Beneath the bone-white Coral Spire, where sunlight could never reach and the pressure crushed even the strongest creatures, a cavern pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. It was not stone, nor coral, but a living thing—grown from the flesh of forgotten gods.
And within it, Lyrielle stood atop a throne of blackened pearls, her eyes shut, her arms outstretched. The deep choir encircled her, sirens of twisted elegance—some humanoid, others barely clinging to their original forms. Each bore runes etched into their gills, necks, and spines, bleeding with the magic of old Leviathans.
Above her, the ceiling trembled.
She opened her eyes.
The choir sang—not with words, but with ancient harmonics, their voices bending water, minds, and memory. Ships drifted off course. Beasts from the trench twisted violently. The sea was not calm. It was listening.
A voice slithered into her ear.
> "They've begun the edict, Lyrielle. Olympus moves against the vessel."
She smiled faintly.
