Season Two: Beneath the Waves
381 Words
Beneath the palace, where the water burned warm with ancient magma, Calla stood alone in the training hall. Glowing veins of volcanic stone webbed through the floor, casting flickers of light across the walls. Around her, warriors spun through drills—tridents slicing, tails twisting, shields crashing like thunder.
They were elegant and deadly. Born of the sea. Molded by centuries of battle.
She was neither.
Not yet.
But she would earn her place.
Calla stepped forward into the swirling water. It came up to her knees now, and the weight of it pushed against every move she made. She grabbed the practice spear laid out for her and mimicked a defensive stance she'd seen the others use.
"Keep your elbows tucked," a voice said.
She turned. Thalos stood at the edge of the arena, arms crossed, watching. Not judging. Teaching.
Calla adjusted her grip.
"I'm not trying to be one of them," she said. "But I don't want to be helpless, either."
He nodded. "Good. Power doesn't always roar. Sometimes, it listens. Learns. Then strikes."
In the shadows near the archway, Nerida watched them both.
Once, she and Thalos had stood side by side on this same floor. Warriors. Strategists. Something more. Now, she watched the god she once loved lean toward a girl with too many questions and not enough scars.
Her lip curled.
She slipped away.
Far above, the salt winds howled across Windmoor's cliffs.
Inside the old fishery, Elias crouched beside a table scarred with burn marks and salt rings. A group of fishermen gathered around him some old, some barely older than boys. All angry.
"We're not waiting for the sea to decide our fate," Elias said, voice low but sharp. "We're fighting back."
There were nods. Quiet, grim.
Old men spoke of trench lords and kelp wraiths. One brought out a book wrapped in waxed cloth, pages brittle but full of illustrations how to bind a sea nymph, how to poison an eel-born.
Spears were dragged from attics. Nets were lined with barbed hooks and shark teeth. Someone poured oil into bottles and stuffed them with rags.
Windmoor didn't have an army.
But it had memory.
And rage.
By nightfall, it also had weapons.
This wasn't just fear anymore.
This was the start of war.
- Writer
