CHAPTER 46: BY LAND AND SEA

When the Synod’s chamber had emptied, High Magister Elorath lingered in the shadows of its crystalline columns.

His eyes, sharp and weary from centuries, sought one man: Ilyarion, a priest-magus whose duties often kept him close to the tidelines, where elven ships pressed furthest into the uncertain waters.

"Walk with me," Elorath said quietly, gripping Ilyarion’s arm before he could bow. Together they moved into the outer cloisters, where moonlight fell through latticed stone and the sea’s distant roar pulsed like a heartbeat.

For a time, Elorath said nothing. Then, with a glance as cutting as a blade, he asked,

"The Shivering Sea. Has it stirred?"

Ilyarion faltered, lips pursing before words emerged. "A troubling question, High Magister. There have been... reports. Rumors, most would dismiss. Yet they persist."

"Rumors," Elorath repeated, disdain dripping from the word. "Humans never see the sea clearly. They believe every ship lost is swallowed by storm or reef. They never ask what stirs beneath their fragile hulls. But we know better. Tell me plainly, have you heard from the ancient queen?"

Ilyarion’s face paled, his tattoos seeming to dim in the moonlight. "Not directly. None dare approach Submareth unbidden. But whispers reach us even so. The princely vassals of her realm, the houses of Thal’Azuul, of Morthess, of Kelrinn, they are gone. Their scions... drowned, everyone. Some say in rebellion, others say in judgment. Only the queen remains. Entire dominions of her kind now bow solely to her hand."

Elorath’s stride slowed. His gaze narrowed into the night sky where stars reflected like broken glass on the sea. "Consolidation. After centuries of her aloof rule, she moves openly at last. Why?"

Ilyarion hesitated again, his voice lowering as if fearful that even the waves might hear.

"Her wrath seems... directed. The human House Ignarion has suffered most. Their merchant convoys vanish with alarming frequency. Entire fleets, swallowed. Their sailors do not return, not even their bodies wash ashore. Some believe this is vengeance for some hidden slight. Others whisper it is... love."

Elorath froze at the word, and for the first time in decades, laughter like cracked ice escaped him.

"Love? For humans? Surely you jest."

But Ilyarion did not smile. "I wish I were, High Magister. Yet the songs carried in drowned sailors’ last breaths tell strange tales. Of a queen who gazes not at the deep, but at the shore. Who watches beyond the Red shore. And yearns of Dawnhaven as though it held something precious."

Elorath’s amusement faded. He turned back toward the sea, eyes hard.

"So. The humans flail at one another, oblivious to what coils beneath their coasts. And now their folly draws the eye of the abyss. Ignarion reels on land and sea both, and the jackals circle... while the serpent tightens its coils below."

He clasped his hands behind his back, his voice cold and measured.

"Keep your ears upon the tide, Ilyarion. If the Queen of Submareth turns her gaze to the land, we must be the first to know. For if she allies with a human house, or worse, with this Caedrion, then even the arrogance of elves may find itself humbled."

The waves crashed against the cliffs below, as if answering.

---

The Ember Court was rarely quiet, but tonight the hall thundered with voices.

Torchlight reflected against obsidian walls, throwing the silhouettes of angry Magi across the high vaults.

Scrolls and ledgers lay scattered across the long obsidian table, covered in frantic notes: ship names, cargo tallies, routes charted and abruptly ending with the word vanished.

One of the elder councillors, his hair white as bone but his eyes burning bright with crucible flame, slammed a fist against the table.

"In the last month alone, we’ve lost seventeen grain barges, nine ore transports, and half a dozen couriers. Entire convoys, gone without a trace! Pirates, saboteurs, storms, call it what you will, but our coffers bleed."

Another voice rose, sharp and bitter. "Pirates? None dare prey on Ignarion vessels! Not unless they have a death wish. And storms do not strike so selectively. No, my lord, I suspect Dawnhaven’s treachery. Perhaps they’ve built some new effigy for the sea, a hidden weapon."

At this, Veltharion himself stirred upon his basalt throne. He leaned forward, his eyes glowing like embers under a mountain.

"You would have me believe Ferrondel commands the waves? A house landlocked in a river valley, surrounded by our lands? Foolishness. If they had such a weapon, we would have seen it upon the battlefield, not hidden at sea."

Murmurs filled the chamber. Some whispered of smugglers bribed to strike against Ignarion trade.

Others of enemy magi secretly conjuring whirlpools. A few even dared to suggest that the sea itself had turned against them, a curse for the blood spilled in Dawnhaven.

Veltharion silenced them with a gesture.

"Enough of this madness. Ships do not simply vanish into mist. There is an explanation, one rooted in treachery and mortal frailty, not superstition. Until we uncover it, we double the escorts. Every convoy sails with at least two war-galleons. Every captain is warned, cowards who scuttle at shadows will burn for their weakness."

Yet even as he barked orders, the fear lingered. Too many ships. Too clean a disappearance. No wreckage, no survivors. Just silence.

News of the losses spread like wildfire across the human realms.

Already weakened by their humiliating defeat at Dawnhaven, House Ignarion now looked cursed at sea as well as on land.

In House Marvik’s great hall, nobles whispered of Ignarion decline, their voices dripping with schadenfreude.

"See how the once-mighty stumble? Their sons burn themselves to ash, their armies break upon walls, their ships vanish into the tide. Soon their dominion will be nothing but ash scattered in the wind."

House Caltrisse spoke more cautiously, but the message was the same.

"With Ignarion coffers running dry, their tribute payments will falter. Already merchants whisper that Dawnhaven’s wine reaches port more reliably than Ignarion steel. If their trade falters further, perhaps we need not fear their fire at all."

And though no one dared say it aloud in the Ember Court itself, in taverns, markets, and merchant guildhalls across the human realms, the same sentiment grew:

The Lion of the Ashlands bleeds, and the jackals smell the blood.