In the stillness beneath the crushing pressure of the abyss, the deep choir stirred. Their eyes—milky and ancient—glimmered like pearls soaked in shadow. Lyrielle stood upon the jagged throne of bone and coral, her hair flowing like tendrils of ink through the water. Her voice was soft, a haunting hum vibrating the very currents around her.
"Go," she whispered, and the choir obeyed.
They rose like a wave of ghostly shadows, a procession of sirens long lost to the world above. Each one bore scars of time and battle, their forms twisted yet beautiful—half memory, half myth. As they passed through the ancient ridges of the ocean floor, their songs began to weave a melody no sea creature dared defy.
Above them loomed Maelora, the silent watcher. Her form materialized for but a moment—eyes glowing with a sapphire fire—before she dissolved once more into the dark. A warning, perhaps. Or a silent approval. No one could tell.
