CHAPTER 1 – THE DROWNED PULSE
Before the Deep — EchoWomb's Mantle, two days earlier
The map flickered. Crate's projection warped as the pulse narrowed in on a trench older than any Codex facility.
"Thyrn's mark," Whisper-Vow said, recognizing the pattern etched into the relay. "That glyph hasn't been used since before the Codex Reaping."
"They're there," Crate murmured. "They've always been there. Watching. Waiting."
Kael stood at the edge of the tactical ring, arms crossed over reinforced plating. The glow from the table traced silent purpose across his jaw. Around him, the warband's elites gathered—Kestri, Talym, Ironmark, Dreadmaw, VyrmClaw. The weight in the chamber wasn't doubt. It was anticipation.
Kestri leaned forward. "Will they answer?"
Kael studied the pulse one more time.
"They won't answer to sound," he said. "Only to presence."
He turned.
"We go down. Not to summon them—to remember them."
—
The sea had forgotten the names of kings.
But beneath its bones, in drowned cathedrals of coral and wreckmetal, the Thal'khaar remembered.
—
Pressure. Silence. A heartbeat echoing in salt and dark.
Thyrn floated near stillness, hovering within the last trench-cradle of the Thal'khaar. Bio-lanterns pulsed dim across the kelpsteel ceiling. Motionless bodies surrounded him—three dozen Tideforged braced in meditation. They hadn't moved in three days. They conserved oxygen, muscle, thought. Hunger had taught them patience.
Above, the war burned. Beneath, they waited.
Thyrn's gills flexed once.
He felt the sonar pulse before it arrived. The outsiders had found them. EchoWomb's beacon—shaped with Codex fractures, bent to vibrate through trenchstone. But more than that… it carried intent.
A leader was coming.
One not born of water.
One who might remember the names the Codex tried to drown.
—
Kael's boots hissed against the iron-scabbed shore.
The trench's lip rose like a scar in the world—obsidian cliffs sloped down into black. Steam curled off the Codex-bonded mantleplate layered over his armor. No guards. No hostiles. Just pressure.
Behind him, Kestri stood with arms folded, wings tucked tight. Crate calibrated a resonance pike into the sand, testing pulse strength. VyrmClaw paced like a caged raptor. Only Whisper-Vow stood still, her veil unmoved.
"This place is older than it looks," Crate muttered. "Codex traces are brittle. Like the deep rejected it."
"Or buried it," Kestri said. Her eyes followed the trench's edge. "They're watching us."
"They always do," Whisper-Vow replied softly. "Even when we forget the names."
Kael moved forward alone.
—
They came from the dark in silence.
Twelve warriors rose first—Tideforged, their eyes lit with photic tattoos, armored in pressurized scale and bio-laced coral. Behind them shimmered ranks of Deepborn and Gleambinders. No words. Just formation. Precision. Observation.
Then came Thyrn.
He broke surface like a phantom of the deep, gill-lines flaring, his trident crackling with residual current. His armor bore the markings of a thousand dives: fracture scars, burn-circles, Codex glyphs crossed out with obsidian ink.
Thyrn's eyes fixed on Kael.
"You're D'vorran," he said.
Kael did not flinch. "Once."
Thyrn tilted his head. "And now?"
Kael's voice was low. "Now I remember what they tried to forget."
A long silence passed. A clicking pulse moved between the Thal'khaar ranks—echoing memory, approval, or threat.
Then Thyrn turned and dove.
Kael followed.
—
Depths are not crossed with strength. They are survived with will.
Kael sank into a world of chill and murk. Pressure clawed at his lungs, but he had trained for Sovereign chamber collapses—this was less than death. Around him, shapes moved: flickers of armor, tails, faint pulses of Codex-stained light.
They descended through coral arches and whale-bone pillars. Into the heart of the Thal'khaar's sanctum. Bioluminescent tendrils curled around monuments carved with names in a forgotten language—their ancestors, their dead.
Finally, Kael stepped onto a reef-floor surrounded by luminous spires. Warriors formed a circle. Ritual markings glowed faint on the ground—Trial Rings.
Thyrn spoke. "You seek our strength. Prove you can carry it."
Kael stepped into the circle. "I didn't come to beg."
A challenger emerged—Varka, buzzjaw low, mounted on a gleaming Gravemaw, armor glinting with Codex-disruptor filaments. She looked like a weapon shaped by silence. Her eyes didn't blink. Her breath was controlled, paced with the creature beneath her.
Thyrn gestured. "My rider. She'll test your truth."
Varka leapt.
The Gravemaw surged forward, tail fanning in a violent burst, sending coral debris outward. Kael stood still until the last moment—then rolled under the sweeping charge, his hand brushing the seabed to pivot. Varka spun the Gravemaw mid-turn, slicing with a coral lance. Kael parried with the edge of his gauntlet, redirecting the blow into the seabed.
She struck again, again. Each attack faster than the last. Kael bent—not just to dodge, but to understand her rhythm. She was trained not in strength, but efficiency. She conserved every motion, used the Gravemaw's currents as propulsion. She was born for this battlefield.
But so was he.
Kael launched upward, twisted mid-spin, and landed a palm strike against the Gravemaw's flank. Not enough to injure—but enough to assert: he could have.
Varka paused. Her buzzjaw flexed once, then curled closed.
She bowed from atop the Gravemaw.
Thyrn nodded. "You don't flinch. That's rare above the tide."
Kael raised his hand. "This isn't conquest. It's a call. The Codex builds graves above and below. Stand with us—we break them open."
The Thal'khaar murmured. A sonic chorus rippled through the reef. Not just agreement—a vow.
Thyrn studied Kael. "We remember the D'vorran. You were warriors once. Your fire built towers that reached the sky. Now you bury yourselves beneath their shadows."
Kael said nothing.
Thyrn stepped forward. "But maybe… you're unburying what mattered."
A pause. Then he lowered his trident.
"I will stand with you, Kael Sorrén. But my people are not whole."
Kael waited.
Thyrn continued, "Over three hundred of ours still hide in the Southern Vents. My brother leads them. If they die, the deep ends with them."
Crate's voice hummed behind. "Codex heat signatures are thick in that region. Pressure's worse than here."
Thyrn turned his eyes. "And yet they breathe."
He looked back to Kael.
"I leave now. Give me two tides. I will return with the rest of our wrath."
Kael gave a nod. "We'll be ready."
Thyrn raised a hand—and a mounted figure emerged from the dark.
Varka.
"She remains," Thyrn said. "To remind you the deep watches. And to learn what the D'vorran have become."
Kael stepped closer, locking eyes with her. "And what will she report?"
Varka's voice was low, emotionless. "That your fire has not yet gone out. And that the sea may yet walk beside it."
Kael gave a small nod.
Thyrn turned and dove into the black.
Gone.
The sea held its breath.
And somewhere far below, the pulse of war stirred.