The quiet after the deep was not peaceful. It was the quiet of a wound still bleeding.
Elias sat alone in the ship's observation room, a small glass bubble at the bow that looked out into the gray sea. The sky was overcast, the water still, but the green glow on the horizon had not faded. It pulsed like a distant heartbeat, steady and patient. The ship's engines were silent, conserving fuel, and the only sound was the faint creak of the hull.
He pressed his hand to his chest. The scar was warm now, not cold. The door inside him was open—not wide, but open enough. He could feel the deep on the other side, pressing against the seal the children had made. It was no longer a question of if it would break through, but when.
The door was not just a wound. It was a mouth. And it was hungry.
A
