War. Complete, devastating, pointless war.
All because grief convinced one man that drowning the world would save his people.
I think about Caspian’s children. Dead in a flood caused by surface negligence. I think about Mira, dying from isolation that prevented proper treatment. I think about every Deep Runnerchild born weaker than the generation before, genetic collapse written in their bones.
The surface world failed them. We failed them. The Integration Alliance talks about unity while ignoring the peoples who don’t want to join. We call them isolationists like it’s a character flaw instead of a survival strategy learned through centuries of betrayal.
We could have helped. We should have helped. Instead, we let the Deep Runners fade into myth while we built our shining coalition of the willing.
And now thousands will die for our negligence. Theirs and ours both.
Unless we stop it.
The bond carries my determination to Torin. Carries my guilt too—the realization that I’m part of the system that created this crisis. That my diplomatic successes elsewhere mean nothing if I can’t bridge this gap. Can’t prove that integration doesn’t have to mean assimilation. Can’t show that different peoples can coexist without one erasing the other.
This is why I came to the delta. Not just to prove myself. To actually make a difference.
And if I fail, thousands die and my brother leads the retaliation force that wipes out the Deep Runners completely.
No pressure.
Torin’s presence steadies me through the bond. He doesn’t tell me it will be okay. Doesn’t offer false comfort. Just sends certainty: We can do this. Together, we’re strong enough.
I wish I shared his confidence.
The dam appearson the horizon like a scar across the landscape.
Massive. Ancient. Carved from living stone by Deep Runners when they were still surface-dwelling, before the great isolation drove them into the depths. Runes cover every surface—protection spells, strengthening enchantments, blessings from gods I don’t recognize. It’s been standing for two thousand years, holding back the full force of the Silver River.
And Caspian intends to shatter it in an afternoon.
I climb higher, getting a tactical view. The dam spans the narrow point where the river cuts through a gorge. Behind it, the reservoir stretches for miles—a massive lake held in place by stone and magic. Below it, the valley opens up, settlements dotting the landscape like beads on a string.
At the dam’s base, I see them. Caspian’s forces. Maybe thirty Deep Runners, all in shifted form, all channeling water magic toward a single point. The hydrokinetic pressure is enormous—I can see the air shimmering where their combined power focuses on the dam’s foundation.
And at the center, directing the ritual, stands Caspian himself. Silver hair streaming in the wind he’s generating. Arms raised. Magic pouring from him in waves that make the river itself shudder.
Cracks are already forming in the dam’s face. Not large yet. But spreading. Fractures spider-webbing through the ancient stone, undermining the enchantments that have held for millennia.
He’s winning. The ritual is working. And we’re still minutes away.
Through the bond, I feel Torin’s assessment matching mine. He’s close now—I can see the river below churning where he swims. But even with his enhanced speed, he won’t reach the dam before the ritual completes.
The ritual requires time, he sends. If we disrupt it before completion, the dam survives. But there are guards. Fanatics. We’re outnumbered three to one at least.
We’ve been outnumbered since we met, I send back, fierce and certain. We’re still here.
His approval floods the bond. Then let’s even the odds.
I dive.
The storm follows me down—literally. The clouds that have been building overhead respond to my descent, dropping with me, surrounding me like I’m the eye of a hurricane. Lightning flickers in their depths. Thunder rolls across the valley. The wind picks up, whipping into something that feels like fury and reads like warning.
The Deep Runners at the dam’s base notice. I see heads turning, magic faltering as they stare at the storm descending on them. At me, descending on them, storm-gray wings spread wide, lightning crackling along every feather.
Caspian sees me too. Even from this distance, I see recognition flash across his face. Shock. Fury. And something else—fear, maybe. The realization that the diplomat he ordered thrown into the Oubliette has become something he can’t control.
I pull up hard maybe fifty feet above the dam, hovering on the wind I’m generating. The storm hovers with me. Waiting. Ready.
