles white.
The tide of the Thalassarchates had shifted—but toward war with the leviathan, or war within Pelagia's own blood, no one yet knew.
The silence in the hall grew suffocating, heavy with judgment. All eyes bore down on Theseus, waiting for the prince to bend, or break, beneath his father's fury.
Then a voice cut through the tension, clear and steady.
"My King," said Lysandra, daughter of Kymara and Theseus's betrothed. She stepped forward from her place beside the noblewomen, the pearls at her throat gleaming like drops of seawater. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, her eyes bright with fire. Though her voice carried the melody of courtly training, there was no meekness in it.
"Pelagia has already lost fleets to this… phantom," she said, her gaze sweeping the chamber. "Not to storms. Not to raiders. To something none of us has faced before. Theseus did not seek glory—he sought truth. And he has brought it back at great cost."
The nobles shifted uneasily. A few nodded, others frowned, but all listened.
Lysandra raised her chin. "Would you rather we remain blind, my King? Let rumors gnaw at our borders while the enemy grows bolder? Theseus's voyage confirmed what the whispers only hinted: this enemy is real. And unless the Thalassarchates stand together, unless we act as one, the Aegean will fall."
A murmur rippled through the court. Priests exchanged glances. Commanders leaned toward one another, whispering in low tones. Even Caspian, scarred and stern, allowed the faintest smile at her words.
The King's jaw clenched, his storm-gray eyes narrowing on Lysandra. "You would defend recklessness? You would call his defiance wisdom?"
"I would call it necessity," she replied, her voice sharp as a drawn blade. "We have no time for pride or silence. The enemy does not wait for our council. It hunts already."
Her words rang through the chamber, silencing the whispers. For the first time, the King's fury faltered into thought.
Theseus turned his head slightly, his eyes finding hers across the gulf of the hall. For all his storm and fury, for all his pride, her voice was the first balm to the weight pressing on his shoulders.
But the King's hand tightened again on the throne's trident armrest. His voice dropped, colder, yet less certain than before. "The Thalassarchates will decide if war is to be waged. Not you. Not my son. Until then, Theseus will obey."
He looked down at his heir, his words heavy as anchors. "Do not mistake her defense for forgiveness. Your life belongs to Pelagia, boy. Not to your hunger for serpents and shadows."
The hall remained hushed, waiting for Theseus to bow—or to defy again.
For a long moment, the storm in Theseus's eyes threatened to break. Every muscle in his body ached to fight, to throw his father's words back at him like a spear. But then he exhaled slowly, lowered his gaze, and bent his knee before the throne.
"My King," he said, the words rough but steady, "I will obey. My life is Pelagia's before it is mine."
A murmur passed through the court—relief from some, disappointment from others, surprise from all. Caspian's shoulders eased, Enzo's family in the gallery bowed their heads in gratitude, and Lysandra's lips parted with the faintest breath of pride.
But Theseus was not finished.
His voice rose again, carrying across the vaulted hall with the weight of command. "But hear me: if the Thalassarchates wait—if we dither in council, bickering while this enemy claims the sea—we are already doomed. It will not stop at ships. It will not stop at borders. It will drag all our kingdoms into the deep. The Aegean will belong to it, and we will be nothing but a story told by drowned men."
The chamber fell into silence. His words hung there, stark and unshakable. Even those who despised his defiance could not deny the chill of truth that settled over them.
Theseus lowered his head once more, remaining on one knee. "I have spoken. Do with me as you will, Father."
The King stared down at his son, his storm-gray eyes unreadable. His fury had not vanished, but beneath it lay something else—doubt, perhaps, or the first flicker of fear.
Lysandra's hand tightened around her pearls, her gaze fixed on Theseus. He had bowed, yes—but he had also left a mark on every soul in the chamber. A warning none could unhear.
The Serpent Prince had bent, but he had not broken.
****
The storm of the court faded into memory as Theseus returned to his private chambers. The fire burned low in the brazier, casting the room in amber glow. His garments lay heavy on his shoulders, the weight of his father's words pressing still heavier.
Then the door opened softly.
Lysandra slipped inside, the pearls of her gown catching the firelight as she moved. For a moment, she simply stood there, her eyes drinking him in—alive, whole, still her betrothed despite all the fury and fear that had filled the hall. Relief softened her face, breaking the mask she had worn before the court.
"You came back to me," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Theseus's storm-gray eyes softened as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "The sea tried to take me. It did not succeed."
She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the strength beneath. For a heartbeat, she only stood there, listening to his heartbeat against her hand. Then, with a sudden, almost desperate motion, she kissed him.
It was not the courtly kiss of ceremony, but the fierce, tender kiss of two souls reunited after the abyss had nearly swallowed one of them. He pulled her close, his hands threading through her dark hair, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as though to anchor him in place.
Clothing fell away, not in haste but with the reverence of two who knew how easily fate might have kept them apart. They moved together beneath the glow of the brazier, their breaths mingling, the world outside falling away until there was nothing but the warmth of skin, the salt of tears, and the quiet certainty that in this moment, they belonged only to each other.
Later, when the fire had burned low to embers, Lysandra lay against him, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing the coral charm at his throat.
"I feared the sea would keep you," she murmured. "But it gave you back. I won't waste this."
Theseus pressed a kiss to her hair, his arm tightening around her. "Nor will I. Whatever comes—council, Leviathan, even my father's wrath—you are my harbor, Lysandra. The only one I would sail back to."
Her smile, small but radiant, bloomed against his skin. For that night, the storm was kept at bay.
The brazier's embers glowed faintly, painting the chamber in shades of gold and shadow. Lysandra shifted, propping herself on one elbow as her dark hair spilled over Theseus's chest. Her fingers still idly traced the line of the coral charm at his throat, but her eyes had sharpened—less the woman who had just clung to him in relief, more the princess of Kymara, trained since childhood in the art of politics and survival.
"Theseus," she said softly, though her tone carried weight, "you realize what you've done tonight, don't you? The court is already splitting. Half believe you reckless, the other half whispers that you are the only one bold enough to face what lies beneath the waves."
He smirked faintly, though weariness softened it. "Let them whisper what they will. I brought back the truth, and truth is more than rumor."
Her hand stilled on his chest. "Truth is not enough." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "The Thalassarchates thrive on rivalry. Seven kings who barely share a table, let alone a vision. Kymara, Thalora, Okeanos—each watches the other for weakness. You think a tale of a steel leviathan will unite them? More likely, they will squabble over who must bear the cost of answering it."
Theseus's sea-gray eyes darkened. "Then they will see it for themselves. I have proof—more than just Enzo's wound, the Black Trident's scars, the survivors who heard its voice in the deep. I have pieces of the enemy left behind on my ship. When the kings look upon what I faced, they will have no choice but to act."
Lysandra gave a small, sad smile. "My love, kings always have a choice. They will question, they will delay, they will weigh the risk against the comfort of their harbors. And all the while, this thing in the deep will grow bolder."
Theseus sat up slightly, the sheet falling from his shoulders, firelight catching the lines of his body. He looked out toward the window where the night sea shimmered in moonlight. His jaw was set, his voice low but fierce. "If they delay, then Pelagia will act alone. I will not wait while the enemy claims our sea."
Lysandra touched his cheek, her eyes full of both admiration and worry. "And that, beloved, is what frightens them most. Not the monster in the deep—but you."
For a moment, silence hung between them, the kind that carried both intimacy and omen. Then she lowered her head back to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Theseus wrapped an arm around her, but his gaze remained on the sea beyond the window. Proof or no proof, he knew the hardest battle was yet to come—not against the leviathan, but against crowns and councils who feared each other more than the abyss.
****
The chambers of the royal infirmary smelled of salt, herbs, and the bitter tang of boiled wine. Torches burned low in sconces along the stone walls, their flickering light falling across rows of cots where wounded men groaned in uneasy sleep. The Black Trident's survivors had been given the place of honor, but honor did little to dull the pain.
Theseus strode through the narrow aisles, the weight of whispers trailing him. Soldiers and sailors raised their heads, some nodding, others averting their eyes, all carrying the same hollow look. But his focus was fixed on the corner, where a curtain of linen swayed gently in the draft.
He pushed it aside.
Enzo lay on a pallet, pale but alive. His left side was swathed in clean bandages, the linen darkened where blood had seeped through. His arm—what remained of it—was wrapped tight at the shoulder, the flesh seared shut by the royal physician's skill and fire. A brass basin of water at his side was tinged pink, fresh from another round of treatment.
The physician, an older man with sharp eyes and salt-white hair, bowed as Theseus entered. "The wound is clean. Infection has not taken him. He will live. But the arm…" He hesitated, then shook his head. "Gone. He must learn to walk a different path now."
"Theseus…" Enzo's voice was hoarse, but it carried, steady as ever. His eyes opened slowly, still sharp even under the weight of pain. "You look better in royal robes than you did drenched in salt and blood."
Theseus moved to his side, crouching low so their eyes met. "And you look better alive than buried at sea. You should not have thrown yourself into that light."
A faint smile tugged at Enzo's mouth. "Would you have preferred I let it roast you instead? I only need one hand to keep you alive, my prince."
For the first time since the battle, Theseus let out a short, rough laugh. He clasped Enzo's remaining hand, gripping it tight. "You are more than my hand, Enzo. You are my brother in all but blood. Pelagia owes you more than songs will ever repay."
Enzo's gaze darkened, though his grip was firm. "What we faced out there—no songs will make sense of it. That thing was not of our world. If it comes again, you'll need more than serpents and tides. You'll need all the Thalassarchates. And you'll need me, one arm or not."
Theseus's jaw tightened, the storm returning to his eyes. "The council will gather. I'll bring them the proof we secured to silence their doubts. And when they see what hunts our sea, they will have no choice but to unite."
Enzo's faint smile faded. He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a rasp. "Kings always have a choice. Don't forget that."
The words lingered in the dim chamber, heavy as anchors.
Theseus squeezed his friend's hand once more, then stood, his cloak brushing the floor. His face was carved in resolve, but deep down, he knew Enzo was right. Proof alone might not sway the sea kings. And if they chose to delay, the sea would not wait.
The royal meeting chamber of Pelagia was built to impress. A long hall of marble veined with blue stretched from the arched doors to the throne dais, its floor inlaid with a map of the Aegean Sea in turquoise and silver. Carved pillars lined the chamber, their capitals shaped like leaping dolphins, and between them hung banners of Pelagia's victories—fleets conquered, enemies broken, seas claimed.
At the far end sat the King, trident emblem above his throne, flanked by his advisors and generals. Nobles filled the benches to either side, their voices a low buzz of anticipation as the great doors swung shut.
The chamber quieted when the herald's voice rang out:
"His Highness, Prince Theseus of Pelagia, heir to the sea throne."
Theseus entered in formal garb, his head held high, every step measured. He bore no helm, no sword, only the coral charm at his throat—the living mark of his lineage. Whispers rippled through the chamber at his presence, some bitter, others awed.
The King's gaze followed him coldly as he took his place before the throne.
One of the generals, his armor polished and his voice heavy with disdain, rose first. "Majesty, with respect, the boy brings back tales of metal beasts and phantom lights. Yet all we see are broken ships and maimed men. We lost more to his folly than to this so-called omen."
A murmur of agreement stirred the benches.
But another voice cut through. A councilor with silver rings on his fingers leaned forward. "And yet, Majesty, the people do not call it folly. Word of the prince's voyage has already spread through the streets. They speak of the Serpent Prince who faced the Leviathan and lived. Mothers weep, yes, but they weep with pride as much as grief. To them, he is proof we can fight back."
Several nobles nodded reluctantly. Others glanced at one another, gauging which way the tide of opinion turned.
The King's jaw clenched, his storm-gray eyes narrowing. "The people are easily stirred by fire and song. It is our duty to guard them from fantasy. What say you?"
Another councilor, a priest of Okeanos, draped in blue robes, rose slowly. His eyes lingered on Theseus before turning to the King. "Majesty, the sea has always birthed omens. When sailors whisper of serpents in the waves, it is never without cause. The prince's voyage may have been reckless… but it may also have been necessary. To dismiss it outright could prove dangerous."
The hall buzzed louder now, split voices filling the air. Some still muttered of arrogance, others spoke of destiny, but the tide was shifting—Theseus's defiance no longer seemed only rebellion. It carried the weight of omen.
The King slammed his palm down on the trident armrest, silencing them all. His voice rolled like a storm breaking over cliffs.
"Enough! I will not have my court divided over shadows. Until the Thalassarchates convene, no fleets sail. Pelagia will not bleed itself on phantom tides."
Then his eyes fixed on his son. Cold, sharp, unrelenting.
"But know this, boy—your name grows louder in the streets. The people call you savior, the Serpent Prince who would defy the abyss itself. If you let their adoration turn your head, you will not only drown yourself but this kingdom as well."
Theseus bowed stiffly, though his voice carried steel. "The people call me what they will, Father. I did not ask for their songs. But I tell you this—the abyss is real, and it will not wait for your counsel. When it comes again, they will remember who faced it first."
Gasps and whispers spread like a wave through the hall. The King's fury darkened, but beneath it, unease flickered in his storm-gray eyes.
The chamber rippled with whispers, some awed, others scornful, all feeding the storm Theseus had stirred. He stood in the center of the map-inlaid floor, his chin raised, his father's fury burning down on him from the throne.
Then Theseus clapped his hands once, sharp as a crack of thunder. The great doors swung open. Caspian entered, broad-shouldered even beneath the bandages lacing his arms, his boots heavy on the marble. In his hands, he carried something wrapped in sailcloth, its weight making his steps deliberate. He strode to the center and dropped it on the floor with a hollow clang.
The cloth fell away.
Gasps swept the chamber.
It was one of the metallic constructs—battered, half-crushed from axe and tide, its body slick with dried brine. Plates of seamless iron curved over its frame, scarred by battle, its core still glimmering faintly with pale light that pulsed like a dying heart. Gears and ridges, alien in design, protruded along its sides, and from its front jutted a broken blade that looked grown rather than forged.
The nobles recoiled. Priests muttered prayers. One councilor whispered hoarsely, "Unnatural…"
The general who had mocked Theseus earlier stepped forward, his face pale despite himself. "What… what devilry is this? No forge in Erytheia shapes metal so seamlessly. No aether-smith crafts cores that glow without flame."
The priest of Okeanos crossed himself, beads rattling in his hands. "This is no beast of the deep. Nor any relic of the Heroic Age have I ever studied. This… this is blasphemy made flesh."
"Theseus," the King thundered, rising half from his throne, though his voice faltered at the edges. "What have you brought into my hall?"
"These," Theseus said, his voice clear and cutting, "are the claws of what stalks our waters. Not a rumor. Not shadow. Flesh and blood of the abyss, wrought in iron and fire. We faced them on the sea. Men bled against them. Enzo lost his arm to their weapons. And still you would call it fantasy?"
Caspian planted his axe into the marble with a heavy thunk, his voice booming across the chamber. "I saw them tear through our serpents. I cut down three myself, and still they swarmed us like wolves in a storm. If the Serpent Prince had not turned the sea itself against them, none of us would have returned!"
The hall erupted in chaos—nobles shouting, priests crying out, commanders demanding answers. The word unnatural echoed again and again, hissing like a curse.
Above it all, the King sat frozen on his throne, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the broken construct. His knuckles whitened on the trident armrest, fury and fear warring in his gaze.
And for the first time, silence pressed back upon him—not from command, but from the truth gleaming faintly on the floor.
The chamber boiled with voices—fearful, angry, awed. Some nobles shouted for the relic's destruction, others for war, others for silence lest the mainlanders catch wind of Pelagia's weakness. Priests muttered prayers to Okeanos and Poseidon, crossing themselves with trembling hands.
The King rose fully from his throne. His voice cracked like surf breaking on stone.
"Enough!"
The clamor died at once.
All eyes turned to the throne, where the King's storm-gray gaze burned—not just with fury, but with a cold clarity that silenced even the boldest tongues. His hand gripped the armrest shaped like a trident, the weight of his words settling over the chamber.
"This," he said, pointing down at the broken construct, "is no trick, no rumor. My son has brought me proof of the abyss made flesh. Whatever it is—god, machine, or curse—it has tasted our fleets. It will not stop."
Murmurs rose again, quieter this time, laced with dread.
The King's gaze swept the hall. "But we are Pelagia. We are the heart of the Thalassarchates. The Aegean is ours to rule, ours to defend. And we will not go begging to the mainlanders for aid like children. This sea belongs to us—and we will unite to defend it."
He slammed his palm on the trident armrest. "Summon the sea kings! Call Thalora, Kymara, Okeanos, all seven of the Thalassarchates. Let them gather here, in Pelagia's court. We will stand as one against this abyss before it grows too strong for us to face!"
The chamber erupted again, this time with cries of assent. Some shouted for war, others for preparation, but all agreed: the sea kings must meet.
Theseus stood tall at the center of it all, his jaw tight, his chest rising with pride. His proof had forced the King's hand, his warning no longer dismissed.
But as the construct's pale light pulsed faintly on the marble floor, Theseus could not shake the weight in his gut. The Thalassarchates were mighty, yes, but slow to move, jealous of one another's strength. Would unity come swiftly enough? Or would the abyss devour their fleets one by one while kings argued over crowns?
Lysandra's gaze found his across the hall, her eyes sharp and knowing. The battle ahead would not only be on the waves—it would be here, in the council, where fear and pride ran deeper than any ocean trench.