Ashes of the Drowned Part 5

The compass spun faster now.

Not wildly, but with purpose—always tilting toward the east, even when Elira turned it in her hands or pressed it to stillness. The spiral engraved beneath the glass glowed faintly with a tide-washed blue, and every so often, it pulsed like it was syncing to a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

Three fragments reunited: memory, will, and voice. But one still remained.

The Heart.

They sailed before dawn, on a smuggler’s cutter Vaelin borrowed from a friend who owed him too much gold and too many favors to ask questions. Wind at their backs, they cut across the black-silver water beneath a sky so dark the stars seemed afraid to shine.

Elira stood at the bow with the compass held steady, hair caught in the salt breeze, gaze fixed on a storm that hadn’t yet arrived—but was waiting for her just the same.

Vaelin joined her, silent for a while. Then: “Still want to turn back?”

“No.” Her voice was quiet, but not unsure. “Even if I did… it wouldn’t matter. It knows I’m coming.”

He studied her. There was a strength in her now—different than before. Not new, exactly. Like something old had finally been invited back into the room. She still smiled sometimes, still snapped sarcastic jabs at his cooking and his sword-work, but there was something deeper behind her eyes now. Depth. Pressure. Like the ocean.

“Are you still you?” he asked.

Elira turned toward him. “I’m both. And I’m choosing who I’ll be.”

They didn’t speak again until the island rose from the mist.

It wasn’t marked on any map. No sails dared skirt it, and even the birds circled wide. Sharp cliffs pierced the sea like broken teeth. Black stone wet with brine. Above it all, a jagged ruin clung to the highest ridge—a temple older than any they’d seen. Older than the Pact. Older than memory.

The tide shifted when they neared.

Literally.

The boat listed, caught in a spiral current that dragged toward the shore with terrifying force. The wheel turned against Vaelin’s hands. The sails strained. And somewhere below, something sang in a voice so low it made their bones ache.

They made landfall in a half-shattered cove, climbing over shattered columns and twisted driftwood. Bones lay tangled in the surf. Not fresh. Not ancient. Not entirely human.

At the temple gates, the compass stopped spinning.

It pointed directly at the heart of the ruin.

Elira stepped forward—and the air bent.

Stone trembled. Glyphs flared to life across the walls, glowing in fractured color: green for will, silver for voice, blue for memory. But a fourth color—deep crimson—pulsed beneath it all. Slow. Heavy.

She knew what it meant before she crossed the threshold.

Inside, there were no stairs. No altar. Only a single chamber carved into the earth, open to the sky. In its center floated a sphere of water held aloft by invisible force—within it, something beat. Not like a drum. Like a heart.

Selu’mir.

Elira stepped toward it, and the pieces she carried began to glow.

The conch. The compass. The second relic fused to her own blood. Together they rose from her hands and spun around the sphere.

A voice—her own—spoke, but she wasn’t speaking.

“You come again, to bind or to bleed.”

“I come to finish what I started,” she said.

“You were Vessel. You were Voice. You turned the tide back once. Will you do it again?”

Elira took a breath. “No. This time, I make a new tide.”

Behind her, Vaelin stepped inside. He said nothing, but he drew his sword. Just in case.

The water pulsed faster now. The relics spun until they were just light. The air thickened, pressure building like a wave about to crash.

And then the heart beat once—hard—and the water exploded.

Elira was flung back. Vaelin caught her, barely, and they hit the floor together.

From the heart’s place now stood a figure. Not made of water. Not memory.

Real.

Flesh formed from ocean. Skin like sea-stone. Eyes deep and stormlit. It wore no clothes, but shimmered with runes. Selu’mir made manifest.

“You would make the tide your own,” it said, in a voice like crashing waves.

“I would share it,” Elira answered. “No more vessels. No more chains. You don’t need me to speak for you anymore.”

“And what would you have me be?”

“Part of the world again. Not a flood. Not a god. Just... remembered.”

The entity stepped forward, and every part of Vaelin screamed to strike—but Elira raised her hand.

Selu’mir looked at her—through her—and knelt.

“You drowned me with mercy once,” it said. “This time, you raise me with choice.”

Elira extended her hand. Their fingers touched. A surge passed through her—every memory, every voice, every life, washing through her and leaving. Not lost, but shared. No longer locked inside her alone.

When the light dimmed, the relics were gone.

The heart had vanished.

Only Elira remained, changed—but not possessed. Herself.

Vaelin sheathed his blade and reached for her. “You still with me?”

She smiled. “Always.”

Outside, the sea had calmed.

The tide, for the first time in centuries, had chosen peace.

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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