I remain motionless behind the half-constructed wall. The Legion stands still around me, a silent army of bone and ancient purpose.

  No breathing disturbs our vigil, no shifting of weight or nervous adjustments. We simply exist, patient among the muck, the mire, the stones.

  The river flows dark.

  Water pushes against muddy banks, carrying corruption from distant sources beyond Haven's knowledge. Current tugs at submerged warriors, their armor anchored in silt, eye sockets peering through murky depths in patient vigil. Fragments of forgotten battles drift past, a splintered shield, a rusted helm, remnants perhaps of those who failed where we now stand watch.

  Hours pass without movement. Without breath. Without sound.

  Moonlight streams across the river's surface, turning black water to silver where it ripples.

  The current murmurs against the shoreline, lapping at the unfinished fortifications, hungry, persistent.

  Each wave reaches farther up the bank than natural tides permit, as if the water itself seeks to claim land and surge over it.

  The Legion waits. We need no rest, no comfort, no reassurance.

  Only purpose that binds us to this shore against whatever rises.

  Movement disturbs the water's surface.

  Long chains emerge from the depths, thick links dripping river scum.

  Wooden planks attached to these chains rise as if pulled by invisible hands. The metal bears strange symbols, not rust patterns but deliberate markings, not reflective but magic.

  Then I see them.

  Blackened things breach the surface. Once-human forms now corrupted beyond recognition. Bone shows through rotted flesh, covered in river muck and trailing weeds.

  Their eye sockets contain not emptiness but writhing parasites that settle out of river movement.

  Not skeletons like my Legion, but something less.

  Something wrong.

  Their movements without thought or purpose. They haul the chains to shore, securing them to stakes already driven into the mud. Metal links tear against palms, stripping what little flesh remains, yet they show no sign of pain.

  Water streams from empty chests as they reach the shore, pulling platforms that serve as crude transport. Small fish swim in and out of these hollows.

  They make no sound beyond the splash of water and scrape of chain against earth.

  Their jaws hang slack.

  Strips of rotted flesh cling to exposed ribs, sloughing off with each lurching step. The discarded tissue doesn't lie still but crawls back to the water, leaving trails that mark the way they've gone.

  The captain shifts slightly beside me, bone fingers tightening around his weapon. Hairline fractures appear on his ancient blade where his grip strengthens. I raise my hand, commanding stillness. This is not the moment. The captain's skull dips fractionally, acknowledgment without movement.

  The Legion remains motionless.

  They work securing chains to newly driven stakes, creating an anchor system along riverbank.

  Behind them, the water bulges. Something massive displaces the current.

  A structure emerges from the depths, not a boat but a platform of fused bone and driftwood.

  The platform settles against the shore as chains pull it forward.

  Legion scouts buried in mud. Archers positioned behind supply crates. Heavy infantry crouched on overlooking ridge. None betray their presence, no creaking joints or rattling armor.

  The water-submerged warriors remain still as drowned laborers wade past, stepping between outstretched bone arms without noticing.

  Thinking only the dead have remained dead.

  These mindless laborers are not our true quarry. They are tools, nothing more. Animated corpses serving masters who have yet to arrive. They wear remnants of clothing from different settlements, proof the Drowned Kingdom's reach extends. This will not be the only outpost.

  These creatures bear no spark of purpose. No flame burns within those mud-filled sockets. They move through simple animation, empty vessels driven by external will rather than internal conviction.

  More emerge from the river depths.

  Twelve, twenty, thirty of these empty vessels, each performing tasks with hollow movements. They begin unloading crates from beneath the water, hauling supplies to shore along the chained walkways. The crates bear silt-covered markings of distant merchants, supplies stolen from outbound caravans rather than created in the depths.

  The platform continues to emerge from the river's depths, water cascading from its edges. It's larger than I first noticed.

  This is no temporary outpost. This is the foundation of permanent occupation.

  The beginnings of a temple.

  The Legion remains perfectly still.

  Even those submerged in shallow water hold position as corrupted forms wade past, never noticing bone warriors beneath their feet. One laborer pauses, water-bloated head turning toward a hidden archer. For a moment, it seems to sense something. Then a ripple from downriver pulls its attention away, something commanding its focus.

  The captain points downriver, his skeletal finger directing my attention to distant ripples breaking the current's natural flow. Water bulges upward in shapes too regular to be natural.

  These workers prepare for something larger approaching.

  Something perhaps bound for the platform.

  I remain motionless as more shapes emerge from the water. Different from the workers.

  Taller.

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  Broader.

  Purpose evident in their movement.

  Warriors clad in blackened armor that bears the mark of the Drowned Kingdom. Their weapons, cruelly barbed tridents and hooked blades designed for tearing rather than cutting, drip river water as they step onto shore. The water doesn't fall cleanly but clings, forming patterns like living tattoos across the metal before reluctantly sliding off.

  Unlike the mindless laborers, these move with deliberation. Water falls from pauldrons. Their helmets bear no eye slits, only a crown of spikes rising from the metal. Yet they see, turning to survey the shore with unsettling precision. Where workers stumble, these warriors stride with confidence that belongs to predators in their element.

  Five of them. Then eight. Then twelve.

  These are not mere fodder. They move in formation, spreading out to secure the perimeter. One gestures with a trident, directing workers to specific tasks. Another inspects the half-built walls nearest the river, running fingers over timber and stone.

  It taps sections that look solid. Testing for weaknesses before bringing forth their precious cargo.

  They crumble at its touch.

  I remain motionless as the armored figure inspects the half-constructed wall. Its fingers probe the mortar between stones, testing joints that give way under minimal pressure.

  The warrior pulls back, helm tilting as if in contemplation.

  A sharp, gurgling sound emerges from beneath its visor. Not words, but a command nonetheless.

  The laborers pause their work, heads turning toward the sound.

  Their movements stutter.

  The armored figure points with its trident towards nearest laborer, the one who laid the stone in days before.

  Without warning, the warrior drives trident through chest. The prongs emerge from the worker's back, dripping not blood but river silt and brackish water.

  The warrior lifts the impaled form, holding it aloft as the others watch. The message requires no translation.

  The armored figure turns its attention to the others. It gestures at the wall, then at the river. Understanding passes through the ranks. The wall must be stronger.

  Two laborers are selected, dragged to the wall's foundation. Their bodies will become the reinforcement, support, punishment.

  I remain still. This is not yet our moment.

  These laborers are expendable. Mere material.

  What we wait for has yet to emerge from the depths.

  We want the commanders. Officers. Thinking beings that control.

  My Legion could overwhelm them with numbers, but I seek the master beyond even those.

  The leader, the one who calls.

  For something still stirs the water's depths, disturbing the current that crests and falls.

  The river level rises incrementally, covering markers that stood above water moments before.

  A larger disturbance ripples through the water. The armored warriors immediately straighten, forming two lines facing the river. The workers abandon their tasks, dropping to prostrate positions on the muddy shore.

  Their foreheads press against the earth until skin splits, adding blackened blood to the soil.

  Something massive displaces the current.

  I watch as the water bulges outward, a swell that defies the natural flow.

  From the depths rises something that should not be.

  A massive form breaches the surface, not a creature of flesh and bone, but a writhing mass of tentacles surrounding a bulbous central body. Its skin an oily sheen that repels water rather than dripping with it. Where a face should be, dozens of eyes open simultaneously, each a different size and shape, none of them human.

  Some iris patterns match those of the commanders, suggesting a harvesting of parts from loyal servants.

  The abomination shines with green light from within, illuminating the water around it.

  Barnacles cluster across its surface, random growths, not deliberate patterns.

  I feel the Legion tense, not from fear, but readiness.

  A slight tremor passes through bone ranks, not from weakness but from ancient recognition. These soldiers have faced corruption before.

  Inside frame, the Arkashoth fragment stirs.

  Ancient knowledge surfaces unbidden.

  This is no demon. This is older. A thing like Arkashoth that has pledged itself to darker purpose.

  The armored warriors begin a chant in a language writhes like the creature itself. Their helmets open at the base, revealing not throats but pulsing gills that give their words unnatural resonance.

  We have no minds to break. No sanity to shatter.

  The Arkashoth fragment knows recognition.

  It knows these beings, this whispering eye dredged up from dark waters. They are cousins to the gravemind in their hunger, though different in form and purpose. They speak to something deeper than conscious thought, something that existed when the world was mostly ocean and darkness.

  The fragment's knowledge flows through my marrow. They seek not to consume, but to transform. To remake. To drown the world.

  The massive entity extends itself toward the shore, touching the foreheads of each armored warrior.

  Each warrior touched shudders, then stands straighter.

  The laborers remain prostrate, their bodies twitching occasionally as if connected to the central mass.

  Several begin to sink into the mud, dissolving under pressure of the nearby mass. They are becoming something else, their matter returning to the river to serve another purpose.

  More creatures emerge from the depths, things I cannot name, fish-like bodies with too many limbs, segmented forms that coil like walking snakes. They pull more supplies ashore, crates bearing strange markings that pulse with the same sickly light as their master.

  The captain looks to me, awaiting command. His empty sockets hold silent question. His bone fingers flex and release, counting our forces against theirs. The tactical assessment is clear, we can defeat these creatures, but what if there are more?

  Not yet. Something more approaches.

  The water stills suddenly, an unnatural calm spreading across the river's surface. Even the current seems to pause, as if the water itself holds its breath in anticipation. Small fish die in place, floating belly-up as something draws the oxygen from their environment.

  The chanting stops.

  The armored warriors drop to their knees, pressing their transformed faces against the mud. Not in fear but in reverence, their body language communicating devotion beyond mortal understanding.

  From the river's center rises something else entirely.

  Not a mass of flesh and tentacle, but a figure of terrible beauty.

  Woman-shaped, yet clearly not human. Her skin has the translucence of deep-water creatures, internal organs visible as shadowy forms beneath. Her hair floats around her head as if still submerged.

  Each strand ends in a mouth that opens and closes in silent hunger.

  Where legs should be, a mass of tentacles extends, some anchored in the river while others sway above the surface. Her face bears no expression, features too perfect.

  She radiates an intelligence behind an expanding empire.

  Her eyes remain closed.

  This is a herald of the Drowned Kingdom.

  Not its ruler, but something close. An emissary of the depths, carrying authority beyond what should exist in mortal realms. Her presence here suggests an escalation.

  I remain motionless as the herald rises from the water.

  This is no mere outpost. This is the vanguard of an invasion.

  The Arkashoth fragment knows. These beings serve a Abyssal Prince. Their purpose here is clear, to establish a foothold.

  I cannot allow this.

  The herald's presence changes our strategy. She is too valuable to let escape. Too dangerous to ignore.

  She speaks and opens her mouth.

  "The tide rises. All will fall."

  The armored warriors respond as one. "The tide rises. Haven drowns."

  "This outpost will be complete in three days," she continues. "The ritual requires the moon and the tide."

  The creature of eyes and tentacles pulses in acknowledgment, its many orbs blinking in sequence. Each blink corresponds to the herald's tapping, suggesting a language of movement rather than sound.

  "The surface dwellers suspect nothing," she says, gesturing toward Haven with a too-long arm. "Their walls face the wrong direction. Their sentries watch for demons from the east while we approach from beneath."

  The armored warriors rise, returning to their tasks. The herald remains motionless. She raises one translucent hand, and the water level rises another inch, claiming more shoreline. Not a dramatic surge, but the patient advance of inevitable conquest.

  The Arkashoth fragment offers knowledge of what comes next. Ritual, sacrifice, transformation. Haven's western approach flooded not by natural means but by forces that would remake the land itself.

  The herald turns suddenly. Though her eyes remain closed, she seems to stare directly at our position. A vertical crease appears between her brows, the first imperfection in her perfect form.

  "Something watches," she says, "Something waits beyond the veil of flesh." Her tentacles stiffen, tips pointing toward our various hidden positions.

  The captain looks to me. The Legion tenses. Bone fingers wrap tighter around ancient weapons. Warriors shift preparing to spring from concealment at my command.

  The element of surprise fades. Decision forms.

  The herald raises her arms, tentacles thrashing the water's surface to foam. The placid river responds instantly, waves growing higher with each gesture. "Find it," she commands. "Whatever skulks in shadow, whatever watches with hungry eyes. Bring it before me."

  The moment of revelation approaches. Cannot be avoided. The phantom tissue around my skull tightens as purpose turns to certainty.

  The Arkashoth fragment pulses with certainty. It was for this, to prevent these from claiming land as Arkashoth once claimed stone, that dwarves burned. That gods merged with mortal kings. That Avernus scattered his essence across twelve legions of fallen warriors.

  I raise Aeternus. It's time.