On the surface plateau the two fractured armies—Iron Justiciars on one ridge, rebel irregulars on the other—were trading exhausted glances across a no-man's-land of cooling blood. Six heartbeats earlier they had been mortal enemies once more, each side regaining its wind to resume the slaughter that Vaelira's light-cage bombs had only postponed.
Then the first Brine-Wraith broke through the waves.
It rose vertical, glistening, an aurora made serpent. Ribbed echoes of children giggling shimmered down its flank, followed by the thunder of old war drums, followed by the hush of a thousand bedtime secrets never heard again. A ring of hoarfrost spread wherever its tail lashed. A second serpent followed, then a third, a fourth—until eleven glimmering phantoms twisted above the sea like pillars in a shrine built for nightmares.
