Kaelith Serpantwind didn't raise her voice, she didn't need to; She carved the air with it.
"Then the treaties fail. War spreads."
The words dragged through the chamber like a rusted blade, no polish to soften the weight. She stood rigid, not because of the armor wrapping her like a second skin, but in defiance of it—as if she dared it to hold her back. Her eyes didn't burn, not quite. They watched, cold and hungry, daring someone to speak a better answer.
Ezreal shifted , shoulders hunched and arms locked across his chest like the only thing keeping him upright was the only thing holding his frame together. When he finally spoke, it came out thin and clipped.
"Then we force his hand."
Nothing flourished. No drama. Just cold math spoken out loud. His golden eyes didn't blink behind his blindfold, just twitched once at the edges.
Kaelith snapped a hand up. A scribe half-tripped into view, robes fluttering like they were trying to escape the job. The scroll unraveled with a reluctant flick, and magic pulsed out, not flashy, but sharp enough to make the air crackle.
A map bled into form over the dais. Cold blue lines lit the air, crackling where they touched. Forests pulsed. Rivers glimmered. Ports blinked.
One of them flickered sickly.
"Ipswich," Kaelith muttered like she was tasting something sour. "Rottenburg's southern edge. Three days sailing. Five north by foot."
Loren Vinescar leaned slightly toward the map, eyes narrowed like it whispered secrets only he could hear. "Those woods don't forget, they're known to house hostile creatures." he said under his breath, a warning meant for no one and everyone. The words clung to the space between them.
Vargus Ironcrag grunted like furniture shifting. The bones woven into his beard clattered when he shifted. "Ipswich wouldn't raise a knife, let alone a sword," he grumbled. "They'd drown before they even looked cross at you."
From the dimmer corners of the hall, Aelwryn's voice filtered through, part song, part smoke. "Something forgotten has stirred. Ancient words are whispered."
Her form wavered—one moment frail, the next regal. A shifting memory of a woman. Her silks whispered secrets across the stone, and her smile carried the weight of fables that didn't end happily.
The torches blinked once, then again, and the room thickened. The shadows seemed to lean forward.
Kaelith stepped down, her boots striking quiet but hard. "You carry the weight of nations. Search out the rot, deal with it, and bring back word. " she said, voice like a temple door closing. Her presence made the floor feel thinner.
Then came the bell.
Once.
Then again.
A third time, slower. Like something waking that hadn't wanted to.
The obsidian throne behind her pulsed. The light bent around it. No one spoke.
Verek's fingers twitched. A pulse beneath his ribs beat strange, out of time. His hands curled slightly, and he blinked too fast. Something had taken root in him. Not pain. Not magic. Memory that wasn't his.
Ezreal's voice cracked the stillness. "We leave at dawn."
His tail lashed once behind him. His jaw set.
Kaelith didn't respond. She just kept her eyes on the throne.
They left before sun-up.
No speeches. No crowd. Just damp air and sails snapping like they were angry about it. Their cutter cut the sea like it owed them something. Black sails groaned. The ocean rolled gray beneath.
Below deck, the hull murmured with sigils that knew too much. They pulsed low in Verek's chest. He leaned against the wall. Let the rhythm press into him. His thoughts were soft around the edges, frayed.
Phokorus disappeared behind them, white towers eaten by fog. The sea hissed at their wake. Cold wind bit through cloaks, and the silence clung like salt.
You carry the weight of nations.
He hadn't asked for it. But it had found him anyway. Lodged behind his ribs.
Ezreal adjusted his gauntlets without looking down, each motion practiced, not precise. His gaze stayed fixed, hard. Like he'd picked a point on the horizon and was daring it to move first.
Dax leaned over the railing, half a smile twitching across his mouth. "Three days to Ipswich," he said. "Think they greet us with meat and pie?"
Ezreal didn't blink. "More like pitchforks and bad omens."
Caylen strummed his lute softly, tuning it against the groan of the deck. "So no welcome party," he sighed. "Absolutely tragic."
His golden hair caught the dawn like it still believed in poetry, but his eyes flicked toward Verek now and then. Quiet checking. One hand stayed near the charm at his neck.
Verek's reply was quiet. "The Queen said it's the last harbor that will take us in. Doesn't mean it wants to."
Dax's smile faded. "Might not be the port that's the problem," he said, staring into the waves. "Might be everything after."
Ezreal looked skyward. "If Torvald's gone, we find out why."
Verek swallowed. "And if it's not a why but a what?"
Ezreal didn't pause. "Then we're already late. It turns into us eliminating the problem. "
The group quietly dispersed each in their own thoughts. Each with their own questions nagging at them.
Hours passed into the evening.
Below deck, the hold flickered with candlelight. Verek laid the map across a crate. Ipswich throbbed red, faint but steady. The Greenwood above it curled across the page like a threat.
He touched the edge. "The woods don't forget," he muttered.
A soft knock.
"Come."
Ezreal stepped inside, lean and grim. "You look hunted."
"It keeps catching up," Verek said. "The ground shifts under every step."
Ezreal sat. "You're not wrong. Just early."
Verek looked at him. "Do they believe this will work?"
Ezreal didn't hesitate. "They believe it has to."
"And you?"
Ezreal's mouth tightened. "The worst thing out there isn't Torvald."
He stood. Started pacing. "In the Drowned Marshes, there was a village. One day, gone. No screams. No bodies. Water just stared back. We burned the bridge. Didn't look back."
A shout above.
Then another. Urgent.
"Port side!"
They bolted topside.
The deck was alive with motion. No panic. Just readiness. The kind of silence that meant people had seen the wrong kind of things and didn't waste breath now.
Verek leaned over the railing.
Something moved under the water.
Not swimming. Sliding. Like it didn't displace the sea, just passed through it.
It knew they were watching.
Ezreal's voice was low. "That wasn't a fish."
Verek nodded, numb. "Then who sent it?"
No answer.
Wind shifted. Cold snapped sharper. The air reeked of something half-remembered. Not rot. Grief.
Captain Cale shouted orders. Crew moved fast, practiced. Blades out. Sails ready. Ritual chants whispered into the wood.
Ipswich loomed ahead.
But something else was already waiting.