The sea was at last quiet.
After the storm, after the battle, after the moment when the Leviathan had broken through the waves and bound itself to him, Rowan found silence almost unsettling. The fleet had gathered into a rough ring, sails drawn in, the creak of ropes and the slap of water against hulls the only sounds. Lanterns swung gently in the night breeze, casting shivering gold across the water.
The Islanders whispered among themselves. The Thalriss muttered more loudly. And every so often, Rowan caught the same word on their lips.
Thalorin.
He clenched his jaw and walked toward the edge of the raft, away from the torches. Luna followed, quiet as a shadow, until he finally turned to her.
"Why do they keep calling me that?" His voice was low, fierce. "What is Thalorin supposed to mean?"
Luna hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward the dark water where the dragon's silhouette still drifted beneath them. "You've heard the stories, haven't you?"
"Bits. Legends." Rowan shook his head. "But they say it like it's… me. As if I were born with it stamped on my chest."
She moved to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "Thalorin was not a man's name. It was a title, once. A role, passed to one who rose when the sea was bleeding."
Rowan frowned. "Explain."
Her gaze lifted to the stars. "Generations ago, hunters from the land and raiders from the sea waged war. Nets strangled the shallow bays. Spears cracked the shells of the Leviathans. The waters grew empty. Then came a warrior who stood between them. He cut the nets. He drove back the hunters. He spoke for those who could not. Land and sea bent toward him, and in the end, they named him Thalorin. Keeper of the Tides."
Rowan exhaled, slow. "And now they think—"
"There is more," Luna interrupted softly. "The prophecy. The elders whisper it still: When the sea grows sick and the skies turn red, a Keeper will ride the waves and unite the broken kin." She turned to him, eyes steady. "They think that's you."
Rowan gave a humorless laugh. "Me? I cut some nets, Luna. I bled and flailed like anyone else would. I'm no chosen hero."
"That's what makes you dangerous to the prophecy," she replied, voice quiet but firm. "You don't want it. You never asked. And that's why it may already have claimed you."
He stared at her, searching for some denial in her expression, but found only the calm conviction of the sea. Silence stretched between them. Beneath the raft, a shadow the size of a hill rolled lazily, sending ripples against the hull.
Rowan reached for Luna's hand before he thought better of it. She didn't pull away. When their eyes met again, there was no prophecy, no council, no Leviathan—just the two of them. Their embrace was tentative at first, then sure, and when their lips met, it was not desperate but quiet, like a vow whispered only to the night.
---
The council convened the next day.
A dozen rafts had been lashed together into a broad floating platform. Torches burned in braziers; warriors and elders stood on opposite sides. Islanders with their woven tunics, Thalriss with their scaled armor. They eyed one another as if a fight might break out at any moment.
"We cannot keep giving them access to the shoals," one Islander snapped. "Our nets are bare as it is."
"You claim the seas as if you own them," a Thalriss elder retorted. "The waters feed us too."
Accusations flew back and forth. Over-fishing. Raided boats. Poisoned coves. Old wounds reopened like salt in a cut.
Rowan shifted uneasily, standing at the edge of the gathering with Luna and Lyra. He had no desire to be the center of this argument, but every time he caught someone's eye, they looked at him with expectation—as if his word carried more weight than theirs.
And then the sea broke.
The Leviathan surfaced, its crest gleaming wet in the firelight. The massive head rose between the rafts, one golden eye watching the council. Gasps rippled through both Islanders and Thalriss. Arguments faltered into silence.
The beast gave a low, rumbling exhale, misting the torches, then sank back beneath the surface. The water closed behind it with barely a ripple.
No one spoke for a long moment. When they did, the tone had changed.
Perhaps, they admitted, the seas were too dangerous to fight over now. Perhaps the greater enemy was not each other, but the creeping corruption that blackened reefs and poisoned fish. Slowly, grudgingly, the debate bent toward compromise.
By nightfall, a pact was forged: The Pact of the Shallows.
Shared patrols, divided waters, mutual defense should corruption strike. And two witnesses, chosen by both sides—Rowan and Luna.
---
The chanting began at dawn.
"Thalorin. Thalorin."
Rowan stood on the deck of the central raft, face burning as dozens of Islanders repeated the name. He tried to wave them off, but the voices only grew louder, echoing across the waters.
Finally, he raised a hand. The crowd hushed.
"I am not the man you think I am," Rowan said. His voice was rough, uncertain. "But I will make you this promise." He swallowed, then let the words fall simply: "I'll guard what can't defend itself. I'll break the wrong nets. And I'll bring our people home."
The crowd cheered, but Rowan barely heard. Luna stepped forward, carrying a thin cord woven from sea-grass and shell. She tied it gently around his wrist, knotting it with care.
"Your first oath," she murmured.
He looked down at the cord, feeling its weight like iron despite its fragility.
---
The Leviathan waited for him in the shallows.
Rowan waded into the water cautiously, heart thudding as the dragon's massive head rose to meet him. Its golden eyes narrowed in curiosity.
"All right," Rowan muttered. "Let's see if this works."
He lifted a hand, gesturing awkwardly. "Come here."
The Leviathan blinked, then flicked its tail, drenching him in a wave. Lyra, standing on the shore, laughed until she doubled over.
"It doesn't take commands," she said once she could breathe again. "It has moods. Playful. Hungry. Stubborn. You have to read it, not order it."
Rowan spat salt water and wiped his face. "Fine. Then… what do I call you?" He looked into that golden eye. "Do you have a name?"
Silence stretched. Then Lyra's head tilted suddenly, her expression sharpening as if hearing something distant. Her voice lowered, resonant, not quite her own:
"My name is Taniwha."
Rowan froze.
Lyra blinked, then added softly, in her own tone, "But he says you may call him Tani."
The great dragon rumbled, the water trembling with the sound, as if in confirmation.
Rowan swallowed, then tried the name aloud. "Tani."
The Leviathan dipped its head, almost brushing Rowan's hand. A bond, not command.
Lyra grinned. "Looks like he approves."
---
Hours later, the chance for a real test came. A manta nursery had drifted too close to shore, tangled in abandoned nets. Rowan, Luna, Lyra, and the Leviathan—Tani—worked together: the dragon nosing the calves gently, Rowan cutting free the cords, Luna guiding frightened mothers back to open water.
When at last the nursery swam free, the sea shimmered with their passing. Rowan rested a hand against Tani's crest, chest heaving.
"Not command," he whispered. "Trust."
The dragon rumbled deep in its chest, almost like agreement.
---
That night, as the fleet drifted onward, they passed a reef that made Rowan's stomach turn.
The coral was blackened, brittle, oozing dark slime. Fish floated belly-up in the shallows. The stench clung to the wind.
Tangled among the kelp was a banner—half-burnt, ragged, marked with the twisted sigil of corruption.
The Islanders muttered prayers. The Thalriss spat to ward off evil.
Then a fisherman swore he saw something—one lone swimmer, darting unnaturally fast through the current, followed by a silver blur that vanished as quickly as it came.
Rowan's hand clenched around the cord on his wrist.
He could not shake the chill in his chest.