Page 82 of Claimed By the Depths

The rise of the Others hadn’t happened overnight; it’d been bubbling for decades. Once powerless, lesser-born entities, each Divari they slaughtered granted them a fraction of the gods’ power, a hit of addictive potential. Every carving on their flesh wasn’t a mere sigil, but one they’d drawn into the skin of the victims before feasting on their essence. They were soul eaters, creatures whose appetites were insatiable, and whose abilities derived from the consumption of divine Children.

They’d divided the realms… the continents as a means to give themselves a chance at eradication, at swallowing all the Damned had built. And all that remained was one Child per god, for a total of ten.

“Five hearts were sundered… Split apart.” I contemplated the remnants of the sentence. “That all might live, yet none may reign forever in one name… Meaning that all five Children of each Damned may live, but that, because of the divide between gods, they’ll never reform with their split counterparts?”

Something brushed against my subconscious, its feather-light touch oddly familiar. “Yes.”

Writing it off as a gut feeling, I continued, “Seek not a god with empty hands, for every crown remembers its own key… Is it hinting that the celestial hierarchy will always remember the keys capable of deconstructing the veil? The Divari?”

That same sensation returned as if in confirmation.

I ran with the possibility of my analysis proving factual and continued, “The relics five, by blood once sworn, must wake what awaits to be born. Which must simply mean all five relics returning to the respective Divari will awaken the power they harbor.” Another caress. I kept reading. “When every heir before their sire shall stand, and every relic answers with blood alone, let circle, sigil, and sacred word unite beneath the Vault of the First Stone.” Pausing, I repeated the last line. “Every relic answers with blood alone, let circle, sigil, and sacred word… Vault of the First Stone…”

Wait.

As I inhaled, memories bubbled to the surface. First, my routine stroll through the palace. Then, a redirection, a call from my father that I was required to answer. No, not a call… A warning. A cautionary statement bordering on threatening, a key piece of the puzzle.

“The cellar in the north wing has been closed, and anyone who enters it shall be executed for treason. Do you understand, boy?”

Sorva had been there, perched on the dais in her human form. Her near-white bob swayed with feigned holiness, pallid complexion glinting beneath torchlight. Her form-fitting royal blue dress had made her appear so normal, so human, that I had overlooked it. But now, with all I knew, the intentions became apparent and the secrecy boiled to the forefront.

“Holy shit… Holy fucking shit.”

Circling the Vault of the First Stone, I made a note in the margin—perhaps the location of the Damned’s thrones? A destroyed cellar in the palace’s north wing, one that my father forbade me from venturing into as soon as I started reading up on the history of the old gods and the Others.

Quill in hand, I ran through the next paragraph. It was easily decipherable, a proclamation of what awaited Wraelira and whatever lay beyond, and a promise of a better future once all Divari reunited. As I jumped to the grouping of text, a tremor shook my hands, a feeling similar to what I had experienced upon finding the grimoire slithering up my spine.

“Beware the Seated One unknown, whose soul was kindled beyond said veil… Me?” Thoughts wavering, my interaction with Parran after I tapped into a power I didn’t even know I had rolled forward. They’d claimed that I had ties and bonds beyond Wraelira, a continent they belonged to. “Born of a covenant left unspoken, hidden where every mortal chart must fail. When twin-born stars at last align, and distant blood remembers blood⁠—”

An unexplainable force slammed into my chest, stealing oxygen from my lungs upon impact. Vision blurring, the darkness that clung to its edges seeped further before shadows swallowed Caspian’s chamber and birthed an entirely different scene.

The world around me emerged in fragments, as though a recollection itself had taken shape. Ancient trees arched overhead, their immense trunks twisted into impossible shapes. Branches intertwined, it was as if the Goddess of Life had carved a living cathedral, swallowed by the sky.

Following a narrow path, I roved over the luminous flowers that shimmered like fallen stars, their pale glow the only comfort in a forest steeped in endless twilight. Goosebumps rose on my skin, the cold, damp air unnaturally still. The scent of moss and rain-soaked earth caressed my nostrils, but something impossibly old lingered.

Something mystical.

Ahead, half-buried beneath roots that had spent centuries claiming their prize, stood the remnants of a tomb. Its weathered stone steps climbed toward a fractured archway, and I wasted no time traversing them. Brushing my fingertips over long-forgotten symbols, I watched their diagonal and horizontal shapes replicate. What started as complex broke down into simpler drawings, ten of them replicating as they descended to the cracked granite setts below.

The sigils of all ten Divari.

Before I could memorize their patterns, the sharp crack of steel interrupted me. The sound swelled, as if in approach, and I craned my head to glance over my shoulder, two individuals slipping into view.

The woman was breathtaking, her ruby hair flowing behind her as she parried an attack. Triangular eyes narrowed on her attacker; their icy blue hue was easy to decipher from afar. Her armor was a masterwork of blackened, engraved plate, forged to fit like a second skin without sacrificing protection. Intricate filigree and layered pauldrons gave it an elegant yet intimidating edge, crimson accents weaving through the design to evoke nobility and relentless fury.

The sword she wielded mirrored her armor, its blade stained a deep red, as if it were dried blood. Swinging it around her frame, she ran her thumb along its sharpened edge. Her essence bloomed, and with it, she grinned with dangerous promise.

“You wish to continue testing me, Heir?”

A dark chuckle came from the man she spoke to, his timbre carrying aged familiarity. “Oh, you poisonous little thing… Have you learned nothing from your time beneath my boot? I will pluck every thorn from you until nothing but a bare stem remains. For you, little rose, are mine to devour.”

The unexpectedness of the crack of thunder overhead caused me to flinch as he stepped out from behind a massive trunk.

Blackened steel, scarred by countless battles, wrapped his impressive frame beneath a weathered cloak. Hood concealing his face, the articulated gauntlets moved with practiced ease, each piece forged for decimation rather than ceremony. Longsword drawn, the pulse of potency clung to it—a weapon that had ended more lives than one could count.

Stopping only a few paces from her, the wind tugged at the edges of his cape. His free hand moved, and one by one his fingers curled around the fabric concealing his features. One tug was all it took before shoulder-length curls of brilliant white spilled free, stark against his dark armor. Features sharp and refined by years of violence, inky stubble painted his jawline and cheeks in an eye-catching clash.

But it was his eyes that forced me to pause.