Ashes of the Drowned Part 3

The relic whispered in the dark.

It hadn’t stopped since Elira touched it.

The conch—once dormant, sealed in sea-crystal and warded runes—now pulsed with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat. A slow, wet thrum, felt more in the bones than heard in the air. When Elira closed her eyes, she could feel the sea breathing inside her skull. And sometimes, the whispers became words.

Words in a voice she used to know.

They climbed back into the light through the half-submerged tunnels of Nareth, morning sun breaking over the drowned rooftops. Sea mist curled like fingers around crumbled chimneys. Gulls wheeled above, but even they seemed hesitant to land.

Vaelin glanced back at Elira as she emerged behind him, soaked, quiet, holding the conch wrapped in oilcloth and layered charms.

“You’ve barely said anything,” he said. “Which is weird, because usually this is when you start lecturing me about ancient death magic and how I’m too stabby in cursed temples.”

She gave a faint smile, but her eyes didn’t meet his. “I’m listening.”

“To what?”

She tapped the bundle. “It talks. Or maybe remembers out loud. I’m not sure where the line is yet.”

Vaelin stopped walking. “Elira. Look at me.”

She did.

“You’re still you. Right?”

The wind picked up. Waves lapped at their boots.

“I think so,” she said. “But... part of me wants to remember what she forgot.”

That night, while Vaelin stood watch near the fire, Elira lay curled in her cloak, pretending to sleep.

The conch whispered again.

Only this time, it called her by name.

“Elirianne.”

Her vision shifted. Not a memory, not a dream—something in between.

She stood in water up to her knees. There was no sky. No ground. Just a sea that went on forever in every direction. Endless, grey-blue, like a world caught in breathless pause.

A figure formed in the mist ahead. No face, no shape, just a suggestion of depth—like something too vast to see in entirety. The voice was neither male nor female, ancient nor young.

“You are not broken. Only divided.”

“Who am I?” Elira asked.

“You are the vessel. You held my voice. You chose the tide.”

“I drowned cities.”

“You kept the balance. Until they feared the sea. Until they sealed you from me.”

“Why call me back now?”

“Because the pact has broken. And I remember you.”

“Will you remember me?”

He watched her from the edge of the firelight.

Her brow furrowed. Lips moved faintly in sleep. Once, she whispered something—“balance”—and it chilled him more than any wind.

He’d fought beside Elira for years. Trusted her. Bled with her. She was clever, unpredictable, brave to the point of recklessness. But this... wasn’t like her. This was something ancient bleeding into her edges.

When she stirred, he handed her a mug of kel-root tea.

“You talked in your sleep,” he said.

She blinked at him. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”

“You said ‘drown the sky.’ So unless you’ve taken up poetry…”

Elira looked down. “It’s starting to speak more clearly. It remembers me. But I don’t remember everything. Just fragments. And feelings. A whole life I didn’t live.”

“Do you want to remember it?”

“I’m not sure I have a choice.”

They camped that night on a rocky bluff above the sea. While Elira studied the relic, Vaelin leafed through the old mage-archive scrolls they recovered from the flooded archive.

He found a symbol—identical to one etched into the conch. Three waves spiraling around a blackened eye.

“The Trinary Sigil,” the scroll read. “Used by the Pact to mark artifacts too powerful to destroy. Instead, they fractured the power—body, mind, and will—binding each to separate anchors and casting them into the deep.”

Elira’s expression darkened as she read.

“They didn’t just seal Selu’mir. They split it. One part became this relic. But if the rest wakes up—”

“Then it won’t just be undead fishermen we’re dealing with,” Vaelin finished. “We’re talking full-blown sea-spirits, floodstorms, drowned cities rising out of the water.”

“Or worse,” she murmured. “Selu’mir may not want destruction. But if it’s incomplete—if the only part of it left is memory—it might be acting on instinct. Like a wounded animal.”

Vaelin leaned back, sighing. “Right. And you’re the only one it remembers. So you’re its... what? Anchor? Prophet?”

“Vessel,” she said. “Again.”

That night, the tide sang.

Low, guttural, echoing with voices that had no mouths. From the sea, figures rose—not hostile, not yet. They stood still on the rocks below the cliff, heads bowed. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

All facing Elira.

Vaelin stood beside her, sword half-drawn.

“They’re not attacking.”

“No,” Elira whispered. “They’re listening.”

“To what?”

She stepped forward. The conch pulsed in her hands.

“To me.”

She raised it slowly. The whisper became a hum. Water swirled at her feet.

“Will you take the tide again?” the voice asked in her mind.

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But something in her heart—the part that was not just Elira—remembered what it felt like to command the sea.

And missed it.

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All Parts of this Series

• Ashes of the Drowned Part 1
• Ashes of the Drowned Part 2
• Ashes of the Drowned Part 3
• Ashes of the Drowned Part 4
• Ashes of the Drowned Part 5