The night had become chaos.

  The cove burned with torchlight and screams. Shadows flickered between wrecked ships, shattered docks, and the glint of blades clashing with claw and fang.

  They came in droves — pale-skinned monsters with stretched limbs and dripping gills, leaping from the sea with bone-hooks for arms and eel-like jaws that split sideways.

  And they met steel.

  Godric moved like a storm.

  Death’s Lament shimmered in his grip, twin blades dancing in his hands. He parried a lunging creature, pivoted, and with a whisper from his soul, the blades merged into one — a greatsword with jagged edges and a green core pulsing like a heart. He drove it downward, cleaving through the monster’s chest, green light erupting from the wound as the body dissolved into water.

  Another came. He swung the single blade wide, Death’s Lament responding to his will, reshaping again mid-motion into dual sabers, then once more into a glaive as he vaulted onto an overturned crate. The weapon’s eerie glow lit his face — focused, unflinching.

  For the first time since they left Primera, Godric felt alive.

  Michael was a fortress of death.

  He moved forward, not around.

  Each step was heavy, precise, brutal. Fortitude cleaved through bodies like a smith through molten ore, its silver edge glowing faintly as it magnetized the metal of nearby bolts and broken weapons. With a flick of his wrist, shattered scraps became a wall of shrapnel — flung forward with a thought, piercing through three creatures mid-leap.

  One beast lunged for his exposed flank. He raised his palm, called to the iron nails beneath the dock, and they ripped upward, impaling it before it reached him.

  His voice bellowed over the noise: “Hold the line! We do not fall here!”

  Xhiamas flowed like water — but struck like stone.

  He danced between foes, cloak whipping behind him like a trailing shadow. Where Godric held the line and Michael broke it, Xhiamas threaded the chaos.

  He ducked beneath a claw, flipped over a lunging beast, and planted his dagger deep into its spine. His weapon — curved like a predator’s tooth — found every weak point. In the span of a heartbeat, he disarmed three enemies, flipped one into another, and turned a monster’s own weapon against it.

  Then he vanished into smoke, appearing behind another creature and slitting its throat clean. His movements were flawless. But his expression remained cold.

  Focused. Haunted.

  Then came Ziyad.

  From the edge of the fight, he stepped into shadow — and vanished.

  A beast turned toward the wrong Dragoon — and a flash of black carved through its neck before it even realized it was being watched. Ziyad appeared behind it, blade dripping with blue blood, eyes gleaming beneath his hood.

  He was everywhere. Flickering through the battlefield like a whisper, his feet never quite touching the ground, blades catching moonlight only for a second before disappearing again.

  Godric, between clashes, caught a glimpse — and blinked.

  Shadow. Then slash. Then nothing.

  He exhaled, stunned. “That’s… magic?”

  Michael grunted as he shattered another enemy’s ribs. “So that's Shadowwalking. It truly is a sight to behold. Dangerous. Efficient.”

  Godric looked again — and saw Xhiamas watching too.

  But his gaze wasn’t impressed.

  It was… wary.

  The flames reached the cove before the dawn did.

  The once-lively trading post, a haven of shipwreck stalls and ramshackle taverns, was now ablaze in a panic of steel, smoke, and blood. Shouts rang out. Dragoons spilled from the ship, crossbows raised and blades unsheathed, rallying to defend the cove’s inhabitants — merchants, traders, and foreign travelers — who had grabbed what they could to fight back.

  The enemy had come from the water, pale-skinned and shrieking, slithering from under the docks, crawling over hulls like barnacles coming to life.

  “Push them back! Hold the eastern walk!” one of the Dragoon captains yelled, rallying his men to hold a crumbling barricade of crates and nets.

  Godric jumped down from the ship and rolled across burning planks, twin blades flashing in a green arc as he landed beside a wounded foreigner.

  “Stay down!” he barked, stepping in front of the man as a pale beast lunged from the shadows.

  Death’s Lament snapped into a polearm, sweeping low to catch the creature mid-leap. With a roar, Godric drove it down, pinning the thing and twisting the weapon into its chest.

  He didn’t stop to catch his breath — the battle was everywhere.

  Ziyad flitted between alleys like a ghost.

  He emerged behind an enemy feasting on a wounded Dragoon, slicing its neck and disappearing before the corpse hit the ground. From the rooftops, he shadowstepped again, catching a glimpse of Michael — a silver force in the inferno.

  Fortitude whistled as it tore through three enemies in one swing, molten slivers of summoned metal orbiting him like a halo. He was fighting near a collapsed market stand, fending off enemies trying to breach the upper decks of the cove.

  Godric reached him, panting. “What are these things?”

  Michael parried a clawed hand and severed it at the elbow. “I don’t know,” he said between swings. “But this isn’t the whole of them. Not even close.”

  Godric’s expression tightened. “You think this is just a fraction?”

  Michael nodded grimly. “If the frost drakes in the North were awakened by something… something old… then it’s possible the Abussonians have been facing the same.”

  He slammed his sword down, creating a shockwave of metallic energy that knocked back a cluster of attackers.

  “Maybe that’s why they never answered the summons properly.”

  Godric’s eyes widened — memory flashing. “During the summons… they only sent an emissary. Not King Ennoris.”

  Michael met his gaze. “Exactly.”

  Xhiamas, leaping between the broken remnants of a balcony, drove his dagger into another shrieking creature and looked down at the chaos below. His jaw clenched. He didn’t like this.

  These weren’t just sea monsters or pirates.

  They were organized.

  And coming in waves.

  From across the battlefield, he caught Ziyad’s eyes for a second — just long enough to see him phase through a burning alley, cutting down an enemy without breaking stride. He turned away sharply and joined Michael and Godric near the old cove watchtower.

  The sky began to turn, a pale haze settling over the ocean horizon.

  More beasts surged from the water — larger ones now, bloated and covered in barnacle-plated armor, their arms wielding twisted tridents or coral-forged clubs. They shrieked in unison, as if answering to something deeper.

  A Dragoon shouted from the outer pier, “We need to fall back! They're surrounding us!”

  The group braced as another wave slammed into the defenses — but they held.

  Just barely.

  The fire raged. Blood slicked the wooden walkways. Yet they stood — beaten, bloodied, but not broken.

  And in that moment, Godric realized something terrifying: this was not a random attack.

  This was a warning.

  The cove burned, but the defenders refused to fall.

  Godric stood at Michael’s side atop the scorched quarterdeck of the Dragoon vessel. Around them, sails were torn, the sky filled with the haze of fire and sea mist. Screams echoed from the shallows, where foreign crews fought shoulder-to-shoulder with the Nyxsteel Dragoons against the rising tide of inhuman beasts.

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  Other ships had joined the fray — towering eastern galleons, thick-hulled merchant cutters, and black-flagged warships of unknown allegiance. All now stood together in a loose ring formation, their cannons trained on the waters as monstrous shadows writhed just beneath the surface.

  Michael barked orders without hesitation, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Reinforce the eastern flank! Hold the docks! Fire at will once they breach the line!”

  Around him, the Dragoons obeyed, taking defensive formations with shield lines and repeating crossbows. The foreigners — grizzled mercenaries, well-dressed merchants, even a few desert nomads — responded with surprising unity, forming makeshift barricades of crates and debris.

  On a lower deck, Xhiamas and Ziyad stood back to back, watching the water churn with unnatural motion.

  Xhiamas wiped sea-slicked blood from his jaw and muttered, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  Ziyad didn’t answer at first. He was staring into the surf with uncharacteristic stillness, shadow-dagger in hand. Then finally, he whispered, “No… not in Azane. Not anywhere.”

  He inhaled. “I’ve seen beasts, monsters twisted by sun and sand. But this… this is wrong. They have no rhythm. No instinct. Just… malice.”

  Then came the roar.

  It was deep — so deep it shook the air and water like the bowels of the sea had opened. Godric staggered as a wave slammed into the cove, sending smaller vessels crashing against one another.

  The ocean split.

  From its depths, an enormous form surged upward — tentacles the size of tree trunks flailing with monstrous fury. Its body was wrapped in barnacle-armored plates, eyes glowing with cold intelligence.

  A kraken.

  Godric had never seen one, but he knew by the look on Michael’s face what it was.

  Michael raised Fortitude and called out to the people, asking them to hold the line. He turned to Godric. “It’s not just brute force. These things have cunning. Aim for the eyes if you get a shot.”

  The kraken let out another cry, and in response, more of the pale creatures began to swarm — emerging from behind coral-covered wreckage and seaweed-choked crevices.

  The defenders readied themselves for what could be their final stand.

  Then something changed.

  Ripples formed in the water near the kraken, but they came from the opposite direction. At first, the defenders braced for another wave of enemies — but what burst forth were not monsters.

  They were warriors.

  Men and women clad in gleaming aquatic armor, with helms shaped like the heads of fish and serpents. Tridents flashed. Spearheads tore into the kraken’s flesh, and swift, coordinated movements drove back the pale invaders.

  A chorus of rallying cries rang out — not in Primeran, but in a deep, fluid language like the sea itself.

  The Dragoons stared in disbelief.

  One of them dropped to his knees and whispered, “Thank the Divines… the Abussonians are here.”

  The battlefield shifted in an instant.

  With the arrival of the Abussonian tideguard, hope surged through the defenders. The kraken thrashed and bellowed, now harried from both sea and land. The cove, though bloodied and battered, lit with the fire of resistance.

  Godric gripped Death’s Lament, its blade still glowing green, and glanced at Michael.

  “We can win this.”

  Michael nodded, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Now we will.”

  The kraken’s roar shattered what calm remained.

  Its tentacles lashed out, striking masts and capsizing small boats in one sweep. Cannonballs flew from the cove’s defenders, crashing against its armored hide and sending up columns of seawater. But the beast endured — old as the ocean and twice as cruel.

  Michael took command with natural precision.

  “Focus fire on the eyes! Archers, to the rooftops! Abussonians — push right!”

  He turned, yelling over the chaos, “Godric! Take the harbor’s edge with Xhiamas! Cut off the tentacles from landfall!”

  Godric nodded, sprinting toward the dock as his twin blades morphed into a long glaive, Death’s Lament pulsing with green fury. Xhiamas followed close behind, flipping over barrels and sliding under a fallen mast. His jagged dagger caught the light like a serpent’s fang.

  Ziyad melted into the shadows, appearing behind a writhing limb of the beast. With one clean strike, he carved deep into its underflesh, then vanished again, streaking through darkness to strike once more. Godric couldn’t help but stare — it was as though the shadows themselves obeyed him.

  Xhiamas, noticing the look, didn’t speak — but his jaw tightened. Old wounds ran deep.

  On the waters, the Abussonians moved like a tide of vengeance.

  Three spear-wielders leapt atop the kraken’s tentacles, planting their weapons deep before backflipping into the sea. Others threw glowing nets that sparked on contact, binding limbs with runes unknown to the Primerans.

  The Dragoons rallied alongside them, cannons blasting, swords clashing. One Dragoon captain — a burly woman with a shattered helm — mounted a toppled mast and threw a harpoon straight into the kraken’s eye. It screamed in pain, the sound like a ship’s hull splitting in two.

  Michael, with Fortitude in hand, surged forward across the dock.

  The metal around him bent to his will — rusted chains lifted, forming a swirling shield of iron that deflected a crashing tentacle. Then he leapt, greatsword gleaming, and with a downward cleave, cut through flesh and bone with a thunderous crack.

  “Now!” he roared. “All together!”

  At his signal, the entire cove responded.

  Godric vaulted off a wrecked merchant ship, his glaive reforming mid-air into twin blades again. He spun mid-fall, slicing through a flailing limb, green fire trailing behind.

  Xhiamas climbed the rigging and hurled his dagger into one of the kraken’s open wounds, then drew another from his belt and dove, plunging it deep as he landed.

  Ziyad emerged from a dark corner of the battlefield, sprinting toward the kraken’s face. His blade split into a dozen shadow-forms, each stabbing from a different angle as he whispered something in his native tongue — an old curse, perhaps, or a prayer.

  The Abussonians unleashed a final barrage — their leader, a tall warrior with silver-gilled armor, hurled a spear wreathed in light. It pierced the kraken’s other eye.

  Michael raised Fortitude one last time, now glowing white-hot with molten heat, and bellowed:

  “To the deep with you!”

  He brought it down with a mighty swing — the blade striking the kraken’s skull with such force that it cracked like ice beneath a hammer.

  The beast let out a final, gurgling screech.

  It convulsed. Shuddered. Then began to sink, dragging clouds of blood and shadow with it into the depths.

  The defenders didn’t cheer. They collapsed, breathless, soaked in seawater and ichor, bodies trembling from exhaustion.

  But they had won.

  As silence settled over the burning cove, Godric leaned on his weapon, chest heaving.

  He looked at Michael, who was wiping blood from his brow. Then at Xhiamas and Ziyad — both standing, both alive, their expressions unreadable.

  The Abussonian leader approached, pulling back his helm to reveal violet eyes and sea-slicked braids.

  “You fought well,” he said in accented Primeran. “And saved this cove.”

  Michael nodded, eyes hard. “What were those things?”

  The warrior glanced at the sea, then back to them.

  “We’ll explain. But not here. Something stirs beneath the waves. And this… was only the beginning.”

  The sun rose over the battered cove like a pale, weary eye. Smoke from burning vessels still clung to the sky in drifting plumes. The sea was calm again, but the memory of the kraken’s cry still echoed in the minds of those who had heard it.

  Within the ship’s captain’s cabin, the core members of the group gathered, joined now by the Abussonian captain — his silver-scaled armor still slick from seawater, his trident leaning against the wall beside him. His dark hair was pulled back, exposing markings that shimmered faintly across his temples — old symbols of rank and lineage.

  He stood tall, commanding respect without demanding it.

  “I am Kaerthas, Waveborn of the Depths, Captain of the Ninth Trident, firstborn of King Ennoris.” His voice was deep, deliberate — waves over stone. “I speak now, not as a soldier, but as one who has seen what lurks beneath.”

  Michael nodded in gratitude, his expression firm yet respectful. He extended a hand.

  “We thank you, Kaerthas,” he said. “Your arrival turned the tide. We owe you.”

  Kaerthas clasped his forearm. “No debt between allies, Michael of the Seven.”

  The group settled, some standing, others seated around the map-strewn table. Ziyad leaned against the wall, still nursing a shallow wound. Xhiamas stood by the window, arms folded. Godric sat on a bench, clutching a warm cloth to a scrape on his cheek, eyes fixed on the Abussonian with quiet intensity.

  Michael exhaled. “Tell us. What’s happening in your realm? What were those things?”

  Kaerthas's gaze shifted to the window, where the sea glistened with morning light.

  “We have been under siege for weeks,” he began. “Not just by the creatures you faced… but by others. Older. Forgotten. Creatures that should never have stirred.”

  Michael’s brow furrowed. “The forgotten ones…? That’s impossible. The tales have said they were locked away during the Age of Fracture.”

  Kaerthas turned to him slowly. “Yet they stir.”

  Michael took a step back, his usual composure rattled. “No. That… that’s not possible. Even Sir Byronard said—”

  Godric cut in, glancing between them. “What are they? These… ‘forgotten ones’?”

  Kaerthas’s eyes found Godric’s. “Relics,” he said. “Remnants of a time long before even the Divine Concord. They were the failures of the old gods — abominations forged in secret, cast into the deepest trenches when they proved… unstable.”

  The silence that followed was heavy. Even the wind outside seemed to still.

  “They were bound by chains of light and buried beneath the pillars of the world,” Kaerthas continued, voice quieter now. “We, the Abussonians, have watched those depths for generations. It was our sacred duty — the Pact of the Depths. Until now, we believed the seals would hold forever.”

  “And now?” Michael asked.

  Kaerthas's jaw tightened.

  “Now the sea groans with memory. The chains have weakened. Something ancient and powerful moves beneath. Something that calls to the broken and the buried.”

  He paused, then added:

  “Our king has felt it — the stirring. He sensed their awakening days before the first attack. That is why he did not come to your surface war. He believed this threat… was ours to face.”

  Godric leaned forward. “That’s why he sent only an emissary during the summons…”

  Kaerthas nodded. “A courtesy to the alliance. But we have fought our own war in silence, hidden by tide and depth.”

  Xhiamas spoke for the first time, voice low. “And the creatures we saw last night — were they among the Forgotten?”

  “No,” Kaerthas replied. “They are drawn to the Forgotten. Puppets to something larger. The kraken was not the threat — only the signal.”

  Kaerthas’s words lingered like salt in the air, but despite the heaviness of the revelation, the decision came swiftly.

  “We press on,” Michael said, his tone ironclad. “If the Forgotten Ones stir beneath the oceans, then Azane must be warned. We don’t have the luxury of delay.”

  Godric nodded. “The faster we get there, the faster we can act.”

  Xhiamas crossed his arms. “Then we move by nightfall.”

  Before more could be said, a knock rapped against the cabin door, quick and urgent.

  “Apologies, Captain!” a Dragoon’s voice called through the thick wood. “But… you all need to come outside. Now.”

  Exchanging wary glances, they followed Michael to the deck.

  The sun had risen higher now, and in its golden light, something massive hovered in the sky—casting a wide shadow over the cove.

  Suspended by runed propellers and ethereal thrusters of glimmering light, a colossal flying ship hovered just above the tallest sails. Crafted of white-gold alloy and swirling azure plating, it gleamed like a myth made manifest. Metallic wings extended outward like a soaring bird mid-glide, with faint hums of mana thrumming from beneath.

  Everyone stared in stunned silence.

  Ziyad squinted. “That… is not something from the sea.”

  Kaerthas looked up, genuinely puzzled. “Nor the skies I know.”

  Then, from atop the deck of the ship, a figure waved.

  A slender man with messy, windswept hair, a long, ink-stained coat fluttering behind him, leaned dramatically over the railing. In one hand was a paintbrush, in the other, what looked like a strange, gear-filled compass. His grin was wide, boyish, and completely out of place given the ship’s grandeur.

  Michael narrowed his eyes, muttering as he pulled out a spyglass.

  “…Jophiel?”

  Through the lens, the man’s features came into focus — unmistakable.

  Jophiel, the Artist of the Seven, winked as he saluted them playfully, clearly proud of himself.

  Godric blinked. “You know him?”

  Michael’s expression was one of complete disbelief. “Yes. He’s one of us. A genius… and a madman.”

  The others were still gaping at the flying vessel — a miracle of engineering, arcane infusion, and sheer creative madness.

  Michael lowered the spyglass slowly, staring at the airship like it had no business existing.

  “…How in the world did he build that?”

  He paused.

  “And more importantly… why on earth is he here?”