The ocean was quiet—too quiet.
Skullshore's winds usually carried the symphony of waves and seabirds, the occasional call from fishers hauling nets, or the bark of orders as ships drifted into port. But now, silence blanketed the village like a wet shroud. No gulls, no chatter. Just the distant murmur of surf and the heavy, electric tension of something… waiting.
Darion stepped off the skiff, red feather tucked safely beneath his shirt.
Seraphina followed, waterlogged and limping slightly. She had twisted her ankle during their ravine plunge, but refused to slow down. Her daggers were drawn and her eyes scanned the shoreline like a hawk.
At the dock's edge, Crow waited.
His eyes flicked toward Darion's chest, then upward. "You lived."
"Barely," Darion replied, pulling the feather free. It shimmered in the sunlight, still warm to the touch. "This enough magic for you?"
Crow reached for it, but Darion held it back. "First, answers."
The old man's cracked lips curled into a grin. "Come. The tides are shifting."
Crow's shack looked the same as before: mismatched bottles, fetishes of bone and driftwood, lanterns with dying light. But there was something… different now. The air smelled of wet ash. The walls creaked even though there was no wind.
Darion placed the feather on the table. Crow didn't touch it. He merely stared, eyes distant.
"This," Crow murmured, "is the key. A thunderbird's flame binds to the soul, not the flesh. It awakens what is buried."
Darion folded his arms. "And what's buried inside me?"
"Something old. Something cursed." He turned toward Darion slowly. "That orb you found—it didn't just bond with your blood. It marked you. Claimed you. That mark... isn't a curse. It's a beacon."
Darion's jaw tensed. "For what?"
Crow opened a drawer and tossed a moldy old map on the table. He traced a circle off the coast. "There's an island that doesn't exist on charts anymore. Swallowed by the Abyss after the Skyfall Wars. Locals call it Gravesend. It was a sanctuary once. Before it turned to rot."
He looked up.
"The answers you want? They're there. Buried in the ruins beneath the tides."
Seraphina frowned. "You're sending us into a ship graveyard?"
Crow nodded. "More than ships sank there. And if the mark is growing, you'll need what sleeps in that place."
Darion stared at the feather, his fingers curling unconsciously around his shirt near the orb.
The mark pulsed—once. As if agreeing.
They left Crow's shack that afternoon and returned to the Blackwake Tavern to rest and gear up. A storm was brewing—both literal and figurative.
Darion sat on his cot near the firepit, the feather resting beside him. The tavern was unusually empty, save for a few drunkards whispering of ghost sails seen offshore. The rumors had started before their return: fishermen disappearing, strange shadows swimming under the hulls, and voices heard beneath the waterline.
"Can't sleep?" Seraphina asked from her spot across the room.
Darion shook his head.
She stood and crossed to him, her voice low. "You okay?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "When I held the orb back there… it was like it knew me. Like it showed me a memory that wasn't mine. And that fire—it came from inside. Like something was watching… waiting for me to open a door."
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this alone, you know."
"I do," he said quietly. "I just hope I can control whatever this is… before it controls me."
A crash sounded outside.
They bolted upright. The storm hadn't started yet—but something had.
A man burst through the tavern doors, gasping. His clothes were soaked, his eyes wide with terror.
"They're back," he hissed. "Crawled out of the sea."
Seraphina grabbed her blades. "What's back?"
"The Tidemarked."
Darion's blood froze.
They followed the man down to the docks where a group had gathered, weapons drawn, torches lit. Storm clouds loomed overhead, wind hissing through the rigging of anchored ships.
Then they saw it.
A body.
No—not just a corpse.
It walked.
Skin bloated, lips blue, eyes glowing with a faint green haze. Seaweed draped across its shoulders like a funeral shawl. Its fingers were long, skin stretched tight, nails black and broken. Barnacles clung to its jaw.
The fisherman beside Darion whispered, "I knew him. That's Olten. He drowned three years ago."
The Tidemarked stared at them… then screamed.
Not a human scream—but the sound of a drowning god.
It charged.
The dock exploded into chaos.
Torches were thrown. Swords drawn. The Tidemarked was fast—unnaturally so. It leapt onto a sailor, tearing into his throat with teeth worn to jagged points. Darion drew his blade and swung wide, carving through rotted flesh.
But the creature didn't fall.
It shrieked, and more began crawling out of the surf—ten, twenty, a dozen more, their eyes glowing like beacons.
"Back!" Seraphina yelled, cutting two down with graceful slashes.
Darion slashed again, but the Tidemarked kept rising. One grabbed him by the arm, its touch icy as death.
The mark on his chest ignited.
Flames surged down his arm, engulfing the creature. It screamed, flailing wildly, until it was nothing but ash and salt.
Darion gasped, falling to one knee.
Seraphina helped him up. "Looks like fire's their weakness."
"Good thing I'm burning on the inside," he muttered, staggering up.
The villagers formed a makeshift line, pushing the creatures back toward the sea. More fell. But more kept coming.
Then, as suddenly as it began… it stopped.
The Tidemarked froze—then turned, walking silently back into the water like puppets cut from their strings.
They vanished beneath the waves.
Gone.
The survivors stood panting and bloodied.
Darion stared at the horizon.
"What the hell are they?"
Crow's voice came from behind.
"They are the drowned who refused to die."
That night, Darion didn't sleep.
He stood on the roof of the tavern, watching the storm gather. The feather rested in his pocket. The orb pulsed softly. The mark throbbed, warm and restless.
Somewhere out there was a sunken island.
And whatever waited in its ruins… was calling to him.
He didn't know why he'd been chosen.
He only knew this:
If the Tidemarked were just the beginning…
Then Gravesend would be the first real test.
And he couldn't afford to fail.