The Shattered Crowns

Mirak remembered little as he plunged into the pool of Atta. It wasn't a gentle pull, but a torrent that seized him, dragging him down into its depths with unrelenting force. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever known—an endless, suffocating weight that consumed his every thought.

He tried to breathe, but no air came. His lungs burned as though fire had replaced the air, and his chest tightened with the strain of survival. A thunderous clap rang through his skull, deafening him as his eardrums felt close to splitting.

He fought desperately to swim upward, clawing against the invisible currents, but the force only grew stronger, pressing him farther and farther into the depths. Each time he stretched toward what he thought was the surface, the pull dragged him down like an anchor.

His body screamed for air, his lungs searing with pain. He clutched at his throat, desperate to force his eyes open, but the pressure was too much. It felt as though unseen hands held them shut, trapping him in an abyss without light or breath.

Again, he tried to pull in a breath—just one—but the torrent surged harder, enveloping him completely. Panic clawed at his mind, but his fingers found something in his hand: the resin crystal. Its faint light glimmered, glowing hotter as it burned against his palm. He held it tight, a flicker of warmth in the crushing darkness.

But the pull wouldn't relent. His exhaustion grew heavier, his strength fading with each futile effort. A thought crept into his mind, cold and unbidden: What's the point?

The force pulling him deeper wasn't just a current—it felt ancient, alive. Older than the Heroes of the Ages, older than Lorian itself. He couldn't fight it. Not anymore. His muscles slackened, his limbs losing their strength. Slowly, the resin's faint glow began to fade, and with it, his resolve.

Finally, the light disappeared altogether, swallowed by the darkness.

It wasn't quiet in this void. The sound of crashing waves echoed endlessly, but there was no water to be seen. The noise reverberated through Mirak's very being, a deep, rhythmic pulse that seemed to match the beat of his heart.

Though his body was still sinking, he felt a strange stillness take hold of him. The pressure, unbearable just moments ago, began to ease. The crushing force receded, parting like a tide. Cold seeped into his bones, sharp and unyielding, but it carried no malice.

His body attuned to the strange rhythm of the void. Each beat seemed to wrap around him, drawing him deeper into its impossible depths. Mirak tried to move, but his limbs refused to obey. His mind whispered for him to push forward, to fight, but his body had already made its decision.

He began to drift.

For the first time, he didn't resist. His mind floated along the unseen currents, following the pull that had consumed him. He wasn't Akash or Daenys—heroes who could defy the laws of the universe. He was just Mirak. His strength was gone, his resolve slipping away with it.

A question rose unbidden in his mind, soft and childlike: What is pulling me?

He wished he could see it, whatever it was that waited in the depths. He wished for even a glimpse. But his vision remained clouded, the darkness unbroken.

Then, something broke the stillness.

A hand.

It gripped his arm and hauled him upward with impossible strength. The sensation sent shockwaves through his body, shattering the void's stillness. Mirak's eyes snapped open, and for the first time, he could see.

He coughed violently as he breached the surface. It wasn't water he expelled, but thick black liquid that swirled unnaturally, shimmering like oil under moonlight. He wiped at his mouth, his body trembling as he tried to process what had happened.

"Come on, Mirak," said a familiar voice, pulling him fully upright. "I can't have you lying around like that. You need to help me get out of here."

For a fleeting moment, the voice sounded like Akash, but as his vision cleared, he realized it was Lock.

Lock stood beside him, soaked and panting. "You told me to jump," he said, shaking his head. "So I did. Swam through whatever the hell that was and dragged you onto this... thing."

Mirak blinked, looking around. They were on a jagged outcrop of land, barely more than a sliver of rock rising above a sea that seemed endless. The water shimmered unnaturally, its surface shifting in hues of black, blue, and violet.

Above them, the sky churned with a violent storm. A vortex of clouds spiraled downward, its edges clawing at the horizon. Thick, glowing raindrops pelted the ground, splashing with a sound like shattered glass. The waves roared around them, colliding with impossible force as though warring with each other.

"Where are we?" Mirak asked, his voice hoarse.

"Like I know," Lock snapped. "We're here because of you. You jumped in, I followed, and now we're stuck."

The wind howled, shredding their skin with its icy bite. Mirak shielded his face with a trembling hand as he rose to his feet. "Only way is up," he said, nodding toward the jagged slope ahead.

Lock gritted his teeth, his lips splitting in the relentless wind. "We're going to need more than these rags if we're climbing that."

"We don't have a choice," Mirak said firmly, though his voice wavered. Even as he spoke, another wave crashed against the island, towering far above them. Its size dwarfed anything he had ever seen—larger than the walls of Koona, larger than anything he could imagine.

Together, they shuffled up the uneven terrain, fighting against the wind and rain. Each step was a battle as the elements seemed to conspire against them.

Mirak raised his hand instinctively, and to his surprise, the Atta responded. It formed a faint barrier, enough to keep the worst of the wind at bay. The pressure of wielding it was almost nonexistent compared to what he had faced earlier.

Lock glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "You're one of those sorcerers, then?"

The question surprised him. For a moment, he almost smiled. "Yes," Mirak said simply.

Lock wheezed out a laugh, though it sounded bitter. "Must be quite a story how you ended up a Publici."

"Nothing grand," Mirak replied. His voice lacked emotion, but the act of speaking grounded him.

They climbed in silence after that, the roar of the storm their only company.

When they reached the peak of the outcrop, the vastness of their surroundings unfolded before them. The storm stretched endlessly across the horizon, its clouds writhing like living things. Below, countless islands dotted the ever-shifting sea, some barely large enough to stand on.

Lock let out a soft whistle. "I don't think we're in Koona anymore."

"No," Mirak agreed. "We're not."

Lock squinted at him. "How do we get back?"

Mirak shook his head, his eyes fixed on the chaotic waves below. "Do we even want to go back?" he asked quietly. "Look at this place."

"And starve here?" Lock countered.

Mirak grunted, folding his arms. "Better than being a slave." This was freedom—the kind he had only dreamed of. Nothing could hold him down here.

But as he stared at the horizon, something shifted. The water seemed to ripple unnaturally, the light bending as a massive shadow moved beneath the surface.

The shadow grew larger, rising until it towered above them.

"This is the wrath of the gods," Lock whispered.

Mirak couldn't respond. The creature that emerged was beyond comprehension—a serpentine form so massive it seemed to pierce the storm itself. Tendrils of flesh hung from its sides, swaying as its head, nearly the size of their entire island, turned slowly.

The creature dove into an oncoming wave, shattering it with ease. Water exploded outward, separating clouds as the beast inhaled, swallowing entire schools of fish in a single breath.

"I..." Lock started but fell silent, unable to find words.

Mirak nodded, unable to look away. What could anyone say in the presence of something so vast, so unknowable?

The creature crashed back into the depths, disappearing as if it had never been there. The waves it left behind rippled outward, creating new storms in their wake.

"We need to move," Lock said finally. "Or we're dead."

Mirak gestured vaguely to the vast ocean. "Where, exactly?"

Lock had no answer.

Before either of them could speak again, the air shifted.

A new figure descended from above, carried by the storm's winds. It was humanoid but impossibly alien—multi-armed, draped in golden skin that shimmered like polished metal. Around its head swirled wisps of color, fragrant and hypnotic.

In the center of its chest was an eye that blinked lazily, its gaze piercing. It landed lightly in front of them, completely unfazed by the storm raging around it.

Mirak found himself on his knees without realizing it, his palms pressed against the harsh gravel. He didn't feel the pain—only the overwhelming weight of the being's presence.

The creature spoke, its voice a blend of tones, soft and commanding. "Farsharad caltuzahd malenar."

The words twisted and warped, too complex for human tongues to form.

"We can't understand you," Lock managed, his voice weak.

The creature tilted its head, then extended its hands.

The briefest touch sent a rush of sensation through Mirak's mind. Colors, sounds, and feelings all swirled together, their meanings just out of reach. He tried to grasp them, to pull them closer, but they slipped away like water through his fingers.

A whisper came through the chaos, a voice soft and commanding:

"Ignorance is the fall of kingdoms. Seek the Truth. Turn yourself into something more."

Then it was gone.

Mirak gasped, clutching his chest as he returned to himself. When he opened his eyes, he and Lock were lying in the streets of Koona, covered in black liquid.

He didn't know how they had returned—or why. But one thought rang clear in his mind as he stared at the unfamiliar night sky.

He was free.