Quinta stood at the cliff's edge, hands raised.
The ocean stilled.
Not in silence—but in listening.
She could feel it now, not just around her but within her. The tide pulsed in her veins like a second heartbeat. Her four breasts glowed faintly beneath her soaked blouse, twin moons reflecting something ancient and vast beneath the surface.
Behind her, Frank Frownwater watched without speaking.
Before her, the villagers stood frozen—caught between fear and awe, their weapons limp in trembling hands.
And far below, in the deep dark where no light reached, the First waited.
Quinta closed her eyes.
And spoke .
But not with words.
With memory.
She reached into the blood that remembered.
She pulled up the past like pearls from the seabed—each one a life lived, a voice silenced, a truth buried beneath centuries of fire and steel.
The villagers gasped as the memories flooded them.
They saw what had been done.
What they had done.
Generations ago, when the Veythari still walked the shores, they were worshipped—not as gods, but as keepers of balance. They healed the sick with touch alone. Called the rains when drought came. Warned of storms before they struck.
But humankind feared what they could not control.
So they hunted.
They burned.
They drowned.
They carved symbols into skin, marked those who carried the shape as cursed, and drove them into hiding—or death.
And always, they told themselves it was justice.
Not genocide.
Elder Rellis dropped to his knees.
His face twisted in pain, in horror—not from any wound, but from the knowledge flooding him.
He saw his ancestor—a man who once knelt before the First, swearing loyalty, only to betray her in the name of power.
He saw the pyres lit under moonless skies.
The bodies dragged into the sea.
The chants.
The prayers.
The lies.
One by one, the villagers fell to their knees, overwhelmed by the same visions, the same truths forced down generations of throats.
They wept.
They screamed.
They begged.
But there was no forgiveness.
Only reckoning.
The water surged.
A wall of it rose behind Quinta, curling high above the village like the hand of a god preparing to strike.
Frank stepped beside her.
"It's time," he said softly.
She opened her eyes.
"Time for what?"
"To choose."
She looked out over the broken people before her.
Some had hated her.
Some had loved her from afar.
Some had never spoken to her at all.
But all of them were part of the same story—the long, violent tale of humankind forgetting its place in the world.
Could she forgive them?
Should she?
Below, the First stirred.
Her voice rolled through the deep like thunder trapped in bone.
"Daughter of my blood, do you claim your throne?"
Quinta felt the weight of the question settle into her chest.
Throne.
Power.
Legacy.
She thought of her mother, dead in childbirth.
Of her father, who abandoned her.
Of the years spent hiding behind layers of cloth and silence.
She thought of the lighthouse.
Of the lamp she lit every night, even when no ship would see it.
Even when no one knew why she did it.
Now she understood.
It wasn't for ships.
It was for this.
For the return.
For the remembering.
She turned to Frank.
"I don't want war," she said.
He tilted his head. "Then what do you want?"
She looked out over the ocean.
"I want balance."
Frank studied her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"You'll need to speak to her."
"The First?"
"Yes."
"She won't listen."
"She will," Frank said. "If you remind her of what it means to be human."
Quinta frowned. "You mean weak."
"No," he said. "I mean capable of change ."
She stepped forward, toward the edge of the cliff.
Closed her eyes.
Let the wind take her voice.
And dove.
Not in body—but in spirit.
Down, down, down through the cold embrace of the sea.
Past the ruins of Veythra.
Past the silent streets.
Past the temple.
Until she stood before the First.
Face to face.
Heart to heart.
"I am Quinta Quiz," she said. "Daughter of many lives. Carrier of your shape. But I am not your weapon."
The First regarded her silently.
"I know what was done," Quinta continued. "I have seen it. I have felt it. And I do not deny it."
She took a step closer.
"But I also know what we can become."
The First's eyes flickered.
"What is it you ask of me?" she whispered.
"A chance," Quinta said. "To remember. To learn. To live alongside each other again."
The First was silent for a long time.
Then she lifted her hand.
And the ocean answered.
Above, the great wave did not fall.
Instead, it receded.
Slowly.
Gently.
Like a hand withdrawing after a long touch.
The villagers remained on their knees.
Alive.
Changed.
Remembering.
When Quinta returned to the shore, dripping wet and glowing faintly in the morning light, Frank was waiting.
"Well?" he asked.
She looked at him.
"I think… we begin again."
He smiled.
"That's all anyone ever asks."
Behind them, the sea whispered.
Not in warning.
But in welcome.