Then the cold swallows everything, and the festival lights fade to nothing above.
3
THERON
The black water burns my lungs like liquid ice, and I thrash wildly in the darkness, my hooves finding no purchase on anything solid. The sea that has been my ally for decades now feels alien and hostile, thick as tar and cold beyond reason. Salt stings my eyes, but I force them open anyway, desperate for any glimpse of Eurydice in this nightmare of ink and shadow.
Above me, the festival lights flicker and dance like dying stars, distorted by the churning water into meaningless smears of gold and orange. The familiar sounds of Milthar—laughter, music, the comfortable clatter of hooves on stone—are muffled into a low hum that makes my bones ache. How can the world above continue as if nothing has changed when my heart has been torn from my chest and dragged into the depths?
"Eurydice!" I try to shout, but the water floods my mouth, tasting of brine and something else—something ancient and wrong that coats my tongue like oil. The salt burns my throat, and I surface with a desperate gasp, my mane streaming water that feels too thick, too cold for these familiar waters.
The visibility here should be clear—I've dived in Milthar's harbor countless times during my years with the sea-guard,searching for lost anchors or checking the integrity of pier supports. But now the water is black as a moonless night, swallowing light like a living thing. I can barely see my own hands in front of my face, though they should be pale and distinct against the dark.
I dive again, my powerful legs driving me deeper, following the current that pulled her under. My lungs burn with the effort, but I push past the pain. She's down here somewhere, and I will not surface without her. The water grows colder with each stroke, and strange currents tug at my limbs, trying to pull me off course. They feel deliberate, malicious, as if the sea itself has turned against us.
A sound drifts through the water—low and haunting, barely at the edge of hearing. At first I think it might be wind through the rigging of the fishing boats, but as I listen, I realize it's voices. A chorus of them, humming in harmony that makes my teeth ache and my heart race with inexplicable dread. The melody is beautiful and terrible, familiar yet wrong, like a lullaby sung by the drowned.
The humming seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding me like a net of sound. When I try to swim toward it, thinking it might lead me to Eurydice, the currents grow stronger, fighting my every stroke. When I try to swim away, they slack, letting me drift aimlessly in the dark. It's as if something wants me here, trapped and disoriented, listening to that maddening song that pulls at my mind like hooks.
My lungs scream for air, and I'm forced to surface again, breaking through into the chaos above. The festival continues, but wrong—people scatter across the square in panic, their lanterns guttering out one by one as if snuffed by invisible hands. The shadow-spirits drift among them like smoke given form, reaching for the living with hands that glow with cold phosphorescence.
"Captain!" A voice calls across the water, and I turn to see young Niklos, one of my former crew, standing on the pier with terror in his eyes. "Captain, what's happening? The whole harbor?—"
"Light the beacon braziers!" I roar, my voice holding the authority of my former rank even as water streams from my mane. "All of them! And get the elders—now!"
He nods and sprints away, his hooves ringing against the stone. Within moments, I see figures rushing toward the lighthouse that guards our harbor, carrying torches and oil. The great beacon flares to life, its flame cutting through the darkness like a sword of gold and orange. Other braziers follow—smaller beacons placed at strategic points around the harbor to guide ships safely to shore.
The light pushes back against the wrongness in the water, and for a moment the black surface clears enough for me to see shapes moving in the depths. Not fish or kelp, but something else—pale forms that drift like underwater dancers, their movements too fluid to be natural.
An elder approaches the water's edge, her white fur gleaming in the beacon light. Tidemother Antea, keeper of the old stories and guardian of our sacred traditions. Her voice carries across the harbor, strong and clear despite her advanced years.
"The sunken necropolis," she calls, her words hitting me like a physical blow. "The drowned city of the dark elves, Captain. They wake only on the longest nights, when the barriers between worlds grow thin."
The necropolis. I've heard the stories—every sailor on Protheka has. A dark elf city that sank beneath the waves generations ago, taking with it all the wealth and power of a proud civilization. The stories say it lies somewhere in the deep waters beyond our continental shelf, too far away to threaten any living soul. But if it's here, if it's beneath our very harbor...
"How do I get her back?" I shout across the water, my voice breaking with desperation.
"You don't," Antea replies, her words cutting through my heart like ice. "The drowned do not give up their prizes willingly, child of the sea. She belongs to them now."
"No." The word tears from my throat like a battle cry. "No, she doesn't. She belongs with me, in the realm of the living, under stars and sunlight. I will not abandon her to the dead."
I take the biggest breath my lungs can hold and dive again, driving myself down into the black water with every ounce of strength I possess. The humming grows louder as I descend, and I feel the pull of strange currents trying to disorient me. But I am Theron Goldmane, veteran of a dozen sea battles, and I know these waters better than any creature that might lurk in their depths.
The beacon light fades above me until it's nothing more than a distant star, and still I dive deeper. My ears pop with the pressure, and my lungs burn with the need for air, but I press on. Somewhere in this nightmare of water and shadow, Eurydice waits for me. I will find her, or I will die trying.
As the last of the surface light disappears, I make a vow that echoes around me like thunder. "By Zukiev's trident and the sacred fire that burns eternal, I swear I will sing her home. Let the dead come—I am not afraid. Let them bring their worst horrors—my voice will cut through them all. She is mine, and I am hers, and no power in the depths will keep us apart."
The words seem to ripple outward through the dark water, and for just a moment, the drowned choir falls silent. In that blessed quiet, I could swear I hear something else—faint and far away, but unmistakably human. A voice I would know across any distance, in any darkness.
Eurydice, calling my name in the black water like a prayer.
4
EURYDICE
The cold water carries me down through what feels like liquid night, my lungs burning as I fight the urge to breathe. The tendril of dark water around my ankle pulls with inexorable strength, dragging me deeper into the black depths where no festival light can reach.
"Help me," I try to scream, but only bubbles escape my lips, rising toward a surface I can no longer see. My dress billows around me like a blue shroud, the fine wool growing heavy and waterlogged as I'm swept through currents that taste of brine and ancient things long dead.
