The fish dart and weave around me in patterns that almost look like writing—symbols of light traced against the darkness, messages I can't quite read but somehow understand. They're trying to tell me something, these small survivors in a realm of death. They're trying to show me the way.
Footsteps echo through the water—or what passes for footsteps in this liquid realm. The priest-shade returns, his tattered robes billowing around him like dark wings. In his skeletal hands, he carries an obsidian circlet studded with what look like black pearls, but as he draws closer, I see they're not pearls at all. They're eyes—the eyes of the drowned, captured and preserved in the dark stone.
"The Crown of Sorrows," he intones, his voice holding the weight of centuries. "Every soul claimed by the deep halls adds their sight to this holy relic. You will wear it proudly, child of the surface. You will see the world as we see it—endless, grey, without hope of dawn."
He approaches with the circlet raised, moving with the terrible patience of one who has all eternity to complete his work. The black eyes in the crown seem to track my movements, blinking in unison like some horrible compound organ. I can feel their collective gaze pressing against my mind, trying to show me visions of despair and loss.
"No," I whisper, pressing myself back against the pillar as far as the kelp chains will allow. "I won't wear your crown. I won't see the world through dead eyes."
The priest pauses, tilting his head as if listening to something only he can hear. The obsidian circlet trembles in his hands, and for a moment the black eyes seem uncertain, their gaze wavering like candle flames in a breeze.
"What is that sound?" he murmurs, his burning blue eyes narrowing. "What warmth disturbs the sacred silence of our halls?"
That's when I hear it too—Theron's voice, clear and strong, carrying a lullaby through the water like honey poured over stone. The melody is one I know by heart, a cradle-song he hummed when nightmares woke me during the storm season. His voice wraps around me like arms, like safety, like home.
The priest recoils as if struck, the Crown of Sorrows slipping from his fingers. The obsidian circlet sinks toward the seafloor, its black eyes blinking frantically as it falls. Where Theron's lullaby touches the water, small flowers of light bloom—phosphorescent algae awakening from centuries of sleep, responding to the pure warmth in his voice.
"Impossible," the priest breathes, his form becoming more translucent as the lullaby continues. "The songs of the living are poison here. They burn our ears, sear our eyes, make us remember what we lost."
"Then maybe it's time to remember," I say, finding my own voice and adding my harmony to Theron's distant melody. "Maybe it's time to stop mourning what was and start hoping for what could be."
The lantern-fish around me pulse in unison, their combined light creating a sphere of golden radiance that pushes back against the eternal twilight. The kelp chains binding me grow looser with each note, as if the music is teaching them to forget their purpose.
I begin to sing more clearly now, letting my voice carry across the drowned halls:
"Sleep now, precious child of storm and sea,
Safe within my arms you'll be,
When the wild howling winds cease their cry,
Dawn will color the morning sky."
The priest staggers backward, his hands pressed to his ears as if my voice causes him physical pain. Around us, other shades begin to emerge from their hiding places—not the mindless specters I've grown accustomed to, but something more aware, more present. They move like people walking from deep sleep, their forms becoming more solid as the lullaby reaches them.
"The children," one whispers, a female shade with the pointed ears of dark elf nobility. "I hear children singing. My children... are they here? Are they safe?"
"The bells," murmurs another, this one wearing the rotted remnants of a sailor's coat. "I hear harbor bells. Does that mean the ships are coming home?"
The priest tries to speak, to reassert his authority over the congregation of the dead, but no words emerge from his throat. The lullaby has stolen his voice, just as his rituals tried to steal mine. He points one trembling finger at me, his burning eyes wide with something that looks like terror or wonder.
But I'm no longer looking at him. My attention is fixed on the passage beyond the coral gardens, where a golden light grows steadily brighter. The light moves with purpose, cutting through the dim water with the rhythm of powerful strokes, and I know that glow. I know the sound that accompanies it, the deep bass voice that makes my heart leap with joy and relief.
"Theron," I whisper, and the lantern-fish explode into brilliant radiance around me, their light answering the approaching beacon like stars calling to the sun.
He's almost here. He's found me in this maze of sorrow and death, guided by nothing but love and the melodious sound of my voice. The kelp chains feel loose as silk around my wrists now, and I know that when he arrives, nothing in all the halls will be strong enough to hold me.
11
THERON
The passage ahead opens into what must have once been a vast treasure chamber, its domed ceiling supported by marble columns carved to resemble giant kelp fronds. But this is no ordinary vault—it's a Chamber of Tithes, where the drowned demand payment from any who would pass deeper into their realm. Hundreds of offerings hang suspended in the water, pinned to the walls and ceiling by harpoons of black iron: golden trinkets, silver goblets, weapons of rare metals, and stranger things I cannot name.
The sight stops me cold. Each offering represents someone who tried to navigate these depths before me, someone who paid the price demanded by the dead and either succeeded in their quest or failed and joined the eternal choir. The water here feels thick as syrup, resistant to movement, and I understand that this chamber will not let me pass without tribute.
"What price for a living man's passage?" I call out to the shadows, my voice echoing strangely in the vaulted space. "What toll do the drowned demand?"
A sound answers me—not words, but a low thrumming that might be laughter or weeping. The harpoons begin to vibratein their holdings, causing the suspended treasures to sway and chime like a massive wind-chime orchestra. The melody they create is haunting and discordant, each note sharp with the desperation of those who gave up their most precious possessions to buy safe passage.
