The deep ocean does not forgive. It doesn't negotiate, and it certainly doesn't care about the geopolitical borders of the Northern Kingdoms. It only crushes.
Inside the cramped, cylindrical hull of the Cyprian stealth submersible, the silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, low-frequency hum of the runic Frazer coils and the terrifying groan of two-inch-thick steel compressing under thousands of tons of water pressure.
Queen Rebecca stood at the primary console, her hands gripping the brass steering yokes. The sleeves of her canvas overalls were rolled up to her elbows, her forearms slick with condensation. The ambient temperature inside the cabin had plummeted the deeper they sank, leaving a bitter, freezing chill hanging in the air.
"Depth is six thousand feet," Rebecca muttered, reading the glowing alchemical dials. "We are entirely off the solar grid. Switching to thermal echolocation."
She pulled a heavy iron lever. The external lamps on the submersible died, plunging the world beyond the thick glass viewport into a terrifying, absolute black. They were now running completely blind, relying on a faint, pulsing green runic radar screen to map the abyss ahead of them.
Standing exactly two paces behind her, completely unfazed by the claustrophobia or the dark, was Commander Dawson.
He hadn't moved a muscle in two hours. His silver-and-black armor reflected the dim green light of the radar screen. His oxidized steel eyes were fixed on the viewport, staring into the pitch-black ocean as if his biology alone could force the darkness to yield.
"Sonar detects heavy aquatic displacement directly above our coordinates," Dawson reported, his voice flat, cutting through the hum of the engine. "Forty-two surface vessels. Colstar dreadnoughts."
"Enoch's stolen fleet," Rebecca said, her jaw tightening. "They're holding a perimeter over the drop zone. If they drop a sonar net, we're dead. Cut the primary thrusters. We drift down the thermal vent from here."
She twisted a brass dial, and the submersible's engine shut down with a heavy mechanical clunk. The sudden silence was deafening. Without the thrusters, the vessel was essentially a metal coffin falling slowly through the water column, guided only by the natural, boiling currents of a deep-sea magma vent.
The submersible rocked suddenly, a violent, sideways lurch that sent a loose spanner clattering across the grated iron floor.
Rebecca gasped, her grip slipping from the yoke. A sharp, violent wave of nausea hit her, twisting her stomach into a hard knot. She grabbed the edge of the console, pressing her forehead against the cool brass, taking short, ragged breaths.
It wasn't just seasickness. The pregnancy was still in its early stages, but the violent pressure changes and the stench of recycled ozone in the cabin were wreaking havoc on her system.
Dawson's head snapped toward her. The super-human's enhanced senses instantly analyzed the shift in the cabin's atmosphere.
"Your heart rate has spiked to one hundred and twenty beats per minute. Your respiratory rate is irregular," Dawson stated clinically, taking a step forward. "Are you experiencing a biological failure? If your structural integrity is compromised, parameters dictate I abort the extraction and return you to the Obsidian Palace."
"I'm fine, Dawson," Rebecca grit out, forcing herself to stand straight. She wiped a sheen of cold sweat from her brow. "It's just the atmospheric compression. The air recyclers are pulling too much sulfur from the vent outside. Do not touch the abort sequence."
Dawson stared at her, his head tilting a fraction of an inch. He analyzed her face, comparing her vital signs against his internal medical database. He didn't know she was pregnant. His programming simply told him that the Queen of Cypris was currently operating at sub-optimal efficiency.
"Pain is an indicator of systemic damage," Dawson pressed, completely devoid of empathy but entirely devoted to her survival. "If you expire, King Kross will dismantle me."
"I am not going to expire," Rebecca snapped, her fierce, stubborn nature flaring up. She placed a hand protectively over her stomach, hidden behind the thick canvas of her overalls. "Just watch the radar, Commander."
Dawson accepted the direct order, turning his attention back to the green glowing screen.
THUMP.
The sound wasn't heard; it was felt. A massive, acoustic shockwave slammed into the hull of the submersible, rattling the rivets and vibrating directly through the soles of Rebecca's boots. The entire vessel shuddered violently.
"What was that?" Rebecca hissed, her hands flying over the dials to check the hull integrity.
"Depth charge," Dawson answered instantly. "Detonation occurred approximately one thousand feet above us. Standard Colstar high-explosive ordnance."
THUMP. THUMP.
Two more shockwaves hit them in rapid succession. The water outside was churning, carrying the brutal kinetic force of the explosions downward.
"The zealots don't have submarines," Rebecca realized, her green eyes wide as she looked up at the reinforced ceiling of the cabin. "Enoch knows the engineers are hiding down here, but he can't reach them. So he's just dropping a carpet of depth charges from the surface fleet, hoping to crack the dome."
"A crude but statistically effective siege tactic," Dawson noted. "If the structural integrity of the underwater facility fails, the water pressure will instantly crush every organic entity inside."
"Then we are out of time," Rebecca said. She slammed her hand down on the primary thruster ignition.
To hell with stealth. If Enoch's zealots cracked Trench Zero before she got there, the Leviathan blueprints would be buried under the ocean floor forever, and her unborn child would grow up in a continent ruled by a fanatic.
The Frazer coils roared to life. Rebecca shoved the steering yokes forward, driving the stealth submersible straight down the throat of the dark trench.
The temperature outside spiked drastically. They were entering the volcanic fissure. Through the viewport, the absolute blackness of the ocean was suddenly broken by the violent, shifting red glow of underwater magma streams.
And sitting directly in the center of the boiling, crimson-lit trench was Trench Zero.
It was a marvel of pre-war engineering. A massive, sprawling facility built entirely out of black iron and reinforced alchemical glass, anchored directly to the jagged volcanic rock. But it was dying.
The massive searchlights that usually illuminated the facility were completely dead. The outer docking rings were mangled, twisted by the concussive force of the depth charges dropping from the surface. A constant stream of silver bubbles was venting from the top of the main glass dome—a catastrophic structural leak.
"They're bleeding oxygen," Rebecca said, her hands flying over the controls to stabilize the sub in the turbulent, boiling currents. "The primary umbilical docking port is completely destroyed. I have to align us with the emergency maintenance airlock on the lower rim."
THUMP.
Another depth charge detonated closer this time. The shockwave tossed the submersible ten feet to the left. Sparks showered from the overhead conduit as the runic engine whined in protest.
Rebecca cursed, wrestling with the heavy brass yokes. "Dawson, strap in!"
"I do not require restraints," Dawson replied flatly, his magnetic boots locking onto the iron grate floor with a heavy clack, anchoring him perfectly in place as the sub pitched at a terrifying forty-five-degree angle.
Rebecca fought the violent currents, using the thermal vents to push the sub toward the small, circular airlock on the side of the black iron facility. It was a game of millimeters. If she hit the docking ring too fast, the impact would shatter the sub's glass viewport. If she missed, the current would drag them directly into the exposed magma flow beneath the facility.
"Distance: twenty feet," Dawson read from the radar, acting as her emotionless navigator. "Velocity is excessive. Course correction required."
"I know what I'm doing!" Rebecca grunted, her muscles burning as she manually reversed the starboard thruster, pivoting the heavy metal cylinder.
"Ten feet. Five feet."
She cut the engines entirely, letting the sub's own momentum carry them the final distance.
With a sickening, heavy screech of grinding metal, the nose of the submersible slammed into the docking ring of Trench Zero.
"Engage magnetic seals!" Rebecca shouted.
She slammed her fist onto a large red rune on the console. A heavy, resonant hum vibrated through the hull as the high-powered electromagnets locked the submersible onto the facility's airlock collar.
They were attached.
Rebecca slumped over the console, gasping for air. Her arms were shaking violently from the adrenaline and the physical exertion.
Dawson didn't wait for her to recover. He stepped over to the front of the cabin, standing directly before the heavy iron hatch that separated the submersible from Trench Zero. He drew his broadsword. The scrape of the heat-tempered steel was loud in the small cabin.
"Initiating pressure equalization," Dawson stated, ripping the manual release valve off the wall.
A loud, hissing roar filled the cabin as the airlock equalized the pressure between the two vessels.
Rebecca forced herself to stand up, grabbing her heavy brass spanner and a canvas satchel filled with runic decoders. She walked over to stand behind Dawson.
"If the interior hallway is flooded," Dawson said, not looking back at her, his oxidized steel eyes locked on the iron hatch. "The water will breach this cabin at roughly eight hundred pounds per square inch. It will shatter your ribs instantly. Stand behind me. My armor will absorb the initial kinetic wave."
It wasn't an act of chivalry. It was simply the most efficient way to protect the King's asset.
"Just open the door, Commander," Rebecca said, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Dawson gripped the heavy locking wheel of the hatch and turned it. The rusted metal shrieked in protest, but the super-human's augmented density forced it open with raw, terrifying leverage.
He kicked the heavy iron door inward.
There was no wall of crushing water.
Instead, a wave of stale, freezing air washed into the submersible, carrying the heavy, sickening stench of burning copper, raw sewage, and dried blood.
The emergency airlock of Trench Zero was dark, lit only by a single, flickering amber emergency lumen. The floor was submerged in knee-deep, freezing seawater, sloshing against the metal bulkheads. Sparks rained down from a severed cable hanging from the ceiling.
Dawson stepped through the hatch first, his broadsword raised, his senses sweeping the flooded corridor for thermal signatures.
"Clear," he reported coldly.
Rebecca stepped through the hatch behind him, shivering as the freezing water soaked through her heavy leather boots. She looked around the decaying, dying facility.
Trench Zero was a tomb waiting for its roof to cave in.
"The blueprints for the Leviathan are kept in the primary engineering vault at the center of the dome," Rebecca whispered, looking at a cracked schematic on the wall. "The survivors who broadcasted the SOS should be barricaded nearby."
THUMP.
Another depth charge went off above them. The entire corridor groaned, the metal walls bowing inward for a terrifying fraction of a second before snapping back into place. Dust and rusted flakes rained down on them.
"The structural integrity is currently at eighteen percent," Dawson calculated, staring at the bowing ceiling. "We have less than thirty pars before the ocean breaches the primary dome."
"Then we don't stop walking," Rebecca said, gripping her spanner tightly. "Let's go find some ghosts."