The sea lay restless that morning, its surface broken by the wakes of mighty ships as they cut through the Aegen toward Kalidon. The island rose from the waves like a jagged crown of stone, its cliffs blackened by centuries of fire and its beaches scarred by the weight of a thousand landings. At its heart stood the Hall of Driftwood and Iron, built from the ribs of leviathans and the timbers of conquered fleets—a neutral ground where the Thalassarchates convened when the sea demanded unity.
From the deck of the Black Trident, Theseus watched the procession unfold. His ship, scarred but whole, glided alongside the others, its crew standing tall despite their wounds. Around them loomed the vessels of the other kingdoms: Thermora's crimson-sailed warships, their hulls lined with flame-painted prows. Kymara's pearl-white triremes, sleek and swift, their oars beating the waves in perfect rhythm.
Okeanos's leviathan-boned dreadnaught, its prow carved into the likeness of a serpent's head, water hissing as it cut the surf. Nerathis's black-hulled carracks, bristling with harpoon launchers. Thyrassos's squat, square-rigged galleons, heavy with cargo and soldiers alike. And Phorcasia's storm-scarred longships, each mast adorned with shark jaws and barnacled banners. Seven kingdoms, seven fleets, each a world unto itself—pirates, raiders, and kings all bound by blood to the sea.
Theseus's sea-gray eyes narrowed as he studied them. For all their power, their unity was a lie; beneath the trappings of the Thalassarchates lay rivalry as old as the tides. Their strength lay not in brotherhood, but in the Mare Thalassion—the pirate fleet they sent forth together to raid the mainland. It was that plunder—gold from the Aurelion leagues, relics from the Chthonia necropolis, slaves from the Ashen coasts of the Imperium—that filled their coffers and kept their kingdoms afloat.
And now, they gathered not to plan raids, but to hear Pelagia's warning of a threat that stalked beneath the waves.
"These seas have never seen them all together like this," Caspian muttered at Theseus's side, his arms crossed, his axe resting on his back. "Feels like the gods themselves called them here."
"These kings," Enzo rasped, standing with his arm bound in fresh linen, his skin still pale, "were pirates before they wore crowns. They will weigh what you say against their greed. Remember that, my prince. They won't act unless they see how it profits them."
Theseus did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on Kalidon, where the Hall of Driftwood and Iron loomed on the shore. He felt the weight of his father's command, of the proof lying in Pelagia's vaults, of the eyes of his men who believed in him.
Seven kings would gather there to decide the fate of the Aegen. Whether they would stand against the abyss—or sink beneath it—would be forged in words, not waves.
And Theseus knew words could cut deeper than any spear.
The Black Trident anchored alongside the others at Kalidon's jagged harbor, its crew falling into line as drums echoed across the cliffs. From the shore, horns blared—a deep, rolling sound that carried out over the waves and into the marrow of every sailor present.
It was time.
Theseus disembarked with his retinue—Caspian at his shoulder, Enzo limping but unbowed, Lysandra in gleaming pearl-white robes that marked her as Kymara's princess and Pelagia's betrothed-to-be. Together they ascended the basalt steps carved into the cliffside, leading to the Hall of Driftwood and Iron.
The hall itself sprawled atop Kalidon's crown: a vast circular chamber whose walls were fashioned from shipwreck timbers and leviathan bones lashed together with rusted iron chains. At its center lay the great firepit, filled not with flame but with saltwater that glowed faintly blue, the "living flame" of the sea kings' council.
One by one, the kings arrived, their banners snapping in the salty wind.
From Pelagia came King Acastus, Theseus's father, borne on a palanquin fashioned from sea-serpent scales, the Pelagion banner of a silver trident on storm-gray cloth unfurling above him. His presence commanded silence—the hard, storm-eyed ruler who had forged Pelagia into the first among equals. His gaze barely flickered toward his son.
From Thermora, King Dorian strode in first, his crimson mantle trailing behind him like fire on water. The Thermoran banner bore a blazing sun devouring a ship, a reminder of their ruthless raids. Acastus was a broad man with a voice like a forge, his pride evident in the way he sneered at rivals before bowing perfunctorily to Pelagia's throne.
From Kymara, Queen Ione arrived with her retinue. The banner of Kymara fluttered white and gold, a sea bird clutching a jewel. She was draped in silks and pearls, her beauty sharp as a blade. A smile curved her lips as she spotted Lysandra, though it did not reach her eyes—every move of hers was calculation.
From Okeanos, King Phorcys entered with the weight of myth. His banner was the black serpent devouring its own tail, and his retinue bore weapons carved from leviathan bone. He was an old man, scarred, his hair white as salt, but his aura pressed on the hall like the depths themselves. Even the other kings gave him space; Okeanos was the oldest of the sea thrones.
From Nerathis, King Damis arrived in dark leather armor, his banner a black kraken with tentacles wrapping the world. He carried no finery, only harpoons strapped to his back, his reputation as a hunter preceding him. His eyes swept the hall, counting exits, measuring strengths—a predator among predators.
From Thyrassos, Queen Melantha arrived not on foot, but on a litter carried by pearl-clad slaves. Tall and stern, her hair bound with iron rings, her banner depicting a bloody reef that looked like a graveyard. She carried herself like a commander more than a monarch, her voice already barking orders at her retainers as though the council were a battlefield.
From Phorcasia, Lord Arion made his entrance last, his banner tattered, its shark-jawed emblem snarling against the wind. He strode barefoot across the hall, barnacles clinging to the iron greaves on his legs, his skin etched with scars from shark bites. He grinned with too many teeth, a madman and raider who ruled by terror as much as strength. The others whispered curses under their breath at his approach, but none challenged him.
Seven rulers. Seven banners. Seven thrones placed in a circle around the saltwater flame.
As the herald called their names and titles, the kings and queens seated themselves, their retainers standing behind like a wall of steel and finery. The banners hung overhead, the colors of the Thalassarchates snapping in the wind that whistled through the hall's ribbed walls.
Then the herald's staff struck the stone floor three times.
"The Council of the Thalassarchates is convened."
The hall fell silent, save for the lapping of the saltwater flame. All eyes turned to King Acastus of Pelagia, who rose to speak.
The saltwater flame at the center of the hall lapped and shimmered, casting pale light across the seven thrones. Above them, the banners of the Thalassarchates snapped in the sea wind. Each king and queen sat with their retinues close, their eyes fixed on the throne of Pelagia.
King Acastus rose. His storm-gray cloak swept across the floor, his trident-shaped scepter gleaming in the firelight. His voice carried like the crash of waves against stone.
"Brothers and sisters of the sea. We meet not to plot raids, nor to divide spoils, but because the tide itself turns against us. Pelagia's fleets have been struck—not by storm, not by raiders, but by something new, something we do not understand."
Murmurs rippled across the circle. Some nodded gravely. Others smirked.
Lord Arion of Phorcasia leaned forward, his barnacle-crusted greaves creaking. "So Pelagia bleeds, and the Serpent Prince spins a tale of shadows in the deep. And for this, you summon us here, Dorian? You drag kings from their thrones to speak of ghost stories?"
A ripple of laughter passed through parts of the hall, but it died quickly when King Phorcys of Okeanos slammed the butt of his bone staff into the floor. The sound reverberated like a leviathan's heartbeat.
"Enough." His voice was deep, slow, and heavy, like words spoken from the trench. His scarred eyes fixed on Dorian. "If Pelagia claims the abyss moves against us, then let us see the proof."
At this, Acastus lifted a hand. Caspian stepped forward from the shadows, dragging behind him the sail-wrapped bundle. With a grunt, he heaved it into the circle and tore away the cloth.
Gasps. Cries.
The broken metallic construct lay there under the banners of the sea kings, its pale core still pulsing faintly, as though mocking their astonishment.
Queen Melantha of Thyrassos narrowed her eyes, her iron-ringed hair clinking as she tilted her head. "What devilry is this? No forge crafts such a thing. It reeks of sorcery—or worse."
King Dorian of Thermora leaned back in his seat, his crimson mantle spilling down the steps. "Or trickery. Pelagia brings us a lump of iron and claims it came from the sea. Convenient that only your son, who hungers for glory, has seen it in battle."
Theseus's jaw tightened, his hands clenching behind his back.
But before he could speak, Queen Ione of Kymara rose gracefully, her silks whispering like surf. "And yet… Pelagia's streets ring with the name of the Serpent Prince. The people sing of his defiance, of fleets shattered by something beyond our ken. Kings may doubt, but the common folk already believe."
Her words cut through the hall like a knife. Kings shifted uneasily.
Acastus's gaze swept them all, his voice rising once more. "Believe it or not, the sea has changed. This thing hunts us, and if we bicker here, it will devour us one by one. The Thalassarchates must unite, as we did when the Mare Thalassion was born. If we fail, the abyss will not stop with ships. It will claim the Aegean, and then all of Erytheia will be at its mercy."
Silence hung heavy. The saltwater flame flickered.
Then all eyes turned—not to Acastus, but to Theseus. The prince felt the weight of seven thrones bearing down on him. His father's proof lay on the floor, but the choice of whether they believed it… rested on him.
The saltwater flame hissed faintly, its glow catching the glimmer of the broken construct at the center of the hall. The kings and queens leaned back in their thrones, weighing Pelagia's omen in silence. The weight of the moment pressed on the circle—until laughter broke it.
Lord Arion of Phorcasia rose from his shark-jawed throne, his grin wide, scarred skin stretched tight over salt-bitten bones. "So this is what Pelagia brings us? Scraps of metal dredged from the deep, a toy to frighten children into obedience? Shall we quake at shadows now, because Acastus's son cannot stomach the sea?"
His words echoed through the hall, sharp as hooks. A ripple of amusement passed among some of the nobles and captains gathered behind their monarchs.
Arion leaned forward, barnacle-crusted greaves scraping against the stone. His teeth gleamed like a predator's in the firelight. "Tell me, Serpent Prince—when the abyss came, did you fight it? Or did you scurry home to your father's skirts, dragging this carcass behind you to prove you saw a ghost?"
A low murmur rippled through the hall. Theseus felt the burn of every eye upon him—some mocking, some curious, some weighing. His father, King Acastus, sat rigid on his throne, his storm-gray gaze unreadable, offering no shield.
Theseus stepped forward into the circle. His sea-gray eyes met Arion's without flinching, his voice steady, though it carried the edge of restrained fury.
"I fought it," he said, his tone cutting through the whispers. "I fought it with every tide and serpent I could summon. I bled men into the sea, and I watched Enzo, my right hand, lose his arm to protect me from its fire. Do not mistake survival for cowardice, Lord Arion. I came back not because I fled, but because I endured."
He gestured to the broken construct lying in the circle, its pale core pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. "That is no ghost. It is the claw of something real, something that hunts not only Pelagia but all the Aegean. If you doubt my word, do not doubt the scars on my ship, the graves of my sailors, and the arm that Enzo left behind in its maw."
The chamber stirred again. Even some who smirked before now frowned, glancing uneasily at the construct. Arion's grin faltered, though his eyes still gleamed with mischief.
Theseus's voice rose, steady and sharp, echoing against the leviathan bones that formed the walls. "Mock me if you will. Call me reckless. Call me a fool. But do not call me a liar. For if you do, the next fleet it swallows will silence your tongue for you."
A hush swept the hall, the saltwater flame flickering as if stirred by his words.
The hall erupted like a storm breaking over the sea.
Queen Melantha of Thyrassos slammed her iron-ringed staff against the floor. "The boy speaks true! That relic reeks of the abyss—no forge of men could craft such blasphemy. We must ready our fleets before more are lost!"
King Dorian of Thermora barked back, his crimson mantle whipping as he rose. "Nonsense! Pelagia lost ships to its prince's arrogance. Shall we bleed Thermora's coffers to chase his shadows?"
Queen Ione of Kymara's silvery laughter cut between them, sharp as broken glass. "And yet the people whisper already of the Serpent Prince. Shall we ignore the tide of public favor while it rises against us?"
"Let him play hero if he wishes!" Lord Arion spat, his shark-like grin bared. "Phorcasia's fleets will not dance to Pelagia's dirge."
Shouts and curses rose, banners snapping overhead as retainers murmured or snarled behind their rulers. The saltwater flame hissed, its glow swelling with the weight of their voices, casting the chamber in restless blue.
Then came the sound.
Thrum.
The butt of King Phorcys's bone staff struck the stone floor, once. The noise rolled through the hall like the echo of a leviathan's call. All voices fell silent.
The eldest king rose slowly from his throne of leviathan bone, his scarred frame stooped yet heavy with presence. His eyes, clouded and salt-white, seemed to see deeper than sight. When he spoke, his voice rumbled low, a trench made into sound.
"Words," Phorcys said, his gaze sweeping the circle. "Words are salt on the tongue. But saltwater remembers."
He turned toward the central flame. "This hall was built with the bones of leviathans, its heart a pool that drinks the truth of the sea. We shall not argue over tales when memory can be shown."
A murmur spread through the hall—uneasy, reverent.
Phorcys lifted his staff and lowered it toward the saltwater flame. The water glowed brighter, waves rippling as though stirred by an unseen tide. "Theseus, Serpent Prince. You bore witness. Place your hand upon the flame. Let the council see the sea through your eyes. Let truth decide if we prepare for war—or laugh at ghosts."
All eyes turned to Theseus. The weight of the seven thrones pressed upon him, the flame beckoning with its soft, luminous glow.
The chamber stilled as if the sea itself held its breath. The saltwater flame pulsed, its glow rolling like a tide waiting for command.
Theseus stepped forward into the circle, his boots echoing against the stone floor. He stripped the coral charm from his neck, set it at the flame's edge, then sank to one knee. His hand hovered over the glowing pool for a heartbeat. He could feel the heat of eyes boring into him—his father's, his betrothed's, his rivals', his allies'.
Then he pressed his palm into the water.
The saltwater hissed. Blue light flared upward, swallowing the hall in a shimmer like sunlight piercing the depths. The water rippled outward, and then it became sight.
The kings and queens gasped as the chamber dissolved into a rolling sea. They stood now as witnesses within the memory, unseen but seeing. The Black Trident pitched beneath their feet, sailors shouting, the spray of salt stinging their faces.
And then the leviathan came.
The submarine rose from the abyss like a nightmare of iron, its hull slick with barnacles, its pale lights gleaming like eyes. The hum of its engines rolled through the memory, rattling the bones of the hall itself.
The swarm poured forth—sleek metallic predators darting through the waves. The kings flinched as one construct burst from the water, its blade whirring as it sheared a serpent's coil apart. Men screamed, oars splintered, water boiled under beams of pale fire.
The vision shifted—Enzo, hurling himself between the beam and Theseus, his arm consumed in a burst of light and vapor. The scream echoed through the saltwater flame, sharp and raw, silencing even the boldest mockers.
Finally, they saw the serpent of Okeanos rise, coiling from the depths under Theseus's call—only to shatter against the leviathan's weapons, dissolving into foam. The prince at the helm, jaw set, veins alight with his Navigation Mystery, forcing his ship into hidden currents as the sea itself burned around him.
The image ended with the submarine lingering in the distance, its pale lights watching, unhurried, before sinking back into the abyss.
The flame dimmed. The hall returned.
The silence afterward was heavier than iron. Even Lord Arion's grin had fled. Nobles shifted uneasily, priests clutched their beads, and commanders stared at the broken construct on the floor with new eyes.
King Phorcys lifted his staff, his salt-white gaze fixed on the others. "You have seen. You cannot deny. The abyss walks in iron now, and it will not stop with Pelagia. The sea remembers."
No one dared laugh.
The saltwater flame guttered back into its steady blue glow, but the weight of what it had shown pressed down heavier than the tide. For a moment, none spoke—the memory of Enzo's scream, the boiling waves, the iron leviathan hanging in the abyss still clung to every soul in the chamber.
Then Queen Melantha of Thyrassos rose, her iron-ringed hair clinking as she struck her staff against the floor. "You saw it. You all saw it. If we hesitate, we hand our fleets to the abyss. We must strike now—assemble the Mare Thalassion, hunt it down before it grows stronger!"
Her voice roused murmurs of agreement, but King Dorian of Thermora rose with equal fire. His crimson mantle flared as he barked, "And bleed Thermora's coffers dry for Pelagia's folly? I will not! The sea is vast. This thing may never show itself again. Why should we commit our sons and ships to chase one monster when raiders gnash at our borders and the mainland waits ripe for plunder?"
"Because if we do not," Melantha snapped, "there may be no fleets left to raid with!"
The two shouted over one another until Queen Ione of Kymara's silvery voice cut between them. "Or perhaps we take a third course. Fortify our coasts, strengthen our harbors, and let Pelagia's fleets carry the burden they provoked. The rest of us need not throw our strength into the deep until the enemy rises against us directly."
Nods followed her words—measured, calculating nods from kings who saw cost more clearly than danger.
Then, to the shock of many, King Dorian leaned forward again, his storm-gray eyes narrowed in thought. "And what if the enemy is not the enemy at all? What if it is a power with whom we might treat? The sea has always birthed gods and demons alike. Perhaps this iron leviathan may be bargained with—turned to our cause instead of fought in vain."
The hall erupted with a wave of outraged voices.
"Blasphemy!" cried priests.
"Madness!" roared generals.
Even Lord Arion, usually quick to mock, barked a sharp laugh. "You would parley with the beast that roasted your ships? You'd have us bow to iron and light?"
At last, King Acastus of Pelagia rose from his throne. The storm in his eyes was no longer cold but blazing, his trident scepter raised high. His voice thundered above the chaos, cutting through like a breaker across a reef.
"No. We will not bow."
The chamber fell silent.
Acastus's voice carried, sharp as a spear-point. "You all saw it as I did. That thing did not come bearing gifts or peace—it came with fire, with weapons, with hunger. To kneel to it would be to spit on the blood of every sailor who drowned beneath its lights. Pelagia will not kneel. Nor should any kingdom of the Thalassarchates."
He lowered his scepter, his gaze sweeping the circle of thrones. "We are the heirs of raiders, the masters of the Mare Thalassion. The sea bends to us, not we to it. If we must fight this thing, then we will fight as kings, not supplicants."
The saltwater flame hissed louder, as if stirred by his defiance. Some kings muttered assent, others frowned, but all felt the weight of his words.
The council was no longer asking if the abyss was real—it was deciding whether to resist it, or cower before it.
The saltwater flame crackled faintly, its glow licking across the bones of the hall as silence stretched after King Acastus's words. Some kings nodded, others frowned, and more sat undecided, their gazes darting between thrones as though waiting for the tide to decide for them.
Theseus felt it—uncertainty hanging like a storm before the break. He could not let it drown in silence.
He stepped forward into the circle, the blue light catching the coral charm at his throat. The murmurs fell away as every eye turned to him—not a king, but the prince who had shown them the abyss through the flame.
"You saw it," Theseus began, his voice steady but carrying iron beneath it. "Not a shadow, not a story. You saw. Ships torn apart. Men slaughtered. A weapon that boiled the sea itself."
His sea-gray eyes swept across the circle, meeting each ruler in turn. "You may doubt me. You may mock me. But the flame does not lie. The sea remembers truth. And truth is this: the abyss has teeth of iron, and it will not rest until it devours us all."
He turned toward Queen Ione of Kymara, who had spoken of fortifying. "You would build walls and hide in harbors. But no wall stops the tide. If you wait for it to come to your shores, it will not knock politely—it will burn your ships in your own bays, and by then it will be too late."
He faced King Dorian of Thermora, who had spoken of parley. "You would bargain with it? We tried no bargain. We fought, and it answered not with words but with fire. It does not seek allies. It seeks prey. If you kneel, it will take your knee and then your throat."
Finally, he turned to the undecided—Queen Melantha of Thyrassos, King Damis of Nerathis. His voice sharpened. "You are raiders. You know the sea is cruel. Would you have the histories remember you as kings who bowed when the abyss rose, who let your fleets vanish one by one until nothing remained but bones for the tide to gnaw?"
The hall was silent now, his words heavy as anchors.
Theseus lifted his chin, the storm in his blood rising. "We are the Thalassarchates. Our ancestors tamed these seas with fire and steel, with sails that carried us farther than the gods themselves. If we cannot stand together now, we are not kings—we are carrion waiting for the abyss to feed."
The saltwater flame flared, as though answering his call. For a heartbeat, the hall felt the weight of something more than rhetoric—it felt like the sea itself was listening.
For a long moment, the only sound in the Hall of Driftwood and Iron was the restless hiss of the saltwater flame. The kings and queens sat motionless in their thrones, their banners shifting faintly overhead in the sea breeze.
Then Queen Melantha of Thyrassos rose, her iron-ringed hair clinking like chains. She struck her staff against the floor, the echo sharp as steel on stone.
"The boy speaks with the voice of the tide," she said, her eyes flashing. "I will not see Thyrassos remembered as cowards who hid in their harbors while the abyss swallowed the sea. Our fleets will march with Pelagia. Better to drown fighting than live as prey."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. All eyes turned next to King Damis of Nerathis. The hunter sat forward slowly, his scarred hands gripping the arms of his throne. His black-inked tattoos shimmered in the firelight as he spoke.
"I smelled blood in his memory," Damis growled, his voice like grinding stone. "Real blood. The abyss hunts us, as surely as I once hunted kraken in the trenches. And no prey grows fat by waiting to be eaten. Nerathis will stand with Pelagia."
The hall erupted into cries—some of approval, others of outrage. But the tide had shifted.
Even Queen Ione of Kymara, calculating as ever, leaned back in her throne, her smile sharpened but tinged with thought. "So the Serpent Prince sways the council," she murmured, loud enough for many to hear. "Perhaps he is worth more than the songs say."
King Acastus of Pelagia rose to his feet, his storm-gray cloak billowing. He lifted his trident scepter high, his voice rolling through the chamber.
"Then it is decided. The Thalassarchates will unite. The Mare Thalassion will sail—not to raid the mainland, but to hunt the abyss that dares to strike at our seas."
The saltwater flame flared brighter, waves rippling within it as though stirred by unseen depths. The banners overhead snapped, and for the first time in generations, the seven kingdoms stood bound by more than greed or rivalry.
The hall shook with the voices of kings and queens calling for blood and steel, their oaths echoing like thunder.
And Theseus, standing in the center, felt the weight of their eyes upon him. The Serpent Prince who had borne the omen, who had endured the abyss and lived to warn them—he was no longer mocked. He was a herald of war.