Guardians of the Deep

The salt-laced wind whipped Elara’s hair across her face, a familiar sting that was almost comforting. Below, the churning, bruised-purple sea offered no hint of the wonders hidden beneath its surface. King Theron, his usually stoic face etched with a rare vulnerability, stood beside her at the prow of the Sea Serpent, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“You are sure of this, Elara?” His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. “This… oracle. These guardians. It sounds like the ramblings of a sea-witch.”

Elara met his gaze, her own eyes, the color of a stormy sea, unwavering. “The oracle did not speak in riddles, Theron. She spoke of a city, lost to the waves, and an artifact that holds the key to breaking the curse. And she spoke of its protectors.” She shivered, not from the chill. “Creatures born of the deep, bound to its service.”