A tiny throb of light pulsed in the dark.
And he held.
Unaware, Threnakar’s king had grown bored of posturing. “This is your chance, boy. Surrender the Siren to Threnakar’s authority, or,” he drawled, spreading his hands, “I will exterminate every living thing in this dead sea and return it to the anoxic tide where it belongs."
Silence fell upon them.
Heavy.
A suffocating thing, breathing in the deep as it loomed above them all and filled the sea with the ominous pressure. It was a moment poised between. Dangling over a chasm. A gaping, ravenous maw.
Pupils gleaming, Nyxaroth waited. Flanked by twelve. Guarded by more in the corridors beyond.
But at his shoulder, Thalos’ fingers remained. His grip tight, unwavering. Urging restraint.
And Sera—she held the line. Positioned between Threnakar and the only path to Kore. A position she would hold until the water ran red. Until she could not hold it any more.
Head tilting, Nyxaroth sucked his teeth. Tsking. “Always so predictable. Such a bitter disappointment.”
The Trident crackled and hissed, making the current dance as tiny bubbles roiled from its tines in curling ribbons of steam.
And then the current shifted.
Not from below, where war was brewing among the ghostly shadow of the heretical reef.
But above.
Bodies spiraling through the riptide, bringing the harmonic, insufferable Resonance of bodies not meant for the deep. Dozens of them. Scores upon scores.
Nyxarion's gills flared.
The Hollow Court.
Thalos's hand tightened on his shoulder.
Laughing, Nyxaroth threw back his head and bellowed. Triumphant. A gale of vindication. “Oh, this is rich! By the Accord of Nisyros,” he said, and vented the heat trapped next to his body, “I call upon Caelith Mare to stand with Threnakar. To fulfill the covenant sworn in blood between our kingdoms." His voice swelled, filling every dead passage with a crescendo of malice. "Obliterate the Siren. Purge this heresy from the sea."
Nyxarion's blood turned to ice.
Every inch of his body stiffened and grew cold. Frigid.
Despite the grip still clinging to his shoulder, unwavering and strong, doubt bit into Nyxarion’s marrow. Braced for the betrayal.
For Thalos to strike when he was at his weakest.
But although his breath held, locked tight behind ribs that would not move, the Hollow Court held their lofty position and did not breach Vorynthar’s walls.
Instead, a fragile ancient slithered through the corridors. Appearing in the antechamber in a show of tattered, gossamer fins. Irate. Muttering about the great inconvenience of the cold in the Deep. The toxic waters.
Pelagius.
Calcified and venerable. A relic from a time before the Accord.
“We have come,” he said, eyes moving around the throne room with the look of one utterly unaware of the great tension blistering the tide, “to witness the Song of the Black Sea.” Fins fanning in a slow, lethargic sweep, he tilted his head at Nyxaroth, and then, “The courts of Caelith Mare have come to bear witness to the Siren’s birth.”
Jaws working, a soundless bubble of wrath plipped from Nyxaroth’s lips. And for a moment, it seemed that he would not be able to muster a sound. “Spectators?” he spat, blustering. “You bringspectators?” He laughed, and it was a feeble thing. Deplorable in the lack of depth, given that he was an ancient king of the Deep Court. “I invoke the Accord! Caelith Mare is bound by blood oath to stand with Threnakar!Fulfill it!"
Bewildered, Pelagius turned to face Threnakar’s king. Cantankerous, when he opened his lips and said, “Only Thalos Asterion himself commands the armies of Caelith Mare, Sovereign. And he is not here.”