The sea was restless that night.
Waves rose without wind, and the tide murmured in a tongue older than stars. Arenne stood at the edge of the cliffs where the white surf struck the black stone, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow torn loose from the world.
Below, the ocean glowed faintly red — not from the moon this time, but from something deeper, something that moved far beneath the surface.
She could feel it pulsing in rhythm with her own heart.
Vaelen had offered to follow her, but she had refused.
"This is between gods," she had told him. "And gods must face their own echoes alone."
Now, as she lifted her hand, the silver blade she'd woven from her own essence shimmered into being again. Its light rippled over the dark water, scattering the reflection of the stars.
"I know you're listening," she said to the sea.
Her voice carried far, carried down.
The tide answered.
A tremor spread through the cliffs, and the waves drew back, revealing the mouth of a vast chasm that had not been there before — a spiral of living coral and black glass that descended into the deep.
Arenne took a single breath and stepped into it.
The descent was silent.
The deeper she went, the more the world thinned. Sound gave way to vibration, light to thought. The water pressed close but did not choke her; instead, it seemed to recognize her. It parted before her steps, forming a clear path that led into darkness.
And in that darkness, a voice stirred.
Not words — something heavier. The sound of mountains breathing, of oceans dreaming.
Then, faintly, it spoke.
"Seraphyne."
Arenne stopped. "No," she said softly. "Not anymore."
The darkness shifted, and she saw him: a vast form lying upon the seabed, half buried in coral and ash. His body was carved from obsidian and bone, and where eyes should have been, twin whirlpools turned slowly inward.
He was beautiful and terrible — a remnant of the first dawn.
"You smell of her," he said. "You bear her silence. I slept beneath her command, bound to forget. Why do you come now, queen of echoes?"
Arenne stepped forward, her bare feet stirring light across the sand. "Because the world has woken again, and with it, you."
"I was content to sleep."
"The world needs balance," Arenne said. "Dreams cannot live without the darkness beneath them."
The Sleeper laughed — a low, rumbling sound that shook the water. "Balance? You speak of balance, when you are both dawn and dusk bound into one? You are not balance. You are contradiction."
His words cut deeper than she wanted to admit.
He rose slowly from the seabed, the movement displacing waves even in the deep. His shadow covered her, vast and cold. "You carry too much light, queen. You will burn this new world as the last one burned."
Arenne's silver eyes flashed. "Then help me keep it alive. You remember what happens when gods forget how to dream."
The Sleeper tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Dreaming brought pain. Creation brought hunger. Love brought death. Tell me, what do you dream of now?"
She hesitated.
"Her," Arenne whispered. "Always her."
The Sleeper's eyes softened — or perhaps the water itself dimmed. "Then even gods are bound by longing."
He leaned closer, his voice lowering to something ancient and sorrowful. "Very well, Eternal Queen. I will not rise against you. But if you fail to keep the balance, if the light within you consumes what remains of the dark — I will wake fully, and I will unmake what you have begun."
Arenne met his gaze without flinching. "Then pray I never forget what love costs."
For a long time, neither moved. Then, slowly, the Sleeper lowered his head back to the seabed. The water stilled. The red glow dimmed.
And Arenne turned away, ascending through the silence, her blade fading to mist in her hand.
When she broke the surface, dawn had finally risen. The light touched the waves gently, and for the first time since her rebirth, she felt the warmth of the sun without pain.
She looked toward the horizon and whispered,
"Still with me, aren't you?"
The wind answered, faint and sweet: "Always."