The ocean stank of death and salt.
Waves crashed against the shattered docks of the dead port town known as Gravin's Rest, a once-thriving trade post that now lay half-swallowed by the sea. The group stood at its edge, facing the endless stretch of black water ahead.
Callan stared out toward the horizon where mist twisted like the fingers of a corpse. Beneath those waves was their next destination—the Drowned Citadel, a forgotten fortress that had long since sunken into the trench now called the Salted Abyss.
Ren kicked aside a barnacle-crusted skeleton. "So let me get this straight. You want us to dive into the ocean trench that swallowed a city whole and is rumored to be cursed by sea wraiths?"
Callan didn't look away. "Yes."
"Great."
Solenne held the shard of the Heart Crystal up to the wind. Its glow pulsed erratically, reacting to the energy hidden beneath the surface.
"It's close," she said. "I can feel the presence of the next key."
"There's a path," Callan murmured. "One only the marked can take."
He stepped forward and drove the shard into the ground. At once, the ocean churned.
The water roiled unnaturally, parting in a wide circle. From the depths, a stairway of ancient obsidian rose, slick with brine and encrusted with glowing barnacles. It spiraled downward, deeper than the sea floor should have gone.
Shura gave a low whistle. "That's… horrifying. Let's go."
The descent was steep and eerie. The light above grew dim as they spiraled deeper into the drowned world. The walls of the abyss pulsed with veins of magic, illuminating twisted murals—depictions of the Demon General in his prime, wreathed in fire, his armies bathing the world in war. But there were other carvings, too—images of betrayal, of sealed vaults, of serpents swimming through the dark.
"They worshipped you here," Solenne whispered.
Callan nodded grimly. "Fanatics built the citadel, not for glory—but to preserve what even I sought to bury."
The bottom came with a chilling wind, impossible in an underwater vault. The party emerged into a massive atrium where the ruins of the citadel loomed—arches half-collapsed, statues cracked and waterlogged. A spectral glow shimmered above an altar at the center, where a pedestal of stone held the next ember key.
It was not unguarded.
A sound rose through the hall—wet, rasping, full of hate.
From behind the pillars slithered wraiths wrapped in seaweed and shadow, their bones translucent, their eyes orbs of drowning light. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
"They've been waiting," Callan said, voice calm.
He stepped forward, drawing his blade. The wraiths didn't charge immediately. They hissed, retreating from his presence.
"They remember," he added.
Ren grinned. "They should. The boss is very memorable."
Shura vanished from sight. Moments later, two wraiths toppled with their throats slit. The others screamed and lunged.
The battle erupted in an instant.
Solenne cast a dome of firelight, pushing back the first wave. Ren swept through the ranks, his spear crackling with lightning that arced between corpses. Shura danced like a phantom, flickering between shadows and carving through the enemy with inhuman grace.
But they kept coming. Endless. Relentless.
Callan moved like a tempest.
He struck with practiced fury, his blade igniting the water-logged air with each slash. Each blow carved light into the dark, turning the tide. The wraiths recognized his aura—and feared it. But something deeper stirred at their heart. Something ancient.
A throne rose at the back of the chamber, and on it sat a figure in ruined ceremonial armor.
Its skull gleamed beneath a cracked helm, and in its chest was embedded a fragment of red crystal—the corrupted twin of the Ember Key.
It rose.
And spoke.
"Return… what was stolen…"
Callan's breath caught.
He knew that voice.
"Commander Veyric," he whispered. "You led the Legion of the Abyss."
The revenant let out a scream and charged, its blade a scythe of blood-forged steel. Callan met the strike with a roar, their clash shaking the entire hall. Veyric moved like death incarnate—each swing precise, devastating, full of ancient rage.
"You left us to drown!" Veyric snarled. "You sealed us with your lies!"
Callan's eyes burned. "You chose to stay. You knew the cost!"
Their blades met again, sparks flying.
"I believed in you," Veyric howled. "And you cast me into the deep!"
Solenne screamed a warning as another wave of wraiths surged. Ren and Shura fought to hold them off, buying Callan precious seconds.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered.
The drowning city. The desperate ritual. Veyric had volunteered—to stay behind and bind the corruption leaking from the trench. But something had gone wrong. The seal failed. They all perished.
But Veyric hadn't died.
He had become something worse.
"I'm sorry," Callan said softly.
Then he drove his sword through Veyric's heart.
The revenant didn't scream. It simply stared at him.
And smiled.
As its body turned to ash, the corrupted crystal shattered.
Left behind was a single, pristine shard of flame.
The Ember Key.
Callan took it in silence.
The sea began to rise again, the ruins trembling.
"We need to go," Solenne said, voice urgent.
They ascended the spiraling stairs just as the abyss began to close. The water surged back in, but the path held long enough for them to escape.
They surfaced beneath a gray dawn.
Breathing hard, soaked, but victorious.
Two keys down. Two remained.
But Callan's face was unreadable.
Not because of the battle.
But because of the memory.
The past was no longer a shadow. It was returning to claim him—piece by piece.