Astraeus followed Joga through the shimmering trench, flanked by spiraling coral that looked like crystallized bones. The current tugged at him gently — like invisible hands urging him forward — yet the deeper they went, the more he felt the pressure building in his chest.
Not from the water.
From the weight of what was coming.
"You walk like a surface-dweller," Joga
teased, glancing over his shoulder. "Stiff,
Upright, all that pride. You're not on land anymore. Here, pride sinks."
"I didn't ask for this," Astraeus muttered.
"No one in Landara ever does," Joga replied with a crooked grin. "That's why we get the weird ones. People with fire in their bones, war in their breath."
—fee:
"Who are you really?" Astraeus asked.
They emerged from the trench into a giant dome of glowing blue — an air pocket encased in glass-like kelp. Inside floated markets built from sea shells and old shipwrecks. Lantern-fish hovered in strings above stalls. Traders of every underwater race bartered with currency that pulsed like jelly hearts. A sword made of compressed tide foam gleamed behind one merchant's counter.
"I told you. Joga. Merchant, liar, sometimes saver."
He tossed Astraeus a coin — round and translucent, with a swirling symbol of the deep etched into its center.
"That's your entry fee. You'll need more."
"For what?"
"To speak to the Oracle of the Deep, of course. She's the only one who can tell you why Landara brought you here… and if it'll ever let you leave."
Astraeus narrowed his eyes. "Why help me?"
Joga's smirk faded. "Because once, I was brought here too. The ocean has plans for people like us. Some of us run. Others drown. But a few… rise."
The words settled like sediment in Astraeus's mind.
—Commander:
A ripple echoed through the market. People stopped. Water stilled.
Astraeus turned.
A figure approached — tall, armored, and glowing with bioluminescent veins. He moved like a shark made of liquid iron, and his helmet bore the crest of a deep-sea leviathan.
"That," Joga whispered, "is Commander Rhoan, warrior of the deep Guard. If he's here… the tides are turning faster than I thought,"
Rhoan spoke with a voice that echoed like sonar through bone.
"Surface flame-bearer. You are trespassing. The Ocean King has not summoned you. You
bring fire where only current should flow."
Astraeus stepped forward. "I didn't choose this. I was dragged here by something I don't understand."
"The deep understands nothing but silence and Obedience," Rhoan growled. "Leave, or drown in duty."
Before Astraeus could reply, the coin in his hand began to spin. Fast. Violently.
The sigil on it matched the one branded across his Chest. It flared with blinding light, and the water around him boiled for a moment.
Rhoan froze.
Joga whistled low. "Well… that just
Complicated everything."
Later, in the back of Joga's floating market tent, Astraeus sat near a breathing vent — a coral structure that exhaled warm air like a living lung. His fire pulsed in rhythm with the ocean now. Calmer. Sharper.
"I didn't think it would… react like that," he said.
Joga nodded slowly. "That coin was a Fate Shell. And yours just spun like the entire realm bent to it. You're not just here on accident. You're a wound in this world's destiny."
"What does that mean?"
"It means if Landara is the ocean of time,
You're the anchor dragging it sideways."
Astraeus leaned back against the coral,
closing his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"
"First," Joga said, handing him a strange breathing mask shaped like a squid, "you're going to see the Oracle. Second… you're going to get ready for war."
"War?"
Joga's smile faded.
"There's something coming from the deepest trenches. Something that wants to flood all realms. Windra. Lavaron. Even Crysansa. It's waking. And you… flame-child… are the only current strong enough to burn it."
To be continue…