Captain Blackthorn stood at the edge of the deck, his hands gripping the rail as he watched the rowboat drift further into the thickening mist. His sharp eyes narrowed, tracking its progress even as the outlines of Harahel, Gadriel, and Finnegan blurred against the oppressive fog that clung to the water like a shroud.

The rhythmic creak of the oars echoed faintly across the waves, mingling with the ever-present groan of the ship’s timbers. Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat trickled down Blackthorn’s temple. His neck still throbbed where Antioch had struck him—a sharp ache and a stark reminder of the trickster god’s meddling and the precariousness of their current situation.

“Fools,” Blackthorn muttered under his breath. His fingers tightened on the rail until his knuckles turned white. “All of us—fools.”

The island loomed in the distance, an ominous silhouette shrouded in mist. Blackthorn couldn’t shake the creeping dread spreading through his chest. He had sailed through treacherous waters, outrun sea monsters, and faced mutinous crews, but this—this was different. The Sirens’ domain was no ordinary danger. It was a place that thrived on fear, that turned men’s minds against themselves.

Straightening, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension knotted in his muscles. There was no choice now but to trust Antioch’s hollow assurances and hope the trickster’s plan didn’t unravel before his eyes.

As the rowboat became little more than a faint shadow against the pale morning sky, Blackthorn turned to his first mate. “Double the watch,” he ordered, his tone sharp and uncompromising. “Keep the men on their toes. Anything—anything—out of the ordinary, I want to know about it immediately.”

The first mate nodded grimly and hurried off to relay the orders. Blackthorn stayed at the rail, his gaze fixed on the spot where the rowboat had vanished into the mist. He whispered a quiet prayer—not to any of the gods he distrusted so deeply, but to the sea itself, the only constant companion he had ever known.

The Captain returned to his quarters. Once inside, he picked up the trident. The artifact seemed to hum faintly in his hands, a quiet power emanating from its pronged tips. He wrapped it tightly in a length of cloth, shielding it from prying eyes.

Carrying the bundled trident, Blackthorn moved to the ship’s bow. The rhythmic sway of the vessel underfoot was a familiar comfort, but on this day, it seemed ominously steady, as though the sea itself held its breath. He paused at the edge, the salty breeze tugging at his coat, and cast a wary glance over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching.

He gripped the trident tightly. “Follow your master,” he whispered. With a final breath, he heaved the trident into the dark waters below. 

It sliced through the surface without a splash, disappearing into the depths as if drawn by an unseen force. The sea churned momentarily, a ripple of energy spreading outward, and then all was still again, save for the distant echo of the waves against the hull. 

The trident glided through the depths, cutting through the water like a living thing. It moved with an unnatural purpose, drawn to the rowboat above by a pull stronger than the currents and more precise than instinct. The sea parted for its passage, the faint glow of its etched runes illuminating the surrounding darkness in a spectral haze.

Above, the rowboat creaked and strained against the rising waves. The trident felt the chaos—the humans’ fear, the brewing tension in the air, and the ancient power rippling from the island ahead. These sensations echoed through the water like whispers of a forgotten song, guiding the weapon closer.

When the massive wave formed, the trident sensed it before it rose—a deep rumble resonating from the ocean's core. This wave was no natural phenomenon; it pulsed with intent, a guardian’s fury meant to repel trespassers. The trident surged upward, drawn toward the boat and its occupants as if compelled to bear witness.

The wave struck with brutal force, shattering the rowboat and scattering its passengers into the churning sea. The trident lingered in the depths for a moment, its glow intensifying as it watched the chaos unfold.

Harahel plunged into the water, her form twisting as she fought against the pull of the tide.

The others, too, were dragged into the depths: Gadriel, her defiance muted by the water’s grasp, and Finnegan—Antioch—his mortal guise slipping as the sea churned around him. The trident moved toward him, drawn to the god’s presence—an undeniable force that resonated like a sharp note in a discordant melody.

The trident surged toward Antioch, its runes glowing brighter as it closed the distance. The sea around him churned violently, but the Trickster God moved with unsettling ease, the weight of the ocean seemingly no burden to him.

As the trident reached him, Antioch’s hand shot out, gripping the weapon with a strength that belied his previously mortal guise. The moment his fingers closed around the shaft, a pulse of energy radiated outward—a silent thunderclap that rippled through the depths.

In an instant, the illusion of Finnegan unraveled. The worn features of the grizzled sailor dissolved, replaced by the unmistakable presence of the God of Mischief.

The trident, now firmly in his grasp, responded to his touch as if it had found its rightful master. Its glow intensified, the runes along its surface pulsating in sync with Antioch’s heartbeat. The chaos of the sea seemed to bow to his will, the currents calming in a circle around him even as the waves above continued their violent dance.

Antioch's eyes fixed on Harahel as her form sank deeper into the dark embrace of the sea, her movements sluggish and desperate, the last of her breath escaping in delicate silver streams. Nearby, Gadriel flailed against the tide, her defiance dulled by exhaustion.

Gripping the trident, Antioch held it aloft. The weapon pulsed with energy, the runes glowing brighter as if responding to his intent. He thrust the trident forward, its prongs slicing through the water as it unleashed a surge of divine power.

The ocean obeyed. The water beneath Harahel and Gadriel swirled and lifted, cradling their unconscious forms in currents as gentle as a mother’s hands. Streams of light emanated from the trident, wrapping around their bodies like translucent ribbons, drawing them upward toward the surface.

The waves parted as Antioch rose with them, the trident's glow carving a path through the misty darkness. He moved with effortless grace, the sea bending to his will as if it recognized its master.

With a final flick of the trident, the waters carried Harahel and Gadriel toward the shore. The beach appeared through the dissipating mist—a jagged stretch of sand and rock shimmering faintly under the pale moonlight. The waves gently deposited them on the shore, retreating with an almost reverent stillness.

Antioch stepped onto the beach, the trident in his grasp glowing faintly in the night. He glanced down at Harahel and Gadriel, their forms still and fragile against the rough sand.

"You two rest up," he said, crouching beside Harahel. "You’ve had a long journey."

Rising to his full height, the Trickster God planted the trident in the sand with a casual air, its glow dimming but still casting an otherworldly light. He turned his gaze to the island ahead, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Hello, children," he said, his voice carrying a promise of mischief yet to come, "Daddy’s home."

Leucosia and Ligeia soared over the jagged shoreline, the moonlight casting a silvery sheen over the restless sea below. The wind howled around them, carrying the distant roar of waves crashing violently against the rocks. Against the vast expanse of the starlit sky, their dark wings cut through the air like shadows, powerful and graceful.

Leucosia led the way, her wings slicing through the cold night air with precision. Ligeia followed just behind, her flight smooth and effortless, though her gaze often flickered to her sister’s rigid posture.

As they flew deeper inland, the rugged cliffs gave way to dense, windswept forests and sheer rock faces. At the heart of the island loomed the entrance to an ancient cave.

Leucosia and Ligeia descended from the night sky, their wings folding gracefully as they neared the ground. The moonlight spilled over the dense, windswept forests below, illuminating their landing spot—a flat, weathered ledge of stone just outside the mouth of an ancient cave. 

Leucosia touched down first, her talons clicking against the stone with a sharp finality. She stood tall, her wings outstretched for a brief moment, their dark feathers shimmering in the pale light before beginning to shift. In moments, the fierce silhouette of a bird transformed into the imposing figure of a woman.

Ligeia landed beside her with a softer touch, her talons brushing the ground with barely a sound. Her transformation was fluid, as though the air itself bent around her.

Leucosia turned her gaze toward the entrance of the cave, its yawning maw cloaked in shadow. The air around it was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of moss and stone.

Ligeia stepped closer, brushing her hair back as she peered into the darkness. “Are you sure she wants visitors?” she asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

“She has no choice,” Leucosia replied sharply, not turning from the cave.

With that, Leucosia strode forward, her steps echoing against the rock. Ligeia hesitated for a brief moment, before following her sister into the shadows.

They walked deeper into the cave, the air growing colder, heavier, and more oppressive as they ventured further. The sound of their footsteps faded, swallowed by the endless stone corridors. The deeper they went, the darker it became until they reached a cavern, vast and echoing with silence.

There, amidst the shadows, a woman sat slumped against the stone wall. Her chains rattled slightly as she shifted, her presence a strange contrast to the stillness of the cave.

Leucosia stepped forward, her sharp, unyielding gaze fixed on the woman in chains.

“You know why we’re here,” Leucosia said, her voice low but commanding. It cut through the cold air with an authority that brooked no argument.

The prisoner shifted, the faint clinking of her chains punctuating her movement. She raised her head, and even in her disheveled state, her eyes gleamed with defiance. “Do I?” she said, her tone mocking despite her weakened frame. “If you’ve come for answers, you’ll leave disappointed. I haven’t had a vision of where your mother is.

Ligeia, standing just behind her sister, crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Convenient,” she said, her voice laced with skepticism.

The prisoner’s eyes flicked to Ligeia, her smile faltering only slightly before she set her jaw. “Believe or not, the truth doesn’t change. Whatever power you think I have, it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

Leucosia narrowed her eyes, stepping closer until she loomed over the prisoner. “You can keep up the charade, but we don’t have time for games,” she said coldly. “You are her avatar in this realm. Find her—or I’ll make sure you no longer have the luxury of refusal.”

The prisoner met her gaze steadily, her voice unwavering despite the threat. “You think threats will make the fates bend to your will? If I could summon a vision of your mother, I would have done so—if only to rid myself of you.”

Leucosia’s expression hardened, but before she could reply, Ligeia placed a hand on her sister’s arm. “Let her stew,” Ligeia said, her voice smooth but laced with a dangerous edge. “Desperation has a way of loosening even the most stubborn tongues.”

Leucosia hesitated, her jaw tightening, before stepping back. “You will tell me where she is soon,” she said, her voice like ice. “or it won’t be the fates that bend your will—it will be me.”

The prisoner didn’t respond, her defiant stare following the sisters as they turned and began to retreat from the cavern, their footsteps fading into the silence.