The sea welcomed no one.
That was the first lesson Kaelen learned as he stood at the edge of the Shattercoast, watching the breakers crash against a jagged shoreline carved from centuries of storms. The wind was harsh, cold with brine and old rot. Gulls circled high above, but they made no sound. Even here, where the sun reached the horizon and bled into the waves, silence ruled.
Aelric adjusted the straps on his pack and muttered, "Remind me again why we couldn't go to the drowned kingdom by normal means. A boat. A ferry. A drunken sailor with a death wish."
Kaelen gave him a glance. "Because Iskaran doesn't exist during the day."
They had arrived at a coastal village called Varness Hollow, built into the cliffs like a clutch of barnacles. The locals were wary, eyes clouded with suspicion and old fear. They spoke little, but what they did say was always the same:
"The sea gives nothing back."
"Tread only by moonlight."
"Iskaran sleeps, but its gods do not."
An old fisherwoman had finally told them what they needed. She drew the map with trembling fingers, inked over an ancient ledger. The tidepools where the monolith rose. The moonlit stair hidden beneath the reef. The hour — always the same: when the third moon broke the surface of the horizon, and the bell in the deep rang once.
Aelric stared at the map. "What happens if we miss the timing?"
Kaelen had only shrugged. "We don't come back."
So they waited.
Night crept in slow and silver. The stars brightened. The second moon climbed pale and bloated, followed soon by the third — a crescent no wider than a blade's edge, glowing faintly purple.
At that moment, the tide pulled away from the coast as though drawn by invisible hands.
And the sea lowered.
Stone steps emerged from the black surf — broad and weathered, spiraling into darkness.
Kaelen felt the Ember stir.
Aelric cursed softly. "Well. No turning back now."
The descent into Iskaran was not like walking into a city. It was like walking into a wound. The steps dropped steeply, and the air thickened with salt and memory. As they descended, walls of coral and barnacle-crusted stone rose around them — not carved, but grown. In the darkness, phosphorescent light pulsed from the stones, casting eerie shapes on the walls.
They passed murals — mosaics half-shattered by time, showing kings with tide-woven crowns, whales shaped like warships, and cities made of water and light.
But every mural ended the same way: a black wave crashing over all.
"It wasn't a war," Kaelen murmured. "It was a drowning."
Eventually, the stairs opened into a massive archway — and beyond it, the lost city of Iskaran.
It lay beneath a dome of liquid sky, protected by sorcery older than memory. The water hung above like glass, held at bay by shimmering runes. Buildings of coral and bone rose in silent towers, connected by bridges that swayed with ghostly currents. Bioluminescent plants grew like flame from cracks in the stone. Statues of sea-gods stood vigil, each with hollow eyes and shattered tridents.
And in the center of it all, built into the heart of the city: the Deep Spire, half-submerged in black water, pulsing with soft blue light.
Aelric stared. "How is this even real?"
Kaelen stepped forward. "It's waiting for me."
As they entered the city, something stirred in the water.
Ripples danced across the surface, and from the shadows came figures — pale, translucent, and drifting like seaweed. Their bodies were long and narrow, and their limbs swam through the air as if it were water. Faces half-formed, eyes glowing with drowned sorrow.
The Drowned Sentinels.
Kaelen stopped. The Ember flared faintly.
The Sentinels hovered, studying him. Then, as one, they turned and drifted toward the Spire, vanishing into the flooded temple.
Aelric looked at him. "So… we follow the undead jellyfish ghosts now?"
Kaelen gave him a humorless smile. "Apparently."
Inside the Deep Spire, the light dimmed further. The walls were lined with veins of glowing coral, and the floor sloped downward until the water reached their knees. Kaelen felt the Crown of Halvyr stir in his pack — cold and heavy, responding to something below.
The chamber at the bottom was circular, rimmed with statues of drowned kings. At its center floated a shard of pearl-like stone — the Third Crown, suspended within a sphere of water that did not spill or move.
But as Kaelen reached for it, a voice surged through the chamber.
"You are not of the sea. You are not of the old line."
The water churned violently. From the pool beneath the crown, something massive emerged — serpentine and crowned with coral, eyes like abyssal stars. It was no beast, but a memory bound in tide and power.
The Leviathan's Dream.
Kaelen drew his sword. The Ember flared so hot it hissed in the damp air.
The Leviathan struck.
He rolled, barely avoiding a sweep of its tendril. The floor cracked beneath the blow. Water surged. Aelric fired a bolt from his crossbow, but it passed through the creature like mist.
"It's not fully here!" he shouted.
Kaelen closed his eyes. The Ember pulsed against his chest. He let the warmth move through him, let his breath match the rhythm of the water. And then he stepped forward, sword lowered.
"I am not of the sea," he said. "But I carry its memory."
The Leviathan paused.
Kaelen drew the other two Crowns from his pack — Fire and Twilight. He held them high.
"I am the bearer of what was lost. I do not come to take. I come to bind."
The water around the crown calmed.
The Leviathan bent low, bowing — and as it vanished, the Third Crown settled into Kaelen's hands.
The moment he touched it, the water receded. The light dimmed to a glow. Iskaran sighed — a breath the city had not taken in an age.
Aelric walked up, soaked and pale. "You talked it down. You talked down a Leviathan."
Kaelen looked up at the dome of water above. "No. I listened."
The city began to tremble.
"We have to go," Kaelen said.
They ran — retracing their steps up the reef stairs as the sea began to close, pulled by magic older than reason. The tide returned as they crested the final steps, crashing behind them with a roar.
Kaelen fell to his knees on the cliff, the Third Crown in hand.
Three now.
Three of the Nine.
And far behind them, the ocean kept its silence once more.