Far in the distance, rising out of the pitch-black swell, was a colossal jagged shape.
It was the only landmass in a world made entirely of water, a lightless mountain of black rock jutting up from the endless sea toward the unseen cavern roof. It was our only destination. There was nowhere else to go.
But the ocean wasn't going to let us reach it.
The black water directly below our flight path began to churn. The smooth swell broke apart as dozens of shapes breached the surface. They were sea-dragons, the same breed that had swarmed our floating slab, but their anatomy had already adapted to our escape.
They had wings.
Sleek, eyeless beasts of dense, glassy black liquid launched themselves out of the sea. Their water-flesh stretched into wide, bat-like wings that rode the pressurized drafts of the Precipice more than they flapped. They rose in a silent cloud to cut us off.
Above my head, White Feather let out a sharp cry.
