The Namrata sliced across the vast ocean like a spear of light, its hull made from living silverwood that shimmered under moonlight. Gifted by the Guardians of Nandaka, the vessel was more than a ship—it breathed, responded to thought, and whispered lullabies from ancient times through its masts.
Aarav stood at the bow, the wind rustling through his hair. He had changed since Shar-Gul and the depths of the sea—his presence was calmer now, more centered. The sigils on his body pulsed rhythmically: fire, wind, unity, and now water.
Behind him, Ishira meditated, legs crossed beneath the flickering lanterns, her aura serene yet unreadable. Vayara leaned on the railing, scribbling notes into her map-scroll, while Luan sat curled by the mast, drawing invisible runes into the air.
The ship sailed toward the unknown—a region known only through fragmented myth: the Kingdom of Bone, once a realm of healers and guardians, now whispered to be cursed and ruled by the dead.
According to the Drowned Archives, the third ring—the Ring of Bone and Soul—lay within its capital: Ghatakar, a city carved into the skeleton of a fallen titan.
But the sea did not remain calm for long.
On the third night, the stars vanished.
A black fog rose.
And a voice echoed from the water.
"Turn back, bearers of false truths. The Bone does not yield to fire or water. Only death."
The ship groaned.
But Aarav stepped forward, flames dancing faintly around his eyes.
"We do not turn from death. We were born from it."
The fog parted.
And the journey continued.