The buried city beneath Blackstone Academy pulsed with a vibrant, unshackled rhythm, its black-gold runes glowing like a constellation of liberated power. The Veins' freedom had transformed the academy into a radiant fortress, its ley-lines weaving a dynamic web across the continent, awakening ancient realms and fueling new conflicts. Mark Wilde stood in a newly fortified tide chamber within the academy's northern keep, its walls etched with runes of stability and resilience. A crystalline table at the center held Lysa's glowing orb, its map tracing the ley-lines' intricate patterns, now pulsing with unprecedented strength. His allies—Elira, Vrix, Silas, and Lysa—stood around it, their faces reflecting a mix of resolve and rising unease. The air was alive with mana, bright with the promise of a new era but heavy with the threat of those who would drown it in floodwaters.
Lysa traced the orb's map, her journal open beside it, its pages filled with runes that shimmered with ominous warnings. "The ley-lines are thriving," she said, her voice steady but laced with dread. "But the journal warns of the Tideweavers, a rogue sect who believe the Veins' power should be drowned in an endless flood. They're weaving rituals to submerge the ley-lines, enforcing their dominion through submersion."
Mark's eyes narrowed, the Forbidden Tier magic humming beneath his skin, warm and aligned with the city's pulse. "The Tideweavers," he said, distinguishing this new sect from earlier threats with similar names. "They think they can drown what we've freed. Where are they?"
Lysa pointed to the map, where a watery pulse flickered over the Abyssal Trough, a deep, flood-ravaged canyon north of the academy, where the waters churned with unnatural force. "Here," she said. "The journal calls it a ley-line tidewell, a place where the Veins' power flows with primal flow. The Tideweavers could use it to anchor their ritual, unleashing an endless deluge to submerge the world."
Elira leaned on her staff, her wards casting a soft glow across the chamber's obsidian walls. "The Abyssal Trough's a death trap, Mark. Raging currents, mana-woven floods, and air that suffocates. The Tideweavers aren't just mages—they're aquamancers, wielding tide runes that overwhelm all. We're still rallying allies; a campaign there could fracture our unity."
Silas, twirling his cane with a sharp grin, leaned against the table. "A bunch of wave-weaving lunatics? That's a soaked fight. My Runebreakers can scout, but the Trough's a nightmare. The academy's secure, but we're not ready for a flood-drenched brawl. What's the plan, Wilde?"
Vrix's stone-like skin glinted as she crossed her arms, her fingers tracing a glyph that pulsed with stabilizing energy. "The Archives mention the Tideweavers as heretics who sought to dominate through submersion. Their ritual could drown the Veins, flooding the world under their rule. If they succeed in the Abyssal Trough, the ley-lines could be lost to the deluge forever."
Mark's mind raced, weaving together fragments of his past life as Maximilian Wilde—empires reshaped by bold strategies, enemies outmaneuvered with precision—and the instincts of this new body, now the Crownless Sovereign. The Tideweavers weren't just a threat; they were a perversion of the freedom he'd fought for. "Lysa," he said, turning to the girl. "Does the journal say how to stop them?"
Lysa flipped through her journal, her fingers tracing a sketch of a cloaked figure wielding a staff of swirling water, surrounded by runes of submersion. "It's not explicit," she admitted. "But it says: 'The Tideweavers seek to drown the Veins' flow. The Crownless must face them with stability, for their strength is in their flood.'"
Elira's wards flickered. "Stability? That's not a weapon, Mark. The Abyssal Trough's a crucible—currents that sweep, runes that submerge, and mages who wield deluges. If we go in, we're fighting on their ground, against rituals that could drown our magic."
Mark's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then we hold their flood. The Veins are our ally, and we'll wield their power. Vrix, can your glyphs stabilize the ley-lines at the Trough, counter their tide runes? Silas, your Runebreakers can stage a diversion at the Trough's edge—draw their sentries away. Elira, Lysa, you're with me. We'll infiltrate the tidewell and stop the Tideweavers."
Vrix nodded, her fingers sketching a glyph that shimmered with anchoring energy. "I can stabilize the ley-lines, but the Trough's mana is turbulent. You'll have a tight window—thirty minutes, maybe less."
Silas twirled his cane, his grin sharp. "Thirty minutes to fight tide-weaving maniacs? I'm in. My team'll make the Trough's edge a chaos storm."
"That's enough," Mark said. His eyes glowed faintly, the Forbidden Tier magic surging. "We move at dawn. Let's stem their deluge."
The Abyssal Trough roared under a sky of gray mist, its flood-ravaged canyon pulsing faintly with corrupted mana. The air thrummed with the crash of waves, the Veins' power twisted by the Tideweavers' runes. Vrix's glyphs had stabilized a narrow path through the Trough, anchoring the ley-lines. Silas's Runebreakers had turned the Trough's edge into a maelstrom, their illusions conjuring spectral winds and collapsing runes, drawing the Tideweavers' sentries away from the tidewell.
Mark, Elira, and Lysa moved through the waterlogged terrain, clad in mana-woven cloaks to shield them from the surging currents. The air was heavy, the ground thrumming with a rhythm that felt like submersion. "This place is a maelstrom," Elira muttered, her staff pulsing with protective runes. "The mana's drowning—like it's being swept away."
Mark's hand hovered near the spiral glyph on his wrist, the Forbidden Tier magic thrumming in sync with the Veins' struggling pulse. "It's not swept away," he said. "It's resisting."
Lysa clutched her journal, its runes glowing faintly blue as she whispered a counterspell. The path cleared, revealing a submerged basin at the Trough's heart, its center dominated by a crystalline spire pulsing with watery light—the ley-line tidewell. "They're here," she said, pointing to faint glimmers in the waves. "The Tideweavers."
A figure emerged, cloaked in robes of swirling water, their staff radiating a tidal glow that pulsed like an endless flood. Their face was hidden behind a mask of polished seashell, etched with a single rune: Deluge. The Tideweaver leader.
"You are the Crownless," they said, their voice a deep roar that echoed like crashing waves. "But you are transient. The Veins' flow will drown, and the flood will reign."
Mark stepped forward, the Forbidden Tier magic blazing in his chest. "Your deluge is a lie," he said. "The Veins are free, and stability endures."
The leader's staff flared, unleashing a wave of watery mana that warped the basin into a maze of floods—raging currents, drowning mists, a world that submerged all. Elira's wards surged, anchoring their stability, but the shield strained under the water's weight. Lysa whispered runes, her counterspells stabilizing the Veins' mana, but more Tideweavers emerged, their staffs weaving tidal energy into a net of submersion.
Mark didn't fight with force—he fought with stability. The Forbidden Tier magic wove the Veins' vibrant energy into his spells, grounding their resonance. The tidewell pulsed, responding to his presence, and the ley-lines surged, countering the Tideweavers' runes. Visions flooded his mind—the First Sovereign's vision of a free world, the Veins' power meant to flow, not drown. The Tideweavers weren't masters; they were submergers, flooding the world to enforce their rule.
"I see you," Mark said, his voice steady. "You're not reigning—you're drowning."
The leader lunged, their staff unleashing a spear of tidal light. Mark met it with a surge of ley-line mana, stemming the flood. The tidewell roared, its light flooding the basin, calming the Tideweavers' runes. Elira's wards held, and Lysa's counterspells sealed the spire, stopping the ritual.
The leader screamed, their mask shattering as the Veins' light consumed them. The remaining Tideweavers fled, their staffs dimming. The basin stabilized, the ley-lines' pulse steadying in harmony with the world.
Elira exhaled, her staff dimming. "You're going to end us, Wilde."
Lysa clutched her journal, her eyes bright. "The Veins… they're stable again. Stability endures."
Mark turned to the tidewell, its black-gold light reflecting in his eyes. "This was their last deluge."
Back at the academy, the Crownless gathered in the tide chamber, the orb's map glowing with the ley-lines' radiant web. Silas leaned against the table, grinning. "Tideweavers down in thirty minutes? We're unstoppable."
Vrix crossed her arms, her glyphs fading. "They weren't the last. The Veins are free, but freedom breeds submergers."
Elira nodded, her staff steady. "The world's awake, Mark. What's next?"
Lysa opened her journal, a new page glowing with uncharted runes. "The journal's showing new currents—lands rising, ready to stand with us."
Mark looked to the horizon, the ley-lines glowing like a new dawn. "We build a world without floods. But we stay vigilant. The submergers are coming."