The voyage was long, but quiet. Nereiath moved faster than her bulk suggested, skimming stormlines and tailwinds as if she knew urgency was more important than show. During the second night, no one spoke at the mess table. Melite watched the horizon. Fedlimid sharpened a blade that didn't need it. Seisyll lay on the roof of the Typhoon and didn't come down until morning.
By the fourth day, the sea darkened again.
Neramor's Shell stretched beneath them like the bones of a forgotten world. From the Typhoon's vantage, the black coral ridges and collapsed domes could be seen beneath the surface, shapes half-swallowed by time and pressure. Only the golden-sand islet broke the waterline, gleaming alone in the light, already shrinking as the tide crept in.
Arthur stood on the prow when Nereiath began its descent. The beast circled once, cautious, letting its great shadow cast long lines over the Shell. The waters below rippled with unease. No birds. No gulls. No kelp.
