The mist that Abyssior had exhaled did not dissipate. It lingered over the Silver Harbor like a funeral shroud, heavy with the scent of brine and the metallic tang of divine judgment.
As quickly as the catastrophe had arrived, it receded. With a slow, tectonic shifting of his coils, the Protector of the Seas slid backward. The obsidian scales scraped against the shattered mithril of the Arks, a sound like grinding mountains, before the monster vanished beneath the waves.
There was no splash—only a massive, dark whirlpool that swallowed the debris of the prideful fleet, leaving the ocean as flat and glass-like as if it had never been disturbed.
The Great Silence returned, but it was no longer the silence of awe. It was the silence of the grave.
Sylvia climbed out from beneath a pile of splintered World-Tree timber, her silver armor dulled by a thick coating of grey salt. She coughed, a spray of seawater hitting the sand. Around her, the Silver Harbor was unrecognizable.
The proud Elven archers were gone, replaced by crystalline statues of salt, their hands still reaching for bows that had dissolved into white dust. The Beastmen, once the apex predators of the West, lay scattered like driftwood, their primal spirits crushed by the serpent's psychic weight.
"Commander..." a voice croaked.
Sylvia turned to see Thrain, the Dwarven leader. He was dragging his lower half across the sand, his legendary hammer snapped in two. His beard, once a braided marvel of gold and stone, was matted with brine.
"The Arks," Thrain wheezed, looking at the wreckage of the fleet. "Three hundred years of craftsmanship... gone in a breath.
We were going to conquer the world, Sylvia. We didn't even leave the dock."
Sylvia looked up toward the World-Cradle. The great tree still stood, but its lower leaves had turned a sickly, translucent white. The Goddess's sanctuary had been breached, not by steel, but by the sheer reality of a power that predated her species.
In the Sanctuary of the Veil, High Priestess Elle sat upon the floor, her gossamer robes stained with the salt-water that had flooded the heights.
She had removed her blindfold. Her eyes, usually hidden from the world, were a swirling vortex of cosmic nebula, now clouded with a film of mourning.
"He did not kill us all," Elle whispered to the empty chamber.
Sylvia entered, her steps heavy and uneven. She did not bow. There was no room for ceremony in a wasteland. "He left enough of us to remember the fear, Holy One. The military is broken. The Dwarves refuse to return to the forges, and the Beastmen have retreated to the deep jungles, howling at the moon."
"Let them howl," Elle replied, her voice regaining a sharp, icy edge. "And let the Dwarves weep. They think in terms of seasons and harvests. They think like the fragile humans of Tellus."
Elle stood, her liquid silver hair swaying as she looked out over the ruined harbor. To the Elves and the long-lived races of Mystika, time was not a rushing river; it was a slow-growing root.
"Abyssior has shown us that our pride was premature," Elle continued. "We sought to strike the North before we understood the depths of the ocean. But the serpent is a creature of the moment. We are creatures of the eons."
Elle turned to Sylvia, her nebula-eyes flashing with a cold, renewed light.
"We will not launch tomorrow. We will not launch in a year. We shall recede into the shadows of our forests. We shall mine the deepest veins of the earth where the serpent cannot reach. We will breed, we will train, and we will weave our magic into the very marrow of our children."
"And the humans?" Sylvia asked. "Kael and the Seventh Nation? They will grow stronger while we wait."
"Let them," Elle sneered. "Let them exhaust themselves against the serpent.
Let them think the West has been silenced by fear. We shall wait until their 'God State' burns itself out, and when their civilizations are weary and their kings are old, we shall return."
The High Priestess placed a hand over the mark of the Phoenix on her breast.
"Mystika does not forget. And Mystika does not hurry. We will wait for the perfect alignment of the stars, when the salt has washed away and our blades are twice as sharp. We shall attack when we are ready, and on that day, even the gods of Tellus will pray for the return of the serpent."