Chapter 1: The Sleeper Below
The autumn descent was always Edda’s favorite. Thirty-one successful descents, more than any Warden her age, and still the autumn pull held her. Maybe because she’d learned to mark time by it, one revolution of the world since Olvas. Or maybe because of the particular stillness that came with the season, the way the sea prepared itself. Either way, she always slept the night before like a stone. Woke like one too.
She stood on the edge of the basalt cliffs and watched the tide recede. Forty miles of the Grey Sea pulling back on itself, revealing the ruins that had been drowned since before the kingdom was born. The equinox tides were the only reason the Wardens existed. Twice a year, they walked into the dead city and kept whatever was down there from walking back.
Halvmark was quiet behind her. Most of the city still slept. But she could hear the creak of the winch house, the low rumble as Harl ran diagnostics on their gear. He’d be meticulous, as always. He’d joined the order four years ago, after his brother went down on a fishing run, and he treated the rules like the only thing holding the world together. She respected it. Maybe she envied it a little.
Edda reached into her pocket and ran her thumb over the cool iron of Olvas’ compass. It had been his favorite, heavy and ornate and nowhere near accurate enough for real navigation, but he’d carried it on every descent. Said it helped him remember why they were down there. She still didn’t know what had taken him, only that the sea had given nothing back. No body, no explanation. Just an empty spot where her mentor had been.
“Ready when you are, Edda.” Harl’s voice cut through her thoughts. He stood a few feet away, his Warden’s leathers gleaming in the dawn light, helmet tucked under his arm. He was so young. Twenty-four, with that open eagerness that still hadn’t been beaten out of him. She wondered how long it would last.
“Let’s get it done,” she said, and turned toward the winch.
The descent rig was ancient. A lattice of iron and steel that had been bolted to the cliffs before anyone could remember, maintained by rote, checked and re-checked every year. Harl supervised the process, calling out instructions to the winch operators, double-checking the locking pins on their harnesses. She let him. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the crew, but Harl needed the ritual.
They clipped in, the heavy sea lanterns hooked to their belts, weighted ropes secured. Edda took one last look at the receding sea. The air smelled of brine and turned earth, the metallic tang of things long drowned coming back to the surface. She inhaled, held it for a moment, then released.
“Send us down,” she said.
The winch groaned, and they dropped. The basalt cliffs were slick with algae, the spray of the waves that still crashed against the rocks below. The Wardens had cut steps into the stone, a precarious ladder that disappeared into the gloom. Harl went first, his lantern casting long shadows that danced on the walls. Edda followed, her hand trailing on the cold, wet stone.
By the time they reached the bottom, the sun was completely obscured. Down here, it was always twilight. A strange, filtered light that cast everything in shades of grey and green. The ruins stretched out before them, a maze of collapsed buildings and weed-choked streets. After a few hours, the tide would turn. They had to be quick.
“Standard grid?” Harl asked, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness.
“Standard grid,” she confirmed. They’d run the same pattern for years, marking structural damage, checking for new incursions, laying wards where the old ones had faded. It was monotonous, but it was necessary. The sea never forgot what it had lost.
They moved through the ruins, their lanterns cutting through the gloom. The silence was almost complete, broken only by the sound of their boots on the broken stone and the distant cry of gulls. After a few hours, they stopped to eat hardtack and rationed water, then moved on. The sun climbed higher, but down here, it made no difference.
“I’ll take the west side of the temple,” Edda said, pointing to the crumbling structure ahead. “You take the east. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”
Harl nodded. “Be careful,” he said, and moved off into the shadows.
Edda approached the temple. It had been grand once, she imagined, its pillars carved with intricate sea creatures and its walls adorned with mosaics of long-forgotten gods. Now, it was mostly rubble. She picked her way through the debris, marking the structural damage on her slate. The western side had collapsed completely, burying the inner chambers under tons of stone. She rounded the corner, her lantern sweeping across the darkness, and stopped.
There, in a chamber that should have been underwater for centuries, a man sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing. He was dressed in simple linen clothes, the fabric surprisingly clean. His face was pale, his hair long and tangled. He looked like he was sleeping. But he wasn’t. As Edda moved closer, he opened his eyes. They were human eyes, and yet, they didn’t catch the light the way they should. They were dark, fathomless, like looking into the abyss. He blinked once, twice, then focused on her face.
“The stars have moved,” he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in a long time, and he spoke a dialect of Morethi so archaic that Edda barely recognized the words. "Something woke me."