Rising, I shake heavy debris from my broad shoulders.
Reaching down, I haul Vaelis up to meet me.
He offers a sharp nod.
We swim onto the ruined porch of the shell together.
Through the clearing dust, they appear. The scene is a sea of shocked silence.
Thousands of beautiful mers, the glittering elite, shimmer in vibrant silks and jewels, their perfect tails frozen in mid-flick. The pampered nobles of the High Plaza are a tableau of disbelief.
Elder Soryn himself stands frozen at the ornate podium, his ceremonial scepter slipping from numb fingers, his mouth hanging open mid-eulogy for a prince they all thought long dead.
Their collective gaze shifts, tracking the monster ascending from their nightmares. Their eyes scan the ruined shell, the scavenger crew, the fearsome shark at its helm.
And then they see him.
They see Vaelis, floating at my side, very much alive, a crimson ghost returned to haunt them, and the shock on their perfect faces curdles into abject terror.
Vaelis swims forward from my side, a silent, crimson specter parting the sea of silent onlookers. He raises his chin, a line of defiant royalty against the glittering, decadent backdrop.
He requires no silver mirror, no stolen trinket, to project the aura of a king.
It emanates from him, a palpable wave of authority that makes the very water tremble.
"It looks like you started my own funeral without me," Vaelis announces, and his voice, no longer a soft whisper but a clear, resonant command, cuts the stunned silence like a jagged knife.
"But fear not," he smiles, and the expression is not one of warmth, but of pure, predatory triumph. "I brought my own choir."
On cue, a monstrous shadow falls over the plaza. Our army of the Silt rises over the broken edge of the wall, a tide of chitin and rust and grim determination, their multifaceted eyes reflecting the terror-stricken faces of the nobility.
I open my mouth.
And I roar.
Chapter 19
The Song of the Trench
Vaelis
Thestunnedsilenceinthe High Plaza shatters into jagged pieces.
"Abomination!" Elder Soryn screams. His shrill voice is amplified by the magical acoustics of the grand podium. He points a trembling finger at Kael. "A dark trick! A foul necromancy of the deep!"
He faces the paralyzed crowd of glittering nobles and armored soldiers. The elite of the Reef float in frozen horror, their finery stark against the rusted bulk of our shell.
"The beloved Prince is dead!" Soryn yells, spit flying from his pale lips into the water. "He fell on the ridge! This thing floating before you is a mindless puppet. A hollow skin-suit worn by the trench monsters to confuse your grief!"
I swim forward onto the ruined porch of the shell.
I carry no iron weapon. I lack my ceremonial Vanguard uniform. I wear nothing but a crude tunic made of salvaged sailcloth and a canvas cloak carrying the scent of my Basalt-Kin.
Yet, I embody a true Prince.
"I am not dead, Soryn," I say.
My voice rings calm. Kael's presence beside me acts as a living sounding board, projecting my words across the sprawling amphitheater. The water carries the truth to the back rows of the assembly.
