The Hall of Driftwood and Iron still roared behind them with the voices of kings and captains swearing oaths, but outside on the basalt steps of Kalidon, the air was cooler, the sea wind sharp with salt. The sound of gulls circled above, mingling with the crash of waves against the cliffs below.
Theseus stood at the edge of the steps, his hands braced against the stone railing, staring out at the horizon where banners of seven kingdoms fluttered over anchored fleets. His sea-gray eyes were hard, but beneath the steel was something heavier—knowledge that a war had just been birthed, and it had been born through him.
Enzo sat on a bench nearby, his left arm bound in clean linen, his right hand clutching a cup of watered wine. The hollows beneath his eyes told of pain he would not admit aloud. Yet his voice was steady as ever when he spoke.
"You did it," Enzo said, watching Theseus. "You turned kings who would sooner slit each other's throats into allies. That takes more than words—it takes weight. And you have it now."
Theseus didn't turn. "Weight, yes. But weight drags, Enzo. I felt it in that hall. Every oath they spoke was heavy with their own designs. They do not see the abyss yet. They see opportunity."
A soft hand touched his arm. Lysandra stepped close, her pearl-white robes rippling in the breeze. Her dark hair framed her face, her eyes sharp but softened by worry.
"Your instincts are right," she said quietly. "Some of them will wear this war as a cloak, hiding their schemes beneath it. Dorian of Thermora will push for spoils. Ione of Kymara will whisper of alliances that bind more than fleets. Even Melantha of Thyrassos, for all her fire, will see in this a chance to expand her reach."
She tilted her face up to him, her expression solemn. "You must be wary, Theseus. You stood today as herald of war, but tomorrow they may seek to make you pawn or rival. The abyss is not the only danger you've awakened."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the roar of the sea. Theseus's jaw tightened, his fingers curling against the railing.
"I will not be their pawn," he said at last, his voice low, firm. "If they think to use me, they will find the Serpent Prince does not coil easily in another's hand."
Enzo chuckled dryly, though the sound was edged with pain. "Then make certain, my prince, that when the abyss rises again, it fears you more than they do."
Lysandra's hand lingered on Theseus's arm, her eyes steady on his. "And make certain that when the sea crowns a victor, it is you who still stands."
Theseus looked out across the horizon, where the banners of the seven kingdoms snapped above their ships. His stomach coiled with equal parts pride and dread. The Thalassarchates had united—but whether against the abyss, or against themselves, remained to be seen.
****
The roar of Kalidon's council hall was already fading into memory when the Black Trident returned to Pelagia. The harbor bristled with activity: dockworkers heaving crates of salted provisions, smiths hammering out spearheads and harpoons, shipwrights patching planks and caulking seams until their hands bled. The smell of tar, sweat, and salt filled the air, and the sound of hammers echoed across the city like the heartbeat of war.
But within the palace, past its coral gates and vaulted halls, Theseus worked alone.
His office overlooked the harbor, its broad windows catching the light of the setting sun, spilling fire over scrolls and maps spread across his desk. The charts bore the outlines of the Aegen Sea, but also lines of ink stretching further—to the southern gulfs of Thyrassos, the deep channels of Okeanos, the uncharted western reaches where the abyss might have its lair. Each map was littered with fresh notes, hastily drawn currents, tides marked with sharp strokes that only a navigator's eye could make sense of.
Theseus leaned over them, one hand braced against the desk, the other tracing paths with a piece of charcoal. His sea-gray eyes flicked across the ink, seeing more than lines—seeing currents, hidden channels, secret ways through the sea that his Navigation Mystery unveiled when he closed his eyes.
Behind him, the door opened softly. Caspian stepped in, smelling of salt and steel, his axe strapped to his back. "The shipwrights are readying the fleet," he reported. "The first thirty hulls can be put to sea within the month. The rest will follow."
Enzo entered after him, his left arm bound close to his side, but his eyes sharp despite the pain. "The men are eager. They whisper of vengeance, of proving themselves in the Serpent Prince's war. But they are afraid, Theseus. They saw the flame. They saw that thing. No songs will blind them to it."
Theseus straightened, turning to face them both. His expression was tired, but steady. "Good. Let them keep their fear. Fear sharpens the blade, steadies the hand. I will not ask them to go unknowing. They will face the abyss with open eyes."
At that moment, Lysandra entered, draped in pearl-colored robes that shimmered in the low light. She carried a scroll, sealed with Kymara's sigil. "My mother writes," she said, laying it on the desk. "She urges me to counsel you caution. Already whispers grow in the courts—that war will bleed the Thalassarchates dry, that some kingdoms will hold back their strength and wait for Pelagia to falter."
"Theseus," she added softly, "unity is brittle. If you do not keep the council bound, your victory at Kalidon may unravel before the fleets even sail."
The prince pressed his hands against the desk, his gaze fixed on the sea-map sprawling beneath him. "Then I must bind them not with words, but with war itself. Once they face the abyss and see its hunger, they will have no choice but to stand."
He looked up at them all—Caspian, grim and loyal; Enzo, scarred but unbroken; Lysandra, sharp-eyed, her voice laced with warning. "The Mare Thalassion sails soon. And when it does, the abyss will learn that the sea is ours."
Theseus's eyes lingered on the maps for a moment longer, then lifted to Enzo. The firelight flickered across his friend's face, throwing deep shadows into the hollows beneath his eyes. The bandaged stump of his left arm rested awkwardly against his side, a silent reminder of the price they had already paid. Theseus's throat tightened. Enzo had always been his right hand, his shadow, the brother he chose. But now…
He studied him in silence, weighing the truth against the loyalty he saw in Enzo's gaze. And in that silence, a decision hardened in his chest, heavier than any chain.
"Enzo," Theseus said, voice lower than before.
The veteran straightened, his good hand curling against the hilt of his sword, waiting for orders.
"You'll be staying behind," Theseus continued, forcing each word past the knot in his throat. "You'll take command of the royal guards while I sail."
For a heartbeat, Enzo didn't move. His sea-battered face betrayed nothing but the blink of surprise, slow and disbelieving, like a man who hadn't quite heard right.
"But…"
"No." Theseus cut him off sharply, more harshly than he intended. He exhaled, softer this time. "I will not hear arguments. You are not yet healed, Enzo. The abyss already took one arm from you—shall I let it take your life as well?"
He stepped forward, laying his hand firmly on Enzo's right shoulder, the unbroken one. His grip was tight, almost desperate, the storm in his sea-gray eyes meeting the steel in Enzo's. "I need you here. Watching over my family, over Lysandra. I need to know they are safe while I am gone. Please. For me, my brother. I beg this of you."
Enzo's jaw worked, teeth clenched. His eyes burned with protest, with the pride of a soldier who had fought in storms alongside Theseus. His lips parted, ready to spit defiance.
But then he saw it—the plea in Theseus's eyes, not just command but fear, the quiet confession that the prince could not bear losing him too. Enzo swallowed hard, the words curdling in his throat.
At last, he nodded once, curtly, swallowing his bitterness with the discipline of a veteran. "As you command, Captain."
The words cut him as he spoke them, but he forced them out.
Theseus's hand lingered on his shoulder before he drew back. He gave a tight nod, though inside his chest ached with guilt. He had not only asked for obedience—he had stolen Enzo's right to fight beside him. And Enzo, loyal as the tide, had swallowed it whole.
The moon hung pale over Pelagia, its light silvering the open windows of the prince's chamber. The city below still bustled with the sound of shipwrights hammering through the night, the constant thrum of a kingdom preparing for war. But here, behind coral-carved doors, the world had slowed.
Theseus lay on the wide bed of woven kelp and silk, his chest bare, his arm curled around Lysandra. Her dark hair spilled across him like a tide of ink, her body warm and soft against his. The fire in the brazier burned low, painting the room in embers. The taste of her lips still lingered on his, the rhythm of their lovemaking slowly ebbing into silence.
For a time, there was only the sound of their breathing, steady, shared.
Lysandra lifted her head, resting her chin lightly on his chest so she could study his face. Her eyes searched him, sharp even in their softness. "You've made your choice," she murmured, fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone. "About Enzo."
Theseus's sea-gray gaze shifted to the ceiling, the weight pressing down again now that the heat of passion had dimmed. His hand tightened slightly on her waist. "He is my right hand," he said, voice low, gravelly. "He has stood with me since I was a boy, fought every storm at my side. And now, I've chained him to the palace like some watchman."
"You spared him," Lysandra said gently. "The abyss would have taken him if you hadn't. You know that."
He exhaled sharply, almost a bitter laugh. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I robbed him of the only thing that gives him breath—the fight. Men like Enzo… they live by the blade, by the sea. To order him to stay behind was like cutting away his soul."
Her hand slid up, pressing softly against his jaw, turning his face toward hers. "And what of your soul, Theseus? If you had taken him with you and lost him, would yours still remain whole?"
The question struck him silent. His jaw tightened, the storm behind his eyes flashing. For a moment, he looked away—but then he let his forehead rest against hers, his voice barely above a whisper. "No. It would not."
Lysandra's lips curved faintly, bittersweet. "Then you chose rightly. Sometimes love commands harder than war. He may curse you in silence, but he will live. And when you return, he will still be here."
Theseus closed his eyes, drawing in the scent of her hair, the warmth of her against him. The guilt did not vanish, but her words pressed against it like balm, easing the sting if not the weight.
"I fear," he admitted, voice trembling just enough to betray him, "that in sparing him, I have only made myself weaker. When the abyss rises again, I will not have his hand at my side. Only mine. Only the serpent."
Lysandra kissed him softly, her lips lingering. "Then make your hand enough. Make your serpent enough. And remember, Theseus—you are not alone. Not while I live, not while Pelagia breathes."
Her words sank into him like anchors, steadying him even as the tide of guilt threatened to pull him under. He held her tighter, burying his face in her hair.
For that night, he let himself believe her.