The sea refused to calm.
Days passed since they left Griefwater Atoll, but the ocean remained restless—shifting in unnatural ways. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the moon. It was the feeling, deep in the water, that something was watching.
Darion stood at the wheel of the Duskwind, hands tight on the spokes. He hadn't slept much. Neither had Mara.
She was below deck now, curled in a hammock, the compass clutched to her chest like a child might cling to a dying candle in the dark. She didn't trust herself—not since the second crown fragment called to her.
Not since she listened.
Abyr stood at the bow, unmoving, watching the horizon with the same detachment one might have toward an old battlefield. He'd said little since Griefwater, but Darion had caught him watching Mara when she wasn't looking—with something between curiosity and wariness.
They all knew it.
The Queen's influence was growing.
And the next piece lay in a cursed city no map wanted to show.
Port of Whispers
"Deepmoor," Abyr said, pointing with a gloved hand.
Darion squinted through the mist. At first he saw nothing but fog and shadows.
Then the shape emerged—a jagged coastline choked with derelict buildings built into cliffsides, half-sunken ships moored to rotting piers, and a lighthouse that pulsed with flickering green light like a beating heart.
"Looks abandoned," Darion said.
"It's not," Abyr replied. "Not truly."
They guided the Duskwind into the creaking docks. No dockmaster approached. No crew. Just the wind, howling like a wounded beast through rusted chains and broken masts.
Mara stepped onto the dock slowly, the compass already glowing faintly.
"This place is full of death," she whispered.
Darion joined her. "That's putting it gently."
Abyr leapt down behind them. "Deepmoor was once a free port—no kings, no gods, just coin. But something happened. The sailors say the sea bled one night, and the harbor never healed."
"What's guarding the fragment here?" Darion asked.
Abyr gave a tight-lipped smile.
"Guilt."
The City That Weeps
They made their way into the city, through narrow alleyways layered in mildew and old fish bones. The buildings leaned inward, as if trying to whisper secrets to one another. Shutters banged even when there was no wind. Windows stared like hollow eyes.
It wasn't long before they saw the people.
Or what remained of them.
Pale shapes lurked in doorways and under crumbling archways. Some watched. Others whispered—names, curses, nonsense. Most wore old sailor coats or noble robes stained with salt.
None looked alive. But they weren't dead either.
"Saltwights," Abyr said. "Ghosts of those who drowned in regret."
"Why don't they attack?" Mara asked.
"They're too busy remembering."
As if to prove it, one woman in a ruined ballroom gown pointed at Mara and rasped, "My son had your eyes. I let him burn."
Then she turned and walked backward into the wall, vanishing.
Darion shook his head. "This place shouldn't exist."
"But it does," Abyr said, "because the Queen never forgets."
The House of Broken Oaths
The compass pulled them toward an old cathedral—half-collapsed, but its stained-glass windows still glimmered with images of ships on fire and kings kneeling before a sea goddess.
Darion kicked the door open.
The room inside was cold. Too cold. The floor was slick with brine. At the center stood a basin, and inside it floated the third crown fragment—silver-black coral curved into a jagged spiral.
But before Mara could move, a voice echoed from the shadows.
"You again."
Darion froze.
A man stepped into the light—tall, lean, with a captain's coat adorned with rusted medallions and a smile carved from betrayal.
Captain Vexar Cain.
Darion's former second-in-command. The one who'd stayed behind when Darion defected from the Iron Tide.
"You've got a real habit of dragging trouble to my doorstep," Cain said.
Darion drew his blade. "Didn't think you'd still be breathing."
"Neither did I. But Deepmoor accepts those who suffer." He turned to Mara. "And you… you're a sight. The Queen dreams of you, you know."
Mara's hand tightened on the compass. "You serve her?"
Cain laughed. "No. But I admire her. She doesn't forget. She doesn't forgive. She just waits."
Abyr stepped between them. "You stand between us and the fragment. Move."
Cain didn't.
Instead, he unsheathed his saber—its edge encrusted with salt. "You want the piece? Earn it."
The Duel
Cain struck first.
His blade moved like a wave—fluid, endless, always returning. Darion blocked the first flurry, but Cain was faster than he remembered.
"I should've gutted you the day you ran," Cain hissed, parrying low.
"You followed a lie," Darion spat. "Worshipping the Queen won't make you a god."
Cain smiled. "Don't need to be a god. Just need to survive."
Their blades clashed again—steel shrieking, sparks flying. Abyr moved to interfere, but Mara held up a hand.
"No. He needs this."
Abyr raised a brow. "He might lose."
"Then he dies."
Cain feinted, then landed a cut across Darion's ribs. Blood sprayed. Darion staggered.
"Still soft," Cain said.
But Darion grinned. "Still standing."
Then he moved.
One step. One twist.
He let Cain thrust, then stepped inside the arc, shoulder to chest, and plunged his blade into Cain's gut.
Cain gasped. Darion twisted the sword.
"Goodbye, Captain."
Cain fell.
The Fragment's Judgment
Mara stepped to the basin. The crown piece trembled.
She raised the null sigil.
But this time, the voice didn't beg.
It offered.
"You saw the throne. Felt the power. Why destroy what could save them?"
"Save who?"
"Everyone. You could unmake pain. Rule the tides. Erase regret."
Mara hesitated.
Abyr placed a hand on his hilt. "Choose."
Darion, bloodied, leaned against the wall. "We're here for a reason, Mara. Don't let it twist you."
Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm so tired of choosing."
The fragment pulsed.
And she screamed.
Not in pain.
In rage.
She slammed the null sigil down.
The fragment shattered into foam.
The basin cracked. The voices in the walls wailed.
And Deepmoor, for the first time in a century, went silent.
What Remains
They camped that night on the Duskwind. Darion was bandaged, Abyr standing watch, Mara sitting at the stern, staring at the compass.
It no longer glowed.
Three fragments destroyed.
Two remained.
But the silence in her head was gone. Now there was only… breathing.
Not her own.
Like something curled in the depths.
Waiting.