Morning came on the wings of thunder.
Hollowfen awoke to the strange, rhythmic pulse of the sea—each wave striking the shore like a heartbeat. The villagers gathered by the cliffs, staring at the churning horizon where clouds spiraled in unnatural symmetry. It was not a storm of wind and rain, but of resonance—a deep hum that rippled through bone and memory.
Corren stood among them, the talisman around his neck glowing with soft, steady light. He could feel its pulse align with the waves, as though answering some unseen summons.
Arla approached him, breathless from running. "The fishermen say the tide has turned wrong. It pulls outward, not inward. The sea's draining itself."
He looked past her to the water's edge. She was right. The tide was retreating, dragging sand and rock and seaweed with it, baring the seabed in a vast and widening crescent. Strange markings glimmered in the exposed earth—spirals and runes too perfect to be natural.
"Keep everyone away from the shore," he said quietly. "Whatever's coming, it's not for them."
Arla didn't argue. She had seen enough to trust the tone in his voice.
He walked down alone, boots sinking into the wet sand, the talisman pulsing faster now. The hum grew louder, resolving into words too ancient to understand. His breath misted in the air though the morning was warm.
Then he saw it.
At the farthest edge of the retreating tide, something vast stirred beneath the water. The surface split with a sound like cracking ice. A column of water rose, twisting, and within it, shapes formed—faces, limbs, fragments of cities swallowed long ago. A voice emerged, neither male nor female, resonant as thunder rolling through stone.
"Keeper of Balance."
Corren's heart stilled. "I'm no keeper," he said under his breath. "Just a man with too many ghosts."
The water surged closer, towering above him. "The frost has given way to the deep. The Shape stirs. You were chosen to bear the warning."
He clenched the talisman. "Then speak it."
"The song that binds the elements weakens. The frost has remembered mercy, but the flame does not sleep. Beneath the western abyss, the Fireheart wakes. When it breathes again, the seas will burn."
The column shattered, collapsing into a rain of salt and mist that soaked him to the bone. The hum ceased. Only the hiss of retreating water remained.
Corren stood motionless, watching the sea resettle. His reflection rippled across the shallows, divided and distorted. Behind him, the villagers watched in silence, too afraid to move.
He turned slowly. "Pack what you can. Tell the elders the tides are changing. We'll need to move inland."
Arla's eyes widened. "You mean to leave Hollowfen?"
He nodded. "If the Fireheart rises, the coast won't survive."
By nightfall, the village was alive with motion. Carts were loaded, animals herded, fires doused. The children whispered of the old stories—the wars between flame and frost, gods who burned the seas to purify the world.
Corren stood apart from them, staring north where the storm had first begun. The talisman flickered faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could feel it pulling him westward, toward the unknown.
He thought of Liora—her voice in the dream, her warning. "The next storm is choice."
Arla approached with a small satchel slung over her shoulder. "You mean to go after it, don't you?"
He didn't answer. She already knew.
"You'll need a ship," she said finally. "And a crew mad enough to follow you into the deep."
He looked toward the harbor. Three boats remained—scarred, patched, but seaworthy. "I'll find them."
She placed a hand on his arm. "Don't die for her again, Corren."
He met her gaze. "This isn't for her. It's for what she left behind."
The next morning, he set out.
The ship—The Gull's Shadow—was crewed by seven: a scarred helmsman named Tharic, two brothers from the marshlands, a quiet woman with storm-marked eyes, and three sailors too desperate to care where the wind carried them.
They left Hollowfen under skies painted with copper light. The villagers stood along the cliffs, watching until the ship was swallowed by mist.
Days passed. The sea grew darker with every league west. At night, the water glowed faintly beneath the hull, as though something vast moved beneath them.
On the third night, Corren dreamed again.
He stood aboard the ship, though it was silent, the crew frozen in place. A figure rose from the waves—a woman shaped from molten glass and light, her eyes burning with gold.
"Frost's echo," she said. "You carry her memory. But balance cannot rest in frost alone."
Corren took a step back, the deck trembling beneath his feet. "Who are you?"
"I am what she feared. The warmth she denied. The Fireheart."
The sea ignited around them, crimson and gold. "The frost has slept too long," she whispered. "It preserved what should have perished. I will finish what time could not."
Her hand brushed his cheek. It seared him to the bone. "Tell the Shape: the deep remembers."
He awoke screaming, the taste of ash in his mouth.
The storm-marked woman, Elin, was already by his side. "You saw her, didn't you?"
He nodded. "The Fireheart."
She touched the talisman around his neck—it was red-hot, glowing with inner flame. "Then the balance is breaking faster than we feared."
By dawn, they reached the edge of the world—the place sailors called the Whispering Deep. The sea there was glass, smooth and black, reflecting the sky with eerie precision. No wind stirred, no birds cried.
Tharic spat over the rail. "Never thought I'd see this place sober."
Corren gripped the railing. The talisman pulsed faster, its light bleeding into the air. "This is where it begins."
Elin frowned. "Begins? You mean ends."
Before he could answer, the sea beneath them fractured. A line of molten light split the water from horizon to horizon. The ship lurched violently. The brothers shouted, ropes snapping under sudden tension.
Then the deep roared.
Columns of fire erupted from the waves, spiraling into the sky. The reflection of the ship burned on the surface, though the vessel itself remained untouched.
Corren stumbled to the bow, clutching the talisman. It blazed white now, frost and flame intertwined. A voice—two voices—spoke within his mind: one cold as glaciers, one warm as sunrise.
"Choose."
He fell to his knees, the world spinning. Images flashed before him—Hollowfen swallowed by flood, the mountains melting into rivers of fire, Liora's face turning to light, then to ash.
The voices pressed harder.
"Shape or Flame. Mercy or Renewal. Choose."
He screamed, slamming the talisman against the deck. Ice exploded from his palm, freezing the wood beneath him even as heat cracked the air.
"I choose balance!"
The world went still.
The columns of fire froze mid-motion, transforming into crystalline spires of amber. The sea hardened into glass. Above, the sky fractured into two halves—one silver, one gold—divided by a jagged scar of light.
From the heart of that scar, two figures stepped forward.
Liora—the Shape, radiant in frostlight.
And the Fireheart, burning like a living sun.
They stood before him, perfect opposites, reflections of the same soul.
Liora smiled faintly. "You remembered."
The Fireheart's voice was a whisper of flame. "Then let him bear the balance."
The talisman cracked in his hands, shards of blue and red scattering across the deck. He gasped as energy surged through him—cold and heat fusing, pain and clarity merging into something beyond either.
When he looked up again, both figures were gone.
The sea moved once more, gentle and calm.
But Corren was changed. Frost and flame flickered in his eyes, alternating with each breath.
Elin knelt beside him, trembling. "What are you?"
He looked at his hands, steam rising from his skin. "What she made me. What they need me to be."
And far across the horizon, the world began to burn and freeze in perfect rhythm.