The ocean was not blue. It was the color of bruised steel, churning under a grey sky that stretched forever.
After the suffocating heat of the Cinder-Peaks and the claustrophobia of the jungle, the open sea felt like a different planet. The air tasted of salt and iodine.
The White Raven flew low over the waves, its hull caked in volcanic ash that was slowly being washed away by the sea spray.
"There it is," Isolde announced from the cockpit. She didn't sound happy. "The biggest floating trash heap in the world. Pontus."
Julian stepped up to the viewport.
Pontus wasn't a city built on an island. It was a city built of ships.
Thousands of vessels—ancient aircraft carriers, rusted supertankers, luxury yachts, and scavenging barges—had been lashed together with massive chains and suspension bridges. In the center rose a cluster of pre-war oil rigs, converted into skyscrapers that glittered with neon lights.
It was a sprawling, chaotic raft the size of a metropolis, drifting slowly on the currents.
"No land," Lyra whispered, looking at the endless water. "If you fall off the sidewalk, you drown."
"Or the sharks get you," Skid added, checking the sensors. "And by sharks, I mean the Aether-Torpedos. The perimeter is rigged."
"How do we get in?" Julian asked. "If Isolde is banned, the main harbor will flag us instantly."
"We don't go to the main harbor," Isolde steered the ship lower, skimming the wave tops. "We go to the Bilge. It's the underside of the city. The smuggler's port."
The Undercity
Isolde guided the White Raven toward the massive, rusted hull of a supertanker that formed the southern wall of the city.
"Hold on," Isolde warned. "It's going to be tight."
She flew the ship under a massive suspension bridge and aimed for a dark, gaping hole in the side of the tanker's hull—a drainage output that had been widened into a hangar bay.
They shot inside.
The light vanished, replaced by the amber glow of sodium lamps and the green bioluminescence of algae. The "Bilge" was a cavernous internal harbor inside the hollowed-out ships. It smelled of diesel, rotting fish, and old money.
The White Raven set down on a floating metal pontoon. The engines powered down with a tired whine.
"Welcome to Pontus," Isolde grabbed her coat. "Keep your weapons hidden, but accessible. The law here is 'Buyer Beware'."
The Dry-Dock
They disembarked. The pontoon swayed gently under their feet.
The Bilge was bustling. Crews were offloading crates of illegal tech, contraband Aether-cells, and exotic animals.
Isolde led them to a secluded corner of the hangar, where a massive crane hung over a dry-dock bay. A sign painted in dripping red paint read: BARNACLE BILL'S CUSTOM REFITS - NO REFUNDS.
A man slid out from under a submarine hull on a mechanic's creeper. He was shaped like a barrel, with a beard that looked like steel wool and a cigar permanently glued to his lip.
"We're closed," the man grunted, not looking up. "Empire inspection next week. I ain't taking new jobs."
"Not even for an old friend, Bill?" Isolde leaned against a crate.
The man froze. He slowly slid his goggles up. He looked at Isolde. His face went pale.
"You," Bill whispered. He looked around frantically. "Are you insane? The Mayor has a 'Sink on Sight' order for you! You owe him a yacht!"
"It was an ugly yacht," Isolde shrugged. "Listen, Bill. We need a rush job. Full conversion. Hydro-jets, hull reinforcement, pressure seals. Rated for the Trench."
"The Trench?" Bill laughed nervously. "You want to dive into the Abyss? That's five miles down, Izzy. That's crushing depth. You need Military-Grade plating."
"We can pay," Julian stepped forward.
He dropped a heavy canvas bag on the workbench. It clinked with the sound of gold bars.
Bill opened the bag. The gold reflected in his eyes.
"That... covers the parts," Bill muttered, chewing his cigar. "But the labor? And the silence tax? That's extra."
"We don't have time for haggling," Lyra said, crossing her arms.
"I don't want more money," Bill wiped his greasy hands. "I want insurance. The Tide-Hunters have been shaking me down. A local gang. They stole my shipment of Aether-Turbines yesterday. Without those turbines, I can't build your engines."
Julian sighed. "So, we get your turbines back, and you fix our ship?"
"You get them back," Bill nodded. "And I'll turn that bird of yours into a fish by tomorrow morning."
The Floating Market
They left Skid with the ship to start stripping the flight thrusters. Julian, Lyra, and Isolde headed up to the surface levels to find the Tide-Hunters.
Pontus at night was a sensory overload.
The decks of the lashed-together ships formed streets. Market stalls sold grilled squid, waterproofing sprays, and salvage from the ocean floor. Neon signs reflected off the wet metal.
"The Tide-Hunters run the East Deck," Isolde explained, pulling her collar up. "They're divers. Heavily modified for underwater combat. Gills, webbed hands, pressure-resistant skin."
"Mutants?" Julian asked.
"Trans-humanists," Isolde corrected. "They think the land is dead. They want to evolve for the water."
They reached the East Deck. It was a converted aircraft carrier flight deck, flooded with six inches of water to accommodate the aquatic residents.
At the end of the deck stood a warehouse made of shipping containers. Two guards stood outside. They wore sleek, blue armor and held spearguns. Their skin was a pale, sickly grey.
"That's the stash," Isolde pointed.
"Front door?" Lyra asked.
"No," Julian looked at the water covering the deck. "We knock from below."
He knelt down and placed his Resonance Gauntlet into the shallow water covering the deck.
"Water is a perfect conductor," Julian whispered.
"What are you going to do?" Lyra asked.
"Sonar," Julian said. "I'm going to map the building."
He sent a low pulse.
Ping.
The sound traveled through the water, bouncing off the steel walls of the warehouse, reverberating through the floor.
Julian closed his eyes. The image formed in his mind.
Six hostiles inside. Heavy weapons. The turbines are in the back, crated.
But he felt something else.
Deep below the floating city, in the dark water of the real ocean... something massive was moving.
Ping... Thump.
It was a heartbeat. Slow. Deep.
"Julian?" Lyra touched his shoulder.
Julian pulled his hand back, gasping.
"The Titan," Julian whispered. "It's not just in the Trench. It's... circling."
"Circling the city?" Isolde asked.
"No," Julian looked at the dark horizon. "Circling the drain."
"Hey!" one of the guards shouted, pointing his speargun. "No dry-foots allowed on this deck!"
Julian stood up. The water dripped from his gauntlet.
"We're here for the turbines," Julian said loud enough for them to hear.
"Get lost, tourist!" The guard fired a warning harpoon. It skidded across the wet deck, sparking.
Julian sighed. "I really hate wet socks."
He aimed his gauntlet at the water at the guards' feet.
Focus: Hydro-Shock.
He fired a pulse.
The water on the deck exploded upward in a precise wave, hitting the guards with the force of a tidal crash. They were knocked off their feet, sliding backward into the warehouse doors.
"Breaching!" Lyra yelled, splashing forward with her carbine drawn.