She wore no crown, yet the sea bowed to her. For she had become the Voice of N'aleth.
Behind her, thousands of sirens with torn wings and maddened eyes sang no song of beauty—but a dirge.
Their chorus peeled across the seabed, cracking walls and warping currents.
> "Swim," Lyrielle commanded, voice layered with the choir of a dead god. "Let the tide wash away the age of thrones."
They surged forward—toward Naerida's kingdom.
And behind them, something moved in the dark. A colossal silhouette, dragging chains carved from ancient tectonics.
Dominic's Reckoning
Dominic staggered from the edge of his temple chamber, coughing saltwater from his lungs, trident barely clutched in hand.
Every time he blinked, he saw it again.
That face.
That forgotten throne.
The whispers of N'aleth scraped against his sanity.
He had known gods. Fought them. Bled against titans. Even stared into the pits of Tartarus.
But this?
This was origin. This was worse.
