Weplungeintothecool embrace of the deep. The tense silence of the High Plaza shatters, yielding to the heavy roar of the wild water.
The first day passes in a blur of exhaustion.
We travel without direction. We forfeit the Silt District. We forfeit the smog. We travel south toward the thermal shelves, seeking warm water and forgiving pressure.
The southern current pushes our shell toward the Fire Ridges. I trace the dark water through the glass window. The High Council refuses an easy surrender. Soryn will dispatch Vanguard hunters. He will deploy the perimeter guard to scour the upper reefs. Yet, they shun the deep. They fear the crushing pressure. They fear the Basalt-Kin. The trench forms our shield.
Pip returns hours past the battle.
He lacks his helmet yet maintains an iron grip on his silver needle sword. Mira collapses into heavy, racking sobs at the sight of the tiny survivor. Pip ignores the dramatic display. The shrimp marches across the wooden floorboards, initiating a strict clean-up of the interior.
Kael sleeps for twenty hours.
He rests heavy against the sand floor of the shell, his broad back to the sputtering engine. I sit beside him, guarding his rest.
His broad chest rises and falls. His gills flutter in the water. A twitch disrupts his form, forcing a distressed sound from his throat. A lingering nightmare.
I reach out, tracing his scarred shoulder.
"I'm here," I whisper.
He settles. He purrs. A low, subconscious vibration rattles my bones, soothing my frayed nerves.
Sleep eludes me.
My mind races, replaying the crash, the song, the pure terror twisting Soryn’s face.
Did I make a mistake?
Should I have stayed to help them rebuild?
I possess the power to enact change from the inside. I possess the makings of a King.
The shell surrounds me. A chaotic array of woven nets, glass jars, and rusted scrap metal forms our home.
I reject the crown. Kings act as heavy anchors. They remain fixed points.
I choose to drift. I choose Kael.
The choice lacks complication.
On the second day, Kael wakes.
He drinks three stitched skins of water and consumes a bucket of raw clams Pip scrounged from a nearby reef.
His hearing returns.
"Loud," he grumbles, wincing as Bolt drops a heavy iron wrench.
"Yes, yes, we know," Bolt mumbles, reaching for the tool.
"Not me. You." Kael delivers a lethal glare.
"That's good," I say. "Your ears are healing."
"Headache," he mutters.
His voice mimics coarse sandpaper, yet holds steady. He tests it, muttering words under his breath to learn the shape of them in his mouth. Current. Shell. Vaelis. Hunger.
