I begin singing a navigation shanty—something simple and straightforward to guide me through the treacherous passage—but the moment my voice emerges, the scrolls react violently. They writhe and twist, their glowing runes flaring brighter asthey try to absorb the sound. I feel my voice faltering, the vowels being pulled from my throat before they can fully form.
"What sorcery is this?" I mutter, pressing a hand to my throat where Tidemother Antea's warming oils still provide a faint protection. The scrolls seem to be feeding on my voice, draining the music from the water and leaving only hollow echoes behind.
The sea-silk scrolls press closer, their surfaces now blazing with stolen sound. I can hear fragments of my own voice trapped within them, distorted and wrong, repeating portions of my shanty back to me in mocking harmony. The curse-magic is trying to turn my own power against me, to make me doubt the strength of my voice.
I switch tactics, abandoning melody for something more primal. I pound my chest with both fists, creating a rhythmic percussion that cuts through the water like hammer-blows on anvil steel. The beat is simple but powerful—the heartbeat of honest labor, the rhythm of oars pulling in unison, the steady pulse of life refusing to surrender.
Thump-thump. THUMP-thump. Thump-thump. THUMP-thump.
The percussion doesn't give the scrolls anything melodic to steal. Instead, it drives through their curse-magic like a battering ram, forcing them to part before my advance. I add my voice to the rhythm—not singing, but speaking in time with the beat, letting consonants and harsh syllables cut through where softer sounds failed.
"Step—by—step—through—curse—and—hex,
Heart—beats—strong—though—magic—vex,
Drum—of—blood—and—bone—and—breath,
Pounds—the—rhythm—beyond—death."
The spoken cadence works where singing failed. The curse-scrolls writhe and hiss, but they cannot absorb the harsh consonants and driving rhythm. I push through the trench, myvoice growing stronger and stronger with each measured beat, until I emerge into clearer water beyond.
But as I swim free of the Archive Trench, I hear something that makes my blood run cold. Behind me, one of the scrolls unfurls completely, and from its glowing runes comes a voice—distorted and wrong, but unmistakably mine.
"Theron Goldmane,"it whispers, pronouncing my name backward in the dark elf tongue."Captain of the lost, singer of the drowned. We know your true name now, child of the surface. We can call you back whenever we choose."
The curse-scroll has captured something essential—not just my voice, but the sound of my name in my own pronunciation. In the old magics, knowing someone's true name spoken in their own voice gives power over them. The dead have claimed a piece of me, and I feel the knowledge settle in my bones like lead.
I press forward anyway, following the current that carries the faint sound of Eurydice's voice. The Archive Trench falls behind, but its whispered curse follows me through the water:
"Come back to us, Theron Goldmane. Come back and join our chorus of the lost. Your voice belongs to the deep now. Your name is written in our scrolls of sorrow."
I grip the shell-bell in my hand until my knuckles crack, using its pure chime to drown out the curse-scroll's whispers. The blessed sound from the winter stag's shrine still flows through my veins, and I cling to that warmth like a lifeline.
"My voice belongs to her," I growl through gritted teeth, forcing myself to continue forward. "My name is hers to speak. Whatever you've stolen, whatever you think you've claimed—it means nothing against love freely given."
The curse follows me through the water, but I swim on, driven by the sound of Eurydice calling my name through the drowned halls—her voice warm and alive and real, cutting through the necropolis's lies like sunlight through shadow.
16
EURYDICE
The air-pocket chapel is a brittle refuge, its dry stone walls cradling the flicker of half-spent candles, their flames jagged against the warped pews. The necropolis’s damp seeps into my sodden dress, chilling my skin, but Theron’s presence—his golden mane dripping, chestnut fur matted, amber eyes blazing—sets my blood alight. We crash together, laughter and sobs mingling, salt and ash gritty on our skin. My hands claw into his fur, desperate to anchor myself to his heat, to defy the drowned world outside.
“Theron,” I rasp, my voice raw with urgency, dark hair plastered to my shoulders. “My beast, I need you. Fuck me until the abyss breaks. Pound my holes like the savage minotaur you are, make me scream your name until the dead wake.”
His rune-carved horns catch the candlelight as he towers over me, a minotaur of untamed power, his growl a primal chant that shakes my core. “Eurydice,” he rumbles, eyes burning with feral lust, “show me your fire, you filthy siren. Beg for my cock like the needy slut you are for your beast.”
I surge into him, gray eyes locked on his, my body trembling with a hunger that could shatter stone. “Everywhere,” I snarl,voice thick and dripping with desperation, “my pussy, my ass—claim all of me, beast. Stretch me wide, fill me with your hot seed until I’m dripping.” My words are a rebellion, spitting in the face of the kelp chains that tried to bind me.
His massive hands seize my waist, rough and possessive, bruising my skin as he yanks me against his furred bulk, his thick cock straining like a raging bull beneath his kilt. I tear the fabric away with frantic fingers, revealing its monstrous length—veined, throbbing, slick with precum that drips like honey from the gods. He rips my dress apart in one savage pull, the wet fabric splitting with a gasp, baring my heaving breasts, nipples hard as pebbles in the cold air, my skin flushed with defiant heat. “Look at you, my wet little whore,” he growls, his voice a thunderclap, “tits begging to be mauled, pussy weeping for my beast cock.”
Our lips collide, a kiss fierce with salt and desperation, his thick tongue invading my mouth, tasting of sea and raw animal need. I bite his lip, drawing a snarl, my tongue battling his, sparking heat that could burn the ocean dry. My nails rake down his furred chest, leaving red trails, and I shove him toward a pew, my body on fire. “Suck me, you horned brute,” I demand, thrusting my chest forward, my tits bouncing with the force. His mouth clamps onto my nipple like a vice, sucking with savage hunger, his tongue lashing mercilessly, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. Pleasure shoots through me like lightning, my pussy clenching empty, juices trickling down my thighs. “Theron! Oh fuck, yes, beast—suck harder, bite me!” I scream, the chapel echoing my filthy cries, his mouth relentless, alternating breasts, mauling them until they ache, swollen and red, driving me to the edge of oblivion. I grip his horns, yanking him closer, my hips grinding against his thigh, smearing my wetness on his fur. “Make my tits yours, mark them with your teeth, you animal!”
I pull free, panting like a bitch in heat, and drop to the stone floor, its chill biting my knees. My mouth stretches around his massive cock, sucking hard and sloppy, drool spilling as my tongue swirls over the thick, ridged head, savoring his briny, musky taste that makes my clit throb. My fingers probe his tight ass, slipping inside the hot ring, stroking his prostate in time with my mouth, feeling him buck like a wild bull. His growl is a war-cry that shakes the walls, his hands knotting in my hair, fucking my face with short, brutal thrusts. “Fuck, Eurydice, you cock-sucking goddess—take it deeper, choke on your beast’s cock,” he groans, his hips snapping, balls slapping my chin. I gag deliciously, tears streaming, pushing my finger deeper, curling it to milk him, my mouth unyielding, loving how his massive frame trembles under my control, his power crumbling to my filthy will.
“Ride me, you dripping cunt,” he snarls, yanking me up by the hair, eyes wild with beastly rage. I straddle him on the pew, gripping his horns like reins, his coarse fur scraping my inner thighs raw. “Fuck me, my beast—ram that monster cock into me!” I hiss, sinking onto his length, my pussy stretching obscenely around his girth, a sharp, exquisite burn that makes me howl. Juices squelch as I bottom out, his cockhead kissing my cervix. I grind hard, circling my hips, then lift and slam down, riding him like a storm. “Oh gods, yes—your cock’s splitting me, beast! Harder!” I shift, guiding his slick cock to my ass, the tight pucker resisting before yielding, the searing stretch making stars explode behind my eyes. My scream tears through the chapel as I impale myself, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s buried balls-deep in my forbidden hole. I ride him with feral intensity, hips slamming violently, the pew groaning under our assault, candles flaring as our passion defies the dark. Shadows twist like jealous spirits, the air thick with wax, sweat, and the musky scent of our fucking. His hands grip my ass cheeks,spreading them wide, spanking hard enough to leave prints. “Take it, you anal whore—bounce on your beast’s cock like you were born for it!” he roars, thrusting up to meet me, our bodies slapping wetly.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, pinning me against the stone wall, his mouth returning to my breasts, sucking with brutal fervor, teeth sinking in, each pull a tidal wave of ecstasy that has my pussy gushing. “More! Bite me, beast—make me orgasm from your mouth alone!” I cry, nails clawing his fur, vision blurring as pleasure threatens to drown me. My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him on. He devours me, switching nipples, sucking until they're raw and pulsing, my screams raw and animalistic, echoing like a siren's call.
