A human.

  Crimson-haired.

  My gaze flicks between the boy and Cherry. Are they of the same blood?

  He stares at me, muscles locked, uncertain. A creature caught in the tide, unsure whether to swim or surrender.

  I rise. My joints shift, armor plates settling into place. A slow movement as I stretch my appendages, the dark, scaled limbs unfolding, my claws curling into a semblance of a human hand.

  A greeting.

  "Vaurun."

  Cherry’s breath catches. Her eyes widen as if she has glimpsed something impossible. As if she has seen the depths and realized the abyss can reach back.

  For a moment, silence...

  Then the boy smiles. Not out of arrogance. Not in mockery. In awe.

  Slowly, carefully, he reaches out and clasps my hand. His grip is weak, his skin soft. Fragile, like the delicate shells that scatter across the ocean floor—easily crushed, yet surviving despite the weight of the world above.

  “I’m Zett,” he says.

  I nod as humans would. Then release his hand and retreat, sinking back into my seat.

  “Continue,” I say.

  Cherry hesitates. The boy—Zett—settles beside me, too close, his presence a ripple in my space. But I do not move him. He is like the younglings who followed behind war-swimmers in the currents, lingering where the waters were safe.

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  She exhales, composes herself, and resumes.

  She speaks of human endurance, of bodies shaped not for sheer power but for relentless survival. Of minds that do not simply obey instinct but twist, adapt, rebuild.

  I listen. I weigh her words.

  Is this so different from the Navorians?

  Once, we were creatures of the abyss. Born in the deepest trenches, armored against the crushing dark. But when the Hargals rose from their emerald sea, when the Avarasi sank their talons into the ocean’s veins, we did not retreat.

  We changed.

  We carved war from flesh and scale. We wrenched ourselves from the sea, stepped onto land with gills that burned and limbs that trembled. We suffered so that the oceans would remain ours.

  Survival at any cost.

  And yet, for all their cleverness, humans did not protect their waters. They poisoned them. Abandoned them. And when their world crumbled, they fled.

  Like prey.

  Cherry nears the end. She pauses, expecting me to speak, to let her finish.

  But I do not wait.

  "Humans Build," I say. "They endure.”

  Cherry’s shoulders ease. Perhaps she thinks she has succeeded.

  "But."

  She stiffens.

  "I am not convinced," I continue. "Why should I prefer your kind over my own?"

  Her lips part. I see the war in her mind, the thoughts colliding like opposing tides.

  Then, softly, she says:

  "You don’t."

  No plea. No justification.

  A truth, as bare as stone beneath retreating waves.

  I turn my head.

  Zett has fallen asleep against me, breath steady, his form weightless compared to the armor I bear.

  Strange.

  I lift him, careful, as one might carry something delicate yet persistent—like coral clinging to a wreck. I place him on Cherry’s bed. She watches me, not with fear, but with something from within.

  Worry.

  I stand before her.

  "I will leave," I tell her. "But you should too. Before this time next year."

  She does not speak. Does not argue.

  I step toward the door, bending to exit.

  But before I pass through, I glance back.

  Cherry is not looking at me. She is staring at the boy, concern woven into her features.

  My claws sink into the wooden frame, leaving deep grooves.

  But I do not look back again.

  I step out.

  And I return to the oceans, where I will wait.

  The currents will shift. The tides will rise.

  Until the Hammer awakens.

  How do you feel about the final chapter of Act II?