The sky above the ocean was unnaturally clear.
Waves rolled gently against the edge of a forgotten isle cloaked in mist—a place untouched by war, where even gods were careful not to tread.
At the heart of this stillness sat a man draped in robes of twilight blue, his hair a flowing cascade of black, streaked with silver strands like lightning etched into the night.
Varun.
The Sea Watcher.
He sat on a throne carved from starlit stone, resting in a temple with no doors, no walls—just pillars that reached into the clouds and sank into the deepest trenches of the ocean.
His eyes were shut.
But his mind?
Awake.
Watching.
Listening.
Feeling.
He felt the ocean burn days ago. He felt the power ripple through the currents when the Deep Choir first moved. He watched Lyrielle unleash her sirens. He watched Aegirion fall. He even saw the flicker of Dominic's rage when the Vault stirred.
But he did not move.
Not yet.
