"Dominic!" a voice called, one he barely registered as Prince Rykas—Naerida's most trusted battle commander—trying to catch him. But Dominic was already gone, already diving past the trenches, past the dying coral towers, and into the dark channel that led to the heart of the storm.
And there she was.
Lyrielle.
Hovering in a current of black water, strands of her hair drifting like ink in the sea, eyes closed as she sang—not to the warriors, not even to the sea—but to something beneath it.
Her voice wasn't a weapon now.
It was a key.
Dominic halted a few paces from her, floating still. "Lyrielle."
Her eyes snapped open. They were no longer fully her own. One glimmered with the old warmth, the defiance, the memories they shared. The other gleamed with an unnatural shine—silver and storm-wreathed, like moonlight trapped in a blade.
"You followed me," she said softly.
"You're calling to it," he replied. "The thing beneath Thalorenn."
