Dawn broke in bands of gray and rose across Pelagia, the sea glittering like hammered bronze. In the inner courtyard of the palace, beneath the coral arches where morning gulls circled, Theseus stood with Enzo one last time.
The veteran's face was drawn, pale from sleeplessness, his left side bound tight in fresh linen. Yet his stance was iron-straight, his right hand clasping the hilt of his sword as though daring his body to betray him.
"You should be on the deck of the Black Trident," Enzo muttered, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on Theseus. "Not me, left behind to guard walls while you sail into fire."
Theseus gripped his shoulder firmly, the same one he had claimed the night before. "Walls are worth guarding, Enzo. My family, Lysandra, our people—someone must watch over them. There is no one I trust more."
For a moment, Enzo's sea-bitten features softened. He wanted to argue, wanted to curse, but he swallowed the words. "You'd better return, Serpent Prince," he said finally. "If you don't, I'll sail after you myself—one arm or not."
A small smile broke through the storm in Theseus's eyes. "I will return. That, I swear on the sea itself."
They clasped forearms in the old raider's grip, the promise sealed not by words alone but by the weight of brotherhood.
The harbor of Pelagia seethed with life. Hundreds of men and women bustled along the docks, hauling ropes, sharpening harpoons, singing war chants that rolled across the water like surf. The smell of pitch and salt filled the air, mingled with the cry of gulls and the crash of hammers.
Ships lined the harbor like a forest of masts, banners snapping in the brisk wind—Pelagia's trident, Thermora's blazing sun, Nerathis's kraken, and more. The fleets of the Thalassarchates, usually scattered, now converged in a single storm of power.
The Black Trident waited at the fore, its hull patched and tarred, sails newly dyed, its prow carved into a serpent's head that gleamed in the morning light. The crew stood ready on the deck, armed, grim, and eager.
From the balcony overlooking the harbor, citizens gathered, shouting blessings and curses in equal measure. Some wept for sons already lost; others hailed the Serpent Prince as savior, their voices rising above the din.
Theseus walked the pier in full armor, the coral charm glinting at his throat, his sea-gray eyes fixed on the horizon. Caspian strode at his side, axe resting across his shoulder, and Lysandra followed just behind, her pearl-colored robes billowing in the wind.
The sea itself seemed to hold its breath as he mounted the gangplank and took his place at the helm. The drums began to beat, slow and heavy, the rhythm of war.
The Mare Thalassion was ready to sail.
And Theseus, though the weight of command pressed against his shoulders like the tide, stood tall at the helm of the Black Trident. His sea-gray gaze swept the harbor where banners of seven kingdoms whipped in the brisk wind. The kings and queens themselves remained in their palaces, far from the spray and stench of tar, but their chosen captains—pirates all—stood in their stead.
Theseus knew their faces well. Every one of them was a name whispered in taverns, a rival he had once crossed blades with before the sea turned them into uneasy allies. There was Lilia of Kymara, with pearl earrings dangling from her ears and a sly smile playing at her lips. Once, long before Lysandra, Theseus had shared a reckless night with her in some salt-stained port. She met his gaze now with a glint in her eyes, the memory unspoken but sharp.
But as his eyes counted the circle of captains, he stopped short. Two were missing.
His voice rang across the deck. "Where are One-eyed Nikolos and Hayreddin?"
A pause, then Lilia stepped forward, her tone smooth as polished glass. "It was agreed they would remain behind, to guard the Inner Sea. Someone must keep the Mare Thalassion's waters safe."
Theseus's jaw tightened. "And none of you thought it worth mentioning to me?"
Poly of Nerathis spat to the side, his heavy beard bristling. "You're not our commander, Serpent Prince. We sail under kings, not princes."
Glaucetas of Okeanos, scarred from brow to jaw, added gruffly, "Nikolos claimed he'd send word to Pelagia."
Gerakaris of Thyrassos let out a harsh laugh, flashing gold teeth. "Seems he lied. Well—now you know."
A ripple of chuckles followed, but Theseus's face remained stone. The barb stung, but he swallowed the words that burned in his throat. Lysandra's warning lingered in his mind: They will use every opening to cut Pelagia down, every chance to prove you less than they fear you are.
He straightened, his cloak snapping in the wind, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing his temper flare.
For he knew what they wanted. The rulers of the other kingdoms had always eyed Pelagia with envy. Since the day King Acastus had seized the throne, he had poured pirate gold into stone and shipwrights, turning their spoils into harbors, markets, and walls. Pelagia had grown rich enough to feed itself without the endless cycle of raids. It was a kingdom that did not need the Mare Thalassion to survive.
And Theseus had pushed it further. As commander of the fleet, he had not spent his strength only on raids against the mainland. He had sailed to broken fishing villages, driven back sea creatures that had risen from the deep, and given protection to those the other kingdoms dismissed. For that, the common folk of the Thalassarchates called him savior, whispered his name with loyalty that no crown could buy.
The captains knew it, too. And it galled them.
So Theseus stood silent, letting the moment pass until the laughter died away. His hand tightened on the serpent-carved helm of the Black Trident, the wood warm beneath his palm. His eyes scanned them, cold and unflinching. The abyss waited. He could not afford to fight two wars at once. Not yet.
The captains' smirks and barbs lingered in the air like the sting of brine. But Theseus did not rise to the bait. He let silence weigh heavily on the docks until the men and women of Pelagia, gathered behind their prince, shifted uneasily. They looked not to Lilia of Kymara or Poly of Nerathis, but to him.
His hand tightened on the serpent-carved helm of the Black Trident. Then, slowly, he reached to his side, fingers closing around the weapon at his belt. The trident gleamed as he raised it high, catching the sunlight in a blaze of gold and steel. The sight drew gasps from the sailors nearest him, for it was no common weapon—it was one of Poseidon's trident series, relics bound to the blood of Pelagia.
The weight of memory stirred within him. The throne room of Pelagia was dark save for the glow of braziers, the air thick with incense and salt. His father, King Acastus, stood before him, broad and storm-eyed, a chest of barnacle-etched iron at his feet.
"You are blood of the sea," Acastus had said, his voice thunderous in the vaulted chamber. "Born of Pelagia, heir to Poseidon's favor, kin to the Nereids who danced with gods. This war is not yours alone, but it will be borne on your shoulders. And for that, you will not go unarmed."
He opened the chest. Inside lay a trident, its three prongs curved like the horns of a serpent, runes etched along its shaft. The weapon shimmered faintly, alive with the memory of tide and storm.
"These were gifts from Poseidon himself to our bloodline," Acastus continued. "Fifty in number, one for each daughter of Nereus and Doris who blessed our forebears. Few remain, and fewer still are given to heirs. Take it, Theseus. Wield it not as a pirate's plunder, but as a prince of the sea."
Theseus had taken the weapon with both hands, feeling its weight sing in his bones, as though the sea itself had flowed into his grasp.
The memory vanished as he lifted the trident high above his head, the sunlight glinting across its prongs. The crowd hushed, their eyes fixed on him.
"Men and women of Pelagia!" Theseus's voice rang out, carrying over the creak of ships and the crash of waves. "You have seen what waits in the abyss. You have buried sons and brothers, fathers and friends. The sea has always taken from us—but now something rises from its depths to devour all that we are."
He swept the trident down, pointing it toward the horizon. "But we are Pelagia! We are not prey. We are the children of Poseidon's blood, kin to the daughters of Nereus. The sea bends for us, and today, it will bend to our will again!"
A cheer swelled from the Pelagian sailors, their voices raw, their fists raised. The sound thundered across the harbor, drowning out the mutters of rival captains.
"These other kingdoms may bicker, may test our strength, but we do not wait on them. We are the spearpoint. We are the storm. And when we strike, the abyss will learn that the sea is ours to command!"
The roar that followed shook the very planks of the docks. Sailors stamped their feet, oars beat against hulls, and the banners of Pelagia snapped sharp in the wind. For that moment, there was no doubt, no envy, no rivalry—only belief in the Serpent Prince who stood at their head with Poseidon's trident in hand.
Theseus lowered the weapon, his sea-gray eyes steady. The abyss awaited. But Pelagia was ready to meet it.
The horns of Pelagia blared at first light, deep and sonorous, shaking the air like the call of leviathans. The sound rolled down the cliffs, across the towers of coral and stone, and into the harbor where the Mare Thalassion waited like a forest of masts and banners.
Drums answered the horns, pounding from every deck, their rhythm matched by the crash of oars dipping into the sea. Sail by sail, the great ships lurched forward, pulling away from the docks where citizens stood shoulder to shoulder, crying out blessings and curses alike. Garlands of kelp and pearl were cast into the foam, offerings to the old gods of the deep.
The Black Trident led the way. Its hull, freshly tarred, gleamed in the morning light, the serpent-carved prow hissing against the surf. At its helm stood Theseus, Poseidon's trident propped firmly at his side, its three-pronged head catching the sun until it blazed like molten gold. His sea-gray eyes swept over the harbor, then the horizon beyond—the Aegen opening wide like a mouth awaiting them.
Behind him, Caspian strode the deck, voice booming as he rallied the sailors. "Oars steady! Keep the beat, lads! Let the sea know Pelagia sails!" His words carried above the roar of drums, above the shouts from the cliffs, his presence steady as iron.
The crew broke into song, an old raider's shanty passed down from fathers and grandfathers, voices hoarse but strong:
Oars to the tide, blood to the sea,Storm take our foes, our will makes us free…
The chant spread, one ship to the next, until the whole Mare Thalassion seemed to thunder with the same chorus.
Yet beneath the pride and ritual, the omens came.
The sky dimmed though no storm clouds gathered, the sun shrouded by flocks of seabirds wheeling low and frantic over the waves before veering away, as if fleeing something unseen. The wind carried with it a strange tang, salt and iron, sharp as blood in the throat. Even hardened sailors spat into the sea, muttering old charms, fingers brushing talismans of bone or shell.
Theseus felt the shift deep in his marrow. The songs grew louder, not from joy but to drown the unease. He lifted Poseidon's trident above his head, and for a moment the runes etched along its shaft shimmered faintly, catching the eyes of those who watched him from the decks below.
"The sea is ours," he called, his voice carrying over wind and waves, steady as a captain's oath. "And today it sails with us. Let the abyss come—it will find Pelagia ready."
A roar answered him, a wave of voices rising from ship to ship. The banners of the Thalassarchates snapped in the wind, the Mare Thalassion pushing out into open sea, its songs and drums shaking the water.
But above them, the seabirds still circled, shrieking. And the horizon yawned like a dark mouth, waiting.
Beneath the surface, where sunlight broke into shifting bars of dim light, the metallic leviathan prowled. Its hull was a cathedral of iron and rivets, vast enough that schools of fish scattered like dust before its passage. Inside, corridors thrummed with the steady pulse of engines, a heartbeat not of flesh but of machine.
In its central chamber, officers moved in silence. Their uniforms were dark, collars high, the marks of rank traced in silver thread. They stood at attention before a wall of polished glass and humming crystal—monitors that translated the sea above into clear, sharp images.
Across those screens, the fleets of the Mare Thalassion could be seen pulling into open water. Sails snapped like wings, banners of tridents, suns, and krakens rippled, oars churned the sea white. Hundreds of hulls cut forward, united in a chorus of drums and song that the submarine's instruments translated into strange vibrations across the water.
The officials watched without expression, but there was a weight in the room, the kind born of history turning.
And at the center, towering above them all, stood the armored being. Its figure was wrought of both man and metal, plates black as obsidian, helm featureless save for two slits burning faintly with light. Before, it had stood upon the leviathan's hull like a god upon his beast. Now, it stood within, its shadow long across the command floor.
One of the officials, his voice careful, broke the silence. "They gather, my lord. All seven banners. It is as you foretold."
The armored being did not move at first. It studied the fleet through the monitors, its presence as suffocating as the deep. When it spoke, the voice was melodic, resonant—eerily at odds with the iron weight of its form.
"Good," it said. "Let them gather. Kings, princes, pirates—they believe unity will shield them. They do not yet understand that the sea itself no longer belongs to them."
A ripple of unease passed among the officials. None spoke.
The being lifted one gauntleted hand, its fingers brushing the glass of the largest monitor. The image there magnified, centering on the Black Trident, where Theseus stood at the helm with Poseidon's weapon gleaming in his grip.
For a moment, the chamber seemed to grow colder.
"The Serpent Prince," the being murmured. "He carries a relic of the old gods. That spark will make him dangerous. But also… predictable. He clings to the past. We are the future."
Its hand curled slowly into a fist.
"Prepare the leviathan," it commanded. "We have let them taste survival for a while now. Allowed them the grace to believe their songs mean something. But when we rise, they will sing their pleas to our Emperor. They will beg for Liberation."
The officers bowed their heads as the engines deepened their growl, the submarine vanishing further into the dark. Above, the fleets sailed proudly toward a horizon already claimed by the abyss.
The armored being left the viewing chamber with its chorus of flickering monitors and hushed officers, its footfalls echoing down the iron corridors of the submarine. The air here was colder, scrubbed clean by humming vents, until it reached a door sealed with silver inlays and etched with geometric lines that pulsed faintly, alive with some strange energy.
It opened without sound.
The chamber beyond was unlike the rest of the leviathan vessel. Where the other decks hummed with steel and oil, this one breathed order. Ancient tomes, their spines cracked but carefully preserved, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Shelves gleamed, their wood polished black, their corners reinforced with metal rivets. A single desk dominated the center, broad and severe, its surface bearing a crystal-clear monitor that threw pale light across the room.
Behind it sat a man.
His shoulders were broad, his face carved into planes as sharp as an eagle's beak, scar crossing his cheek like an old wound of war. His brown hair was combed neatly, though streaked with gray at the temples. He wore a uniform of black and deep violet, immaculate save for the medals gleaming on his chest. Everything about him was austere, precise, a man who lived in discipline.
He did not rise when the armored being entered. Instead, he flicked through the glowing reports that rippled across the monitor, his scarred hand moving with methodical precision. Only when he reached the end did his brown eyes lift, pinning the towering figure before him.
"So," he said, his voice low, severe, each word weighed as if on scales. "The Imperium's daughter is one of them. A Mystique."
The armored being inclined its head. "Yes, General."
The man's eyes narrowed, considering, before he leaned back slightly in his chair. "And she may carry the Thread Mystery." His fingers tapped once against the desk, a measured rhythm. "The one we seek."
"Yes, General," the being replied again, its tone a melodic contrast to its iron frame.
The General's gaze hardened. "The Machina Solis predicted the Thalassarchates would answer the bait. Their unification, their prince at the helm—it is all unfolding precisely. And now…" He closed the report with a flick of his finger, the screen darkening. "The subjugation has been approved."
The air seemed to tighten with those words.
"It is time," he continued, his voice steady as stone, "for you and your team to take the field. Subjugate the Serpent Prince completely. But preserve the royal family of Pelagia. Their bloodline is… necessary to our objective."
The armored being tilted its helm slightly. "And the others? The captains of the allied fleets?"
The General's reply came without hesitation. "Kill them all. The predictive algorithm has already confirmed that bloodshed is inevitable. It is the nature of conquest." His eyes sharpened. "But limit civilian casualties. The Deus Factus will not accept wanton slaughter. Order without restraint is chaos. And chaos serves no one."
The armored figure bowed its head. "Yes, General. I will shape the slaughter to the will of the Deus Factus."
Without another word, it turned, cloak whispering across the floor as it left the chamber.
The General remained behind, his scarred face carved into grim stillness, fingers tightening on the edge of his desk. The tomes around him seemed to whisper as the engines growled deeper, driving the metallic leviathan into the black depths.
War between the abyss and the Thalassarchates had already begun.