A single sob wracks Seren’s body. One small moment of reality cutting through her resolve.
But it’s all she allows herself.
Black seawater runs off her skin, and despite herself—her ribs, her palms, her knees—she drags herself upright.
And again, she runs toward the mouth.
But this time, it is not only skeletons standing at the entrance—it’s The Dreaded.
Lara of the Evening Star stands tall and unfazed.
No sympathy.
No care.
Not even interest.
Just neutrality.
Seren forces her legs to move, muscles gripping, urging her on.
The ocean pulls back one final time.
But Seren can’t face it again.She won’t.
She forces more power into every stride, chest heaving, arms trembling with exhaustion.
The ocean draws back like an arrow about to loose.
But Seren is done.
She does not jump—she leaps.
One arm swings in a wild arc over her head for leverage, and she launches herself off one foot.
She is mid-air.
And time seems to pause.
For the first time, the ocean does not touch her.
She is suspended between refusal and permission.
Between being turned away and being chosen.
The ocean races toward her, hungry for blood.
But Seren’s hungrier—not for blood, for truth.
She did not come this far to be told no by water.
Every muscle in her body is as taut as a bowstring, coiled tight to spring her forward.
But as if the ocean is incapable of losing, it catches the heel of her foot, knocking her off-center.
Force and gravity collide.
The force of nature.
