The Drowned Cathedral didn't sit on the ground; it floated on a sea of black silt, held in place by rusted anchor chains the size of city buses. As Elias and Miller crossed the bridge made of overlapping ship-masts, the wood groaned beneath them like a living beast in pain.
The countdown on Elias's palm pulsed: 46:38:12.
"Wait," Miller whispered, stopping at the massive entrance—a set of double doors forged from the iron hull of a 19th-century warship. "The diver said it clearly. Blood or Memory. Inside this place, your past is a physical weight. If you give them a memory, you forget it forever. It's erased from your mind, your heart, and your history."
Elias looked at his trembling hand. "And if I choose blood?"
"You don't have enough blood to satisfy a place this hungry, Elias," Miller said grimly. "Choose a memory. Something you can live without. A day at the park. A meal you enjoyed. Something... small."
They pushed the doors open.
The interior of the Cathedral was a cathedral of shadows. Hundreds of candles made of whale blubber flickered in the draft, their green flames casting eerie light on the congregation. But these weren't people. They were 'The Echoes'—figures wrapped in tattered naval uniforms, their faces obscured by the thick, bioluminescent fog of the Abyss.
At the far end, where the altar should be, stood a figure draped in a cloak made of rotting fishing nets. The Bishop of the Tides. He held a staff tipped with a jagged piece of the Blackwood Compass's original glass.
"The Curator arrives," the Bishop's voice echoed, sounding like waves crashing inside a hollow cave. "The mark you carry is a debt written in fire. To reach the Altar of the Needle and stop the clock, you must pay the tithe."
Elias stepped forward, his heart hammering. The green candlelight reflected in his glasses. "I seek to break the curse of the Drowned Fleet."
"Curse? Or calling?" The Bishop stepped closer. His 'face' was a shifting mass of coral and dark water. "To proceed, surrender a piece of yourself to the depths. What will it be, Elias Thorne?"
Elias closed his eyes. He thought of his childhood. He thought of his first day at the museum. He thought of the scent of old books in his study. Something small, Miller had said.
"I give you... my tenth birthday," Elias whispered. "The cake my mother made. The smell of the candles. The sound of the song. Take it."
The Bishop raised his staff. A cold, invisible hand seemed to reach into Elias's skull. For a moment, a searing flash of white light blinded him. He felt a void opening in his mind—a room that was once full suddenly becoming empty.
He tried to remember the taste of that cake. Nothing. He tried to remember his mother's face on that day. Blank. It was gone. Not just forgotten, but stolen.
The Bishop stepped aside, revealing a spiral staircase made of shark bone leading even deeper into the darkness beneath the Cathedral.
"The tithe is accepted," the Bishop hissed. "But be warned. The deeper you go, the more the Captain will want. He doesn't want your birthdays, Elias. He wants the memories that make you... you."
As they descended the stairs, Miller grabbed Elias's arm. "Are you alright?"
Elias looked at him, his eyes vacant for a split second. "I... I feel lighter. But I can't remember why I used to like the smell of vanilla. It's just a word now. No feeling."
The countdown on his hand slowed for a moment, then resumed. 46:20:05.
They reached the bottom of the stairs. The air here was so thick with salt they could taste it on their teeth. In the center of a cavernous room lay a massive stone map of London, but it wasn't the London of 2026. It was a map of the city as it would look if the Thames rose and swallowed it whole.
And sitting on the map, right over the spot where the Blackwood Museum stood, was a single, glowing object.
The Needle.
But it wasn't alone. Standing over it was the girl in the yellow raincoat. She wasn't looking at the needle. She was looking at a dark, swirling whirlpool in the center of the room that seemed to lead to the very core of the earth.
"You shouldn't have come, Elias," she said, her voice echoing with a thousand different tones. "The Bishop took a memory, but the Captain... he's already taking your future."
She pointed to the whirlpool. "He's waking up. And when he does, the Under-London won't be a secret anymore. It will be the only London left."
Suddenly, the Cathedral shook. A massive, wet thud hit the walls from the outside. Something was trying to get in. Something with tentacles the size of cathedral spires.
"The Drowned Fleet has found us," Miller yelled, drawing his silver-tipped flare gun. "Elias, get the Needle! Now!"