From the blackest trenches to the forgotten sunken halls, something had woken—and now it whispered through every current, every ripple, every breath of the sea.
Dominic held Lyrielle tightly as she convulsed in his arms. Her skin had gone pale, and her veins glowed with faint, violet light—like cursed ink flowing backward through time.
"Athena, what's happening to her?"
Athena knelt beside them, examining her quickly.
"She's tethered to the Choir. When the Deep stirred, it called them all back. But she's the only one who left the fold. That makes her a fracture in its song."
"She's going to die?"
Athena looked up.
"No. Worse. She's going to become its voice."
---
Dominic's grip tightened.
"No."
He placed a hand over her chest. Water flickered around his palm, forming sigils not taught in temples or scrolls. His will forced them there.
Lyrielle's breathing steadied. Slightly.
Athena raised an eyebrow. "You did that on instinct."
