The Iron Sovereign limped through the golden mist like a predator that had bitten off more than it could chew. The hull, once a proud display of Eastern engineering and Northern obsidian reinforcement, was now a map of thermal stress. The iron plates were buckled in places where the "Fire of the Abyss"—my son's terrifying, spontaneous howl—had turned the surrounding seawater into superheated plasma. The silver-iron core of the engine groaned with a low, rhythmic fatigue, a metallic heartbeat that sounded dangerously out of sync with the world.
I sat on a crate in the center of the deck, Aidan cradled against my chest. The baby was silent again, his small face pale, his gold and black eyes closed in a sleep that felt less like rest and more like a recovery from a fever. Every time I touched his skin, I felt a faint vibration, a residual hum of that abyssal power. It wasn't the warmth of a hearth; it was the cold, pressurized heat of a star born at the bottom of a trench.
