Chapter 14: The Storm That Speaks

The sky was a tapestry of torn clouds and dying light as the Duskwind sailed toward the Sea of Sighs. The wounds of their last battle were still fresh, both on the ship and in the hearts of its crew. Blood had dried into the cracks of the deck, and salt stung every cut like a whisper of the ocean reminding them of their mortality. But none turned back.

Mara stood at the prow, hair matted with sea spray, eyes unblinking against the wind. The journal clutched in her hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from what it meant. Maria's final entries spoke of a gate beneath the waves, a place where the ocean itself remembered.

"The vault opens for blood," she whispered.

Behind her, Darion approached. He had slept only in snatches, haunted by the memory of mirrored masks and broken bodies.

"If this vault is real," he said, voice low, "what do you think we'll find?"

Mara didn't look at him. "Answers. Weapons. Maybe a curse."

Darion gave a grim chuckle. "Sounds like a party."

The Phantom Tide

As the Duskwind drifted deeper into uncharted waters, fog rose from the sea like smoke from a buried fire. The crew grew quieter. Songs died in throats. Jokes hung unfinished. Even the seagulls turned back.

They passed a wreck, half-sunk and skeletal, its mast snapped like a bone. Painted on the hull in faded crimson was the mark of the Iron Tide. No bodies. Just silence.

"No scavengers," Abyr muttered. "Not even crabs."

Mara frowned. "This far east, the sea claims everything. Even the bones."

Night fell, but the darkness came without stars. The fog swallowed the sky. Then, a sound came from the depths.

Drums.

Faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing from below.

The crew froze. Torches were lit. Rifles loaded. No one spoke.

And the sea replied.

Not with waves.

But with voices.

Whispers Beneath

They rose like bubbles from the deep. Faint murmurs. Chants in a language no throat should speak. Words that wormed into ears and stayed there, pulsing.

One crewman dropped his torch and fell to his knees. "They're calling my name... my mother's voice... she's dead. Dead five years."

Another sobbed and jumped overboard before anyone could stop her. The sea swallowed her without a splash.

Mara gritted her teeth and shouted, "Salt your ears! Now!"

She dipped fingers into her pouch and stuffed coarse grains into her ears. Others followed, the older sailors fastest. The voices faded, reduced to a pressure behind the eyes.

"This is it," Abyr growled. "We're close."

The Gate of Sighs

By dawn, the sea turned glassy. Not a ripple. Not a sound.

Then, a tremor.

The water churned. The Duskwind rocked violently.

From the deep, a shape emerged—an obsidian archway, taller than the ship, ringed in runes that glowed like drowning stars. The Gate of Sighs.

The sea fell still again. A moment of held breath.

Then the runes pulsed. A voice spoke, deep and emotionless.

"Blood of the Crown. Speak."

Mara stepped forward. Her voice was steady. "I am Mara. Daughter of Maria. I seek passage."

The runes flared.

"You carry death. You seek reckoning. Enter."

The archway shimmered. The water inside it did not reflect. It beckoned.

Darion stepped beside her. "We going in, then?"

"We don't have a choice."

She turned to her crew.

"Anyone who doesn't want to follow, take a skiff and wait. But I'm going. I'll walk into the sea if I have to."

None moved.

Abyr spat. "Damn fool journey. But we're already damned."

They sailed forward.

The Drowned Temple

Through the gate, the sea turned to air. Or something like it.

The Duskwind floated in a vast dome of shimmering liquid, suspended as if time had paused. Beneath them lay a city of coral and stone, towers and halls that pulsed with an inner light.

They docked beside a broken causeway. Steps led downward.

Mara, Darion, and Abyr disembarked with ten armed crew. Each step echoed like thunder.

The temple loomed, shaped like a spiral shell, covered in carvings of wars older than memory. At its heart, a pedestal held a blade. It floated inches above the stone.

"The Crowncleaver," Mara whispered. "My mother's prize."

Darion reached for it. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the temple screamed.

Trial of the Sea

Water rushed upward. Figures formed—warriors of brine and bone, wielding weapons of coral and salt.

"We fight," Mara yelled. "Or we drown!"

The crew clashed with the guardians. Abyr crushed one with a hammer-blow. Darion parried and shot clean through another's chest.

Mara danced among them, blades flashing, her movements honed by pain and purpose.

As the last guardian fell, the pedestal dimmed. The Crowncleaver dropped into Mara's hand.

A vision struck her.

Maria, bloodied, placing the blade there. Locking something behind it. A seal. A warning.

Mara staggered. "This blade… it holds more than power. It holds her."

The Sea Remembers

Back aboard the Duskwind, the gate behind them groaned, runes dimming as the archway slowly sank beneath the waves. But something had followed them—shadows in the depths, circling like sharks.

Suddenly, the sea exploded. A leviathan, all fins and eyes and slick black hide, burst from the water behind them. The crew scrambled as the ship rocked.

Cannons were manned. Abyr shouted, "Hold steady! Fire on my mark!"

The leviathan let out a roar that split the air. Its maw opened wide—but before it struck, Mara stepped forward, Crowncleaver raised. The blade shimmered and released a pulse of energy.

The creature recoiled.

"It fears the blade," Darion breathed.

"Then it knows what's coming," Mara said. "We all should."

Rising Storm

Hours passed. The sea refused to calm. Black sails crept across the horizon—more of Mallik's fleet.

But this time, Mara did not fear.

Below deck, she read the final page of her mother's journal:

"If you find this, Mara, know that power is never a gift—it's a burden. But if you must carry it, do so not for vengeance. But for what comes after."

She closed the book and rose.

On deck, Abyr handed her a spyglass. "Three ships. Maybe more."

Darion holstered his pistol. "Outnumbered again."

Mara strapped the Crowncleaver to her back.

"We've been outnumbered since the day we set sail. Doesn't mean we lose. It means we make it count."

The crew rallied. Sails were raised. Cannons were prepped.

The Duskwind turned to meet the Iron Tide.

And the sea roared with them.