Skate’s frantic, terrorized vibrations rattled his skull. The slime’s weight was dragging him down. His empty lungs convulsed, a useless, burning plea for air. Every muscle screamed, heaving against the indifferent weight of the water.

  He ignored the fire coiling in his muscles and heaved against the water's immense pressure. The dark liquid was a viscous, heavy thing that fought every motion. His legs thrashed with adrenaline, his arms hauled against the downward pressure.

  He gained ground, inch by inch, until he finally broke the surface with a raw gasp, his lungs flooding with the thick stench of rot.

  A splintered beam slammed into Skate’s obsidian shell with a violent CRACK. The force drove him sideways, pinning his head against another waterlogged timber. The closing vice pressure pushed him back under.

  The world above sealed itself behind an impassable ceiling of rotten wood. There’s no way out.

  Even with his air-filled lungs, Skate's weight was a constant downward pull.

  He wrenched his head sideways, and the pressure on his scalp vanished. He didn't see his friend sink; he only felt the absence: a sudden, terrible lightness. Its stuttering hum descended into the dark, swallowed by the grinding roar coming from above.

  Skate… what about the others? I have to find them. I need to see.

  Don't force it. Invite it.

  Yradone’s voice. Her guidance. He forced his eyes shut. He reached inward, past the frantic drumming of his own heart, past the scream of his burning lungs. He listened for the resonant chord of his Mana Radiation and found its wild hum.

  The world behind his eyes ignited. The roar of the falls and the groan of timber became a landscape of echo location. In this churning, sightless deathtrap, he was the only one with eyes.

  But the landscape was a violent, unreadable mess. The grinding roar of the shifting wreckage was a wall of static that threatened to overwhelm his senses. The deep, thrumming groan of the broken Dam was a constant, oppressive bass note that made his teeth ache.

  It was a symphony of destruction, and he had to find four individual instruments in the noise. He pushed past the cacophony, forcing his will to filter the chaos, searching for the familiar, frantic frequencies of his companions.

  A smooth, powerful current moved gracefully underneath the surface chaos. Almitad. The Beaver Kin swam with expert control and speed. She seemed to be scanning the depths for something, or perhaps someone.

  Another, smaller form was diving deep into the abyss. Zeen. He was diving after his clockwork musket as if his life depended on it.

  Where’s Ezy? He thought, as he swam after Zeen.

  A panicked tremor pulsed from the depths, a desperate, fading arrhythmia. There. The muffled thrash of a single arm fought the drag of heavy, waterlogged artisan’s clothing.

  He focused, pushing his will through the braided tether that connected him to the Beaver Kin. She was their strongest swimmer, and she was the only one who could hold her breath for more than a minute. His Message spell sent an urgent command that sliced through the underwater chaos.

  “Almitad, Ezy is about fifteen yards below you, drowning!”

  His sonar map painted Almitad’s immediate reaction. She was already in motion, but her trajectory was wrong. She was swimming deeper, looking for something.

  “Almitad! Ezy needs help!”

  Through the tether, a spike of her conflict jabbed him—she was looking for her Mana Bloom. The hesitation was a stretched, agonizing heartbeat. Then, he felt her will snap into a new resolve.

  “The Bloom, it’s ancient, a priceless heirloom,” her thought landed in his mind, a grim and furious declaration. “Find it if you can, Trenn. I have to pass it down to the next Shepherd of Loss.”

  Her course corrected with a powerful kick, transforming her into a torpedo aimed directly at Ezy’s fading, frantic pulse.

  When she reached Ezy, she pressed her mouth to her lips and blew air into the tiny gnome’s lungs. She pulled her away from the logjam, towards a distant cluster of giant trees that grew out of the newly formed lake,

  Trenn reached Zeen at the bottom of the lake and yanked the musket out of the tiny Gnome’s hands. “Get up there, Zeen, now!” he ordered as he swam back up, the musket slung over his shoulder.

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  He was short on air. They needed help to break the surface. Where’s Mara?

  Trenn finally spotted her, riding the logs on the surface. Her fox-like grace allowed her to keep steady footing as she dashed over the grinding mess of broken dam and shattered houses.

  “Get above us, help Zeen out of the water,” he said, using his Message spell again. He gave her a clear understanding of their position.

  His sonar painted her frantic search, her claws scraping for purchase on an algae-slicked beam that rolled treacherously under her weight. She was in the right area, but the shifting, grinding debris offered no stable platform to create the opening they needed. Her frustration and the jarring impacts of the logs vibrated through their braided bond.

  “Mara, to your left!” his Message spell shot out, projecting a clear image from his own sonar map. “The section of roof. Brace against that. We’re right under it!”

  He felt her immediate pivot. Her claws found purchase on the splintered blue shingles. Using the stable platform, she dug in and heaved. Two massive, waterlogged timbers groaned in protest as she forced them apart, creating the small, precious window of open water they needed.

  Zeen’s head immediately popped out, choking and gasping for air, followed by Trenn.

  They quickly grabbed hold of one of the logs Mara was holding still. They had saved the soul-bound musket, but Zeen’s loot—his precious gems—were scattered at the bottom of the lake.

  Gasping for air, Trenn was scanning his sonar map, looking for the Mana Bloom, but it was the flower’s hum that signaled its location. It was still hanging from a beam atop the wrecked Spider-House.

  Trenn spotted a high-frequency buzz that tore at the edges of the mist. Bomber. The Giant Moth circled in agitated desperation, its loyal heart a palpable tremor in the air.

  “Bomber! I need you!” His thoughts reached out to the Giant Moth, and it immediately dove towards its target.

  As it ascended, a splintered section of wall, heavy as a boulder, groaned and shifted in the current below. It tilted, threatening to swing up and crush the moth against the ceiling of wreckage.

  A spike of pure terror shot through Trenn’s link with Bomber. The moth beat its wings in a frantic, desperate blur, dodging sideways just as the heavy timber swung through the space it had occupied a second before.

  It rose back into the mists. Clutched in its six furry legs was the carved bone lantern containing Almitad's Mana Bloom, rescued from the sinking ruin of her old log cottage.

  Mara pulled Zeen out of the water and placed him on her back while Trenn pushed himself onto the steadied logs. Meanwhile, Almitad had reached the safety of the ring of trees and lifted Ezy on a wide branch. Nothing seemed broken. Ezy is coughing up water, but she would live.

  Trenn immediately felt the Scrapper start to move. Ezy must’ve called it to her.

  “Ezy, get the Scrapper to pick up Skate from the bottom of the lake,” he messaged her, adding its location to the mental image.

  That’s when Trenn’s sonar registered a new mass, moving underwater. A creature so vast and still, it felt less like a log and more like a feature of the landscape.

  It was an island of moss-covered stability in the churning chaos. A colossal turtle head, bearded with ancient algae, and huge palmed appendages came from a gigantic carapace.

  The reptilian calm of the creature was a profound stillness in the heart of the storm. A wave of ancient peace washed over Trenn, smothering his fear. He reached out with his Charm spell, not to command, but to connect.

  “We are lost,” his plea echoed through the nascent tether, a raw broadcast of their desperation. “We mean you no harm. Please…”

  The tether he cast was met not with acceptance, but with an immense, silent pressure.

  He held nothing back. He laid his soul bare, offering his grief, his guilt, his desperate, burning need to make things right. He offered the memory of Tyndral's death, of Ezy's maiming, of Mara's sacrifice. He showed the Turtle the full, ugly price of their journey.

  The vision dissolved. Trenn gasped, the cold reality of the debris-choked water flooding his senses. A deep, resonant groan answered him, a vibration that traveled through the water and up through the logs, a feeling of somber, benevolent acceptance that settled deep in his bones. The tether he had cast returned not with a feeling of control, but of communion.

  He didn't push a command; he offered a quiet, respectful plea. The charm was a raw, unfiltered broadcast of their desperation, their pain, their profound need for sanctuary.

  A deep, resonant groan answered, a vibration that traveled through the water and up through the logs, a feeling of benevolent acceptance that settled deep in Trenn’s bones. The tether he had cast returned not with a feeling of control, but of communion.

  The great creature split through the maelstrom of wreckage. Its shell breaking through with ease, it quickly reached Mara, Zeen, and Trenn.

  Trenn climbed on top of the Giant Turtle’s shell. Mara retracted her claws from the splintered timber and leaped after Trenn. Zeen clutching her neck. The makeshift raft, its binding force gone, instantly dissolved back into messy waters.

  The ancient turtle began to move, its glide a slow, steady, and profound silence that parted the debris-choked water. Above, Bomber followed, bone lantern in paws. Below, the heavy, rhythmic thud of the Scrapper’s skeletal feet was approaching the tree cluster.

  The roar of the falls receded, the grinding of the logs faded. They reached the protected space amongst the submerged trees, and the Giant Turtle grew close enough to let Ezy and Almitad climb aboard.

  The Giant Turtle stood still. Trenn felt a sense of pride and accomplishment through their tether. The group gathered on the turtle’s large shell and gathered their strength. The visibility, above water, was abysmal. They could barely see a few yards ahead of them.

  "This is not a normal fog," Almitad’s voice, quiet and heavy, cut through the silence. She had regained her serene composure, but her eyes held a deep, weary resignation as she gazed into the oppressive grey.

  "The Morning Mists are a fold in time, where the sun never rises and the stars never appear. The Valley of Dawn," she said, looking with awe at the massive turtle under them, “home to the lost gods.”

  The only thing that pierced the gloom was a cluster of lights that bloomed in the distance. It hovered in the distance, a silent wisp of luminous, blue-green fire. After a moment, it began to drift, a slow, silent, and beckoning guide.

  “And that,” said Almitad. “Is a Tear of Dawn. It seems our guide has found us. According to the stories, the only way to free yourself from the Morning Mists is to follow the Tears of Dawn.”

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