The Drowned Gods' Emissary

The sea spat you out like a grudge. You woke to the taste of salt and copper, your skull pounding against the rhythm of waves that had not yet decided whether to drown you. Your hands found purchase in wet sand, nails digging in as you dragged yourself beyond the reach of the tide. The storm had moved on, leaving a bruised sky and a shore littered with the bones of your ship—a rib of timber, a torn sail, a chest that had burst open and spilled its guts across the rocks.

You were alive. That was the first thought. The second was that you had no idea where you were, and the third came when your fingers brushed the mark on your forearm—a spiral of pale skin, shaped like a coiled wave. You had always hidden it. It had cost you before.

The sound of voices cut through the wind. Figures moved down the cliff path, carrying torches that guttered against the damp. They had seen you.

One of them—a woman with sharp eyes and a face like weathered stone—stopped when she saw your arm. Her torch dipped. Then she whispered a word you did not know, and the others fell silent.