The debris kept him afloat for another day.
Aurelion drifted through the water, his body weak, his mind clouded. The sun burned overhead, hot and relentless, baking his skin, cracking his lips. The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady, keeping him alive. But he was fading. He could feel it—the edges of his consciousness growing blurry, the weight of his limbs growing heavy, the cold seeping deeper into his bones.
He thought about Ami. About Corrin. About Kael.
Are they safe? Are they looking for me?
Will I ever see them again?
He didn't know. He couldn't know.
All he could do was hold on.
The second day, he saw it.
A shape on the horizon—low and dark, moving across the water. A ship. At first, he thought it was a hallucination, a trick of the sun and the exhaustion. But it grew larger, its hull cutting through the waves, its masts rising against the sky.
He tried to shout, but his voice was gone, nothing but a rasp. He tried to wave, but his arms were too heavy, too weak. The shards inside him pulsed, urgent, desperate, but they couldn't give him the strength he needed.
He watched the ship grow larger. It was heading toward him—or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just passing by. Maybe it would disappear like all the other ships he had imagined.
He closed his eyes.
He woke to hands on his shoulders.
Voices. Distant, muffled, as if he was underwater. The shards inside him pulsed, warm and urgent, pulling him back from the edge.
"He's alive. Barely."
"Get him on board. Quickly."
"Careful—he's been in the water too long."
"His pulse is weak. We need to warm him up."
He felt himself being lifted, carried, laid down on a hard surface. The world swam around him—faces, voices, the creak of wood and the slap of water against a hull. The shards pulsed, steady and warm, and he let himself drift.
He woke again in a cabin.
The room was small, cramped, filled with the smell of salt and fish. A lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a dim, yellow light. The walls were lined with nets and hooks, and the floor was damp.
He sat up slowly, his body aching, his mind groggy. The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady, a constant presence beneath his skin. He was bandaged—his arms, his chest, his head. Someone had treated his wounds, wrapped them in clean cloth.
The door opened.
A woman entered, carrying a bowl of soup. She was middle-aged, her face weathered by salt and wind, her eyes sharp and assessing. Her hair was tied back in a practical knot, and her hands were calloused, the hands of someone who had spent years at sea.
"Eat," she said, setting the bowl on the table beside him. "You need your strength."
He took the bowl, his hands shaking. The soup was warm, simple—fish broth and vegetables. He drank it slowly, feeling the warmth spread through his body.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"Fishing vessel. The Sea Serpent. We found you drifting on some debris." She studied him with those sharp eyes. "You're lucky we were in the area. Another hour, and you'd be dead."
"The others..."
She shook her head. "No sign of anyone else. Just you."
He stared at the soup. The others were still out there. Ami. Corrin. Kael. They had to be.
"I need to go back," he said.
"Back where?"
"The city. The underwater city. My party is still there."
She frowned. "Underwater city? Are you sure you're not delirious?"
"I'm sure."
She studied him for a long moment. Her eyes were hard, but there was something else there—curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.
"You're not the first to talk about a city," she said slowly. "Sailors have been whispering about something beneath the waves for years. But you're the first to come back alive."
He looked up. "What do you mean?"
She sat down across from him, her expression unreadable. "Ships disappear. Crews vanish. And sometimes—sometimes they come back with stories about lights, about structures, about something waiting down there." She paused. "They say it's a trap. A lure. Something that draws people in and never lets them go."
He touched his chest. The shards pulsed.
"I'm not done with it yet," he said.
The journey stretched on.
The Sea Serpent was a small vessel, its crew weathered and efficient. They kept their distance from him, their eyes wary, their voices low. He was a stranger, a survivor of something they didn't understand, and they treated him like a storm cloud that might break at any moment.
The captain—Rourke—was the only one who spoke to him directly. She brought him food and water, checked his bandages, asked questions. He answered what he could, told her about the city, the shards, the convergence.
She listened, her expression unreadable.
"You're not the first," she said on the third day. They were standing on the deck, watching the sun set over the water. The sea was calm, the sky painted in shades of orange and red.
"First what?"
"First to come back from that place. But the others—they were different. Broken. Shaken." She looked at him. "You're not broken. You're not shaken. You're angry."
He met her eyes. "I have people waiting for me."
"You think they're still alive?"
"I know they are."
"How?"
He touched his chest. The shards pulsed. "Because I survived. And so did they."
On the fourth day, the ship encountered a storm.
Not a full hurricane—just a squall, a sudden shift in the wind that sent the crew scrambling. Aurelion stayed on deck, gripping the railing, watching the waves rise and fall.
The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady.
Rourke appeared beside him. "You should go below."
"I'm fine."
"You're still healing."
"I've survived worse."
She studied him, her eyes sharp. "You're not like the others."
"Others?"
"The ones who came back from that place. They were hollow. Empty. Like something had been taken from them." She paused. "You're not hollow. You're full."
He met her eyes. "Full of what?"
She didn't answer.
The storm passed, but the ship was damaged. The mast was cracked, the hull leaking. Rourke ordered the crew to make repairs, her voice sharp, her expression grim.
"We're not going to make the port," she said, pulling Aurelion aside. "We need to find shelter. Somewhere to wait out the repairs."
"Where?"
She pointed at a map spread across the table. "There's an island. A few miles from here. Uninhabited. We can anchor there, make repairs, and figure out our next move."
He looked at the map. At the island. At the vast, empty sea around it.
"How far?"
"Half a day's sail. If the wind holds."
He nodded. "Then we go there."
The island appeared on the horizon the next morning.
It was small—a rocky outcrop, covered in scrub and stunted trees. A beach of black sand curved along its edge, and cliffs rose at its center.
The Sea Serpent anchored in the shallows, its crew lowering a skiff to ferry supplies to the shore.
Aurelion stood on the deck, watching.
This isn't where I'm supposed to be, he thought. I'm supposed to be back in the city. Back with my party.
But I can't get back without a ship.
He touched his chest. The shards pulsed.
I'll find a way, he thought. I always do.
The crew set up a temporary camp on the beach.
Aurelion helped where he could, carrying supplies, gathering firewood. His body still ached, but he was healing. The shards were accelerating his recovery.
Rourke found him at dusk, sitting on a rock, staring at the water.
"You're thinking," she said.
"Always."
"About what?"
"The city. My party. The shards." He paused. "Everything."
She sat beside him. "You're going back, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Even if it kills you?"
"Even if it kills me."
She was quiet for a long moment. "You're either the bravest man I've ever met, or the most foolish."
"Probably both."