The Black Sea churned.
No moon hung in the sky, and the stars themselves seemed to draw back behind a veil of storm and omen. Waves rolled like the breath of something colossal beneath, and the wind carried with it a sound that had no business being born of the Earth — a deep, drawn-out chant, as if the water itself sang a dirge.
Cassian stood at the prow of the Specter, a fast, old Athenian warship they'd reconditioned with arcane seals etched along its frame. Each symbol glowed with faint azure — Vaelora's doing — keeping the waters calm just enough to cross.
But that calm was a lie.
"She's growing restless," Selene said, stepping beside him.
"She?" Cassian asked without turning.
"The sea," she whispered. "You can feel it. Like it's waiting."
He nodded slowly. "Waiting for what?"
"Not what," came Vaelora's voice from behind them. "Who."
