"Perhaps," she says softly. "Perhaps love remembers what death forgets."
The kelp tightens around my chest, and my heartbeat grows fainter still. But somewhere in the distance, growing closer with each passing moment, Theron's voice continues to ring through the water—a song of love and determination that cuts through death itself like a blade of living light.
"Hold on," I tell myself, the words barely a whisper now. "Hold on. He's coming."
5
THERON
The beacon light cuts through the darkness above me like a blade of bronze and flame, but I turn my back on its warmth and swim toward the temple steps. My lungs burn with salt water and the memory of Eurydice's scream, but I will myself to surface at the sacred pier where Tidemother Antea waits. Her white fur gleams wet in the beacon glow, and her ancient eyes hold the weight of stories older than Milthar itself.
"Tidemother," I gasp, hauling myself onto the stone steps carved with prayers to Zukiev. "Tell me how to reach her. Tell me how to bring her home."
Antea's weathered hands help pull me from the water, her touch gentle despite the urgency crackling between us like lightning. "Child of the deep currents," she says, her voice wielding the authority of decades spent communing with the sea-god. "You would descend into the necropolis itself? You would walk among the drowned dead?"
"I would follow her into the void itself if that's what it takes," I reply, water streaming from my mane onto the sacred stones. "She doesn't belong down there. She belongs here, with me, under starlight and the warm breath of the living."
The Tidemother studies my face in the flickering light, reading something there that makes her nod slowly. "Sound is map and shield in the deep halls," she says, moving toward the temple with surprising speed for her age. "The drowned hunger for music, for the songs of the living world they can no longer touch. But they fear it too—your voice will be both guide and weapon in their realm."
Inside the temple, braziers burn with sacred oils that smell of kelp and winter storms. Antea leads me to the altar where vessels of blessed water gleam like captured moonlight. She dips her fingers into one and traces symbols on my throat—ancient runes that burn warm against my skin.
"Warming oils blessed by the tide-touched," she explains, her touch sure and practiced. "They will keep your voice strong in the cold depths, keep your breath from freezing in your chest." The oil soaks into my fur, leaving trails of heat that pulse with each heartbeat. "But remember—the dead are cunning. They will try to steal your songs, to turn your own voice against you."
From a shelf carved from whalebone, she takes a shell-bell no larger than my thumb. It gleams white as winter foam, and when she shakes it, the sound is pure and sweet as spring rain on stone. "This will keep time for you in the depths where hours blur into centuries. Do not lose its rhythm, child. Do not let the silence take you."
"What else?" I ask, accepting the shell-bell and testing its weight. The sound it makes pushes against the very air, creating ripples I can feel against my skin. "What else do I need to know?"
"Test your voice before you descend," she says, leading me back toward the water. "Learn what each song can do. The deep has many moods, and you must know which melody will serve you in each hall."
At the water's edge, blacksmiths from the harbor quarter wait with lengths of bronze chain and diving weights. Theirleader, a grizzled bull named Korven, bows his head respectfully as he approaches.
"Captain," he says, though I've told him a dozen times I've laid down that rank. "We've prepared what you asked for. Weights to carry you down swift, and this—" He holds up a coil of the finest rope Milthar can produce, braided with kelp fibers and blessed by the sea-witches. "It's anchored to the prayer-stone in the harbor shrine. Should reach near any depth you might need."
The prayer-stone—a massive boulder carved with Zukiev's symbols, placed by the first settlers who claimed this island from the waves. If anything can anchor me to the living world, it's that ancient piece of Milthar's heart.
Young Niklos approaches with a waterproof lantern, its flame guttering blue-white behind thick glass. "For the dark places, Captain," he says, his voice tight with worry. "Though I wish—I wish you'd let us come with you."
"This is my burden," I tell him, accepting the lantern and testing its weight. "My choice. My love to rescue." I look around at the assembled sailors, divers, and smiths—good people all, who would follow me into the depths if I asked. "But keep the beacons burning. Keep the prayers flowing. Give me light to follow home."
I wade back into the water, feeling the weights settle around my waist like an anchor's embrace. The rope trails behind me, its blessed fibers already starting to glow with a faint phosphorescence in the dark water. I test the shell-bell again, and its pure tone seems to clear the murk for a few precious feet.
"Now," Antea calls from the shore, "test your voice. Learn your power."
I begin with a simple lullaby—something my mother sang when storms kept the fishing boats in harbor. The water around me responds immediately, currents shifting to carry the melodyoutward in perfect circles. The silt on the harbor bottom swirls and settles, and small fish dart toward the sound like children drawn to firelight.
Next, a work-song—the kind we used to haul anchor chains and set sail. The water grows agitated, waves rising and falling in rhythm with the beat. I feel strength flow into my limbs, my muscles remembering the cadence of shared labor and brotherhood forged in storm and calm.
A war-chant that Grandfather taught me—something from the old days when pirates still threatened our shores. The water vibrates with violence held in check, and even the shades lurking at the harbor's edge seem to recoil from the sound. This song carries death in it, but death as protector, as the guardian of those who cannot guard themselves.
"Good," Antea calls, her voice carrying clearly across the water. "You understand. Now remember—in the necropolis, every song is a choice. Every note is a step toward salvation or damnation. Choose wisely, child of my heart."
I touch Eurydice's wreath where it still crowns my horns, breathing in the scent of pine and holly that somehow persists even after our struggle in the water. Her ribbon in my mane has come loose, but I find it floating nearby and tie it firmly around my wrist—a reminder of what I'm fighting for.
"By Zukiev's blessed tides," I whisper, lifting the lantern high, "I swear I will bring her home. Let the dead sing their sorrows—I will answer with joy. Let them offer their darkness—I will carry my own light."
I set the lantern to the surf, watching it bob like a fallen star on the black water. Then I take the most expansive breath my lungs can hold and step into the night-dark sea, the shell-bell chiming soft as snowfall in my hand.
The water closes over my head, and somewhere in the depths below, Eurydice waits for my voice calling her name through the halls of the drowned.
