Chapter 291
The water shifts the moment we cross into the trench’s outer edge.
I feel it like a pulse, a change in the current, a pressure I didn’t notice until it squeezed my lungs like a warning. Wake slows beside me, his whole body alert. His eyes scan the shadows ahead, narrowing slightly.
“We’re close,” he murmurs.
“To the city?” I ask.
“To the gate,” he says. “But don’t expect a warm welcome.”
Great.
“The city’s protected by an outer guard,” he continues, eyes tracking something I can’t see yet. “They take security very seriously. They have to.”
“Define seriously,” I say, trying for casual, even as a knot tightens in my gut.
The water tightens around us like a fist the moment we near the trench.
Wake slows, his body tensing in a way I’ve learned to read as one step short of drawing blood. I follow his gaze to the yawning darkness ahead, the mouth of the trench stretching out beneath us like a sleeping beast.
“They’ll have seen us by now,” he mutters. “Stay close.”
“I always do.”
He glances at me, a flicker of something soft in his eyes, but it’s gone a second later. “Don’t draw your weapon. Don’t call the lightning.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ll take it as a challenge.”
That… doesn’t sound promising.
He keeps moving, deeper into the trench’s shadow. I follow, the water getting colder the farther we go. Denser. Heavier. Then—
They appear.
The darkness parts ahead, and shapes swim into view. Big shapes.
A battalion of Enkian warriors fans out to block our path. Behind them loom massive sea beasts, easily the size of cargo ships. Their bodies are plated in natural armor, fins reinforced with bone, tails lined with jagged ridges. They snort and huff in the water, their eyes catching the faint light like predators waiting for the order to strike.
And they are disciplined. Every rider holds formation. Every beast remains motionless. There’s no shouting, no flare of power, just pressure—an unspoken promise that if we make the wrong move, we’ll never reach the city.
“Let me do the talking,” Wake says.
I nod, pulse loud in my ears.
He swims forward alone, slow and sure, arms out to show he’s unarmed.
“I am the firstborn son of the Abyss,” he announces. “Son of Dagon. I seek safe passage to Atlas.”
The water holds its breath.
Then one of the warriors dismounts.
He’s large—even by Enkian standards. His armor is a dark blend of coral and volcanic stone, layered and spiked at the shoulders. His mask is carved to resemble a snarling deep-sea beast, with black horns curving back and luminous markings that glow faintly in the gloom. His movements are smooth, practiced. Not showy. Efficient.
He steps out in front of the formation and stops only a few feet from Wake.
They stare at each other.
Seconds pass.
Then, without warning, the warrior charges.
“Wait—” I surge forward, but Wake’s voice cuts through the water like a blade.
“Phoebe, don’t.”
So I don’t.
But every inch of me wants to.
Because the fight is brutal. Fast.
They collide with a crack of impact that sends a shockwave through the water. No weapons—just claws, teeth, muscle, and sheer instinct. Wake twists, catching the warrior with a shoulder slam, but the other rolls through the hit and lashes out with his tail, knocking Wake into the wall of the trench.
Wake rebounds fast, coming in low and fast with a swipe of his claws. The warrior blocks it with a forearm and bites—bites, for god’s sake—right at Wake’s throat. Wake jerks back just in time, the teeth scraping across his collarbone. Blood clouds the water.
They’re circling now.
Testing.
Wake lunges. The warrior counters, grabbing him mid-charge and slamming him spine-first into the trench floor. Coral cracks beneath them. Wake drives an elbow into the warrior’s gut, then spins, using his tail to hook the back of the warrior’s knee and pull. They both go down, limbs tangling in a swirl of motion.
They’re not talking. Not taunting. This isn’t some posturing brawl.
It’s a test.
And it’s personal.
The warrior’s claws rake across Wake’s back, splitting skin. Wake responds with a headbutt that cracks the edge of the mask. The warrior stumbles, recovers, and launches himself again, this time bringing Wake down in a full-body tackle that lands hard enough to send dust spiraling up from the trench floor.
Neither one’s giving an inch.
Every strike lands like thunder. Every block shudders the ground. Water churns around them in violent spirals.
And for the first time in a long time—I’m afraid for him.
Wake’s good. Better than good.
But this warrior? He’s equal.
They grapple again, locking arms. Muscles strain. Teeth bare. They push and pull, crashing into the rocks, using tails to destabilize each other, claws to dig into armor seams. I feel the tension in the watching battalion—see warriors inching forward, waiting for the signal to swarm.
I feel my lightning prickle up my spine, itching for release.
The warrior drives Wake down, claws digging into his shoulders—but Wake twists, kicks off the wall, and flips them both, pinning the warrior by the throat for half a second before they break apart again.
Blood leaks into the water from both of them now.
Neither shows pain.
Neither backs down.
They slam together one more time—claws locked, tails thrashing, snarls echoing off the trench walls.
And then—
The warrior freezes.
His hand goes to his helmet.
And he pulls it off.
The water stills.
I gasp.
He looks exactly like Wake.
Same bone structure. Same sharp jaw. Same glinting sea-glass eyes. But his hair is longer, tied back loosely, and his grin—when it comes—is wild.
“Bloodletters of the Trench!” he bellows. “Your prince has returned!”
The battalion howls in response.
Their roars echo through the trench like thunder underwater.
And I—finally—breathe.
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