The waves rolled quietly.
The Atlantians, all of them, remained kneeling. The High Tiderune's mighty figure stood hollow beside his behemoth, still and silent, his body threaded through with millions of glimmering spores.
Beside him, the Sea Tribe Kings bore stunned expressions, and behind them, thousands of other Atlantians lowered their gazes to the seas that no longer answered to them.
They were no longer sovereigns of tide or current. That right belonged to the one who now floated above them, bathed in the golden purple sheen of a miniature sun.
Achilles looked over all of them. His gaze, cold but not cruel, swept across those bowed heads, then turned slowly toward the radiant, winged sea-continent that shimmered beyond- the Thalassphere Arx.
He hovered there in silent contemplation. The winds circled. The sun above him turned slowly.
Then his voice broke the silence.
