He walked through a tunnel. There was no torch, no lantern, no source of light, yet he saw the hole ridden walls as clearly as the water trickling between his legs. He felt as if his bronze-colored armor shone brightly, only to realize that he wasn’t wearing it.

Instead of his trusted axe, he held the long, multi-jointed metal limb they found in the depths of floating island.

He followed the tunnel for a minute, an hour, a day, a week. He lost track of time, alone in the endless tunnel, perhaps walking in circles. He looked at the object in his hands, and he felt it looking back, staring right into his soul. Suddenly, he wanted to tear his own arm away, to replace it with the metal one. After a few painless tugs, he tore his hand away and instead of it, the tendrils of long, unnatural limb bore into his bone and flesh.

“Good... It feels so good...” He murmured for himself. It indeed felt as an ecstasy, the pure pleasure mixed with just the right amount of pain jerked his whole body again and again. He spasmed in a sweet agony as he felt finally complete…

Shrieks circled around him, humming in soft tones that vibrated through him, escalating the pleasure and pain until it climaxed, a crescendo of insanity.

The world turned black, yet he still saw them. The shrieks turned to disfigured humans, screaming in pain, crying for help, torment tearing them apart and stitching them back together using his own hands. They begged him, screamed at him, silver tears ran down their twisted cheeks, their long nails buried themselves into their own faces. They bit their own fingers off, chewing them as a malnourished child chews on the piece of stale bread.

Help us, help us, help us, Help Us, Help US, HELP US, HELPUS, HELPUSHELPUSHELPUS....

Billion voices filled his mind, all screaming for help. All begging for help.

The pleasure he felt turned into a sour feeling of disgust, the pain he felt never left, just intensified. He tugged on the metal arm to tear it away from his body, but to no avail. It held there, firmly...

Help us. Help us. Help us.

It lasted a week, a day, a month. Each time, a new voice spoke those words. He even felt as if he should know those voices, but they remained just behind the edge of his mind...

All of them, but one.

“Help me.”

He knew that voice. He heard it each time he closed his eyes, each time he was left alone. He saw her face in his dreams, smiling, with love shining from her eyes... Those were the dreams he didn’t want to wake up from, followed by mornings that tore his soul apart.

“Leonie...” He whimpered. He found himself kneeling on a broken glass, the tendons in his knees cut through and through, bleeding painlessly. “Leonie...” He whimpered again, and the darkness around him shook.

“Help me, Iarvahr. It... It hurts so much.”

“How? Where are you, Leonie? Where are you, my love?” He cried, he screamed, yet he never opened his mouth. She was there, just behind the curtain of darkness. He crawled towards her through the broken glass, cutting his skin to shreds with each movement.

“Where am I?” Her pain turned to anger. A strong slap on his cheek hurled him across the darkness. “Where you put me! You killed me, Iarvahr!”

“You... You begged me to do it... You were in pain.”

“You know nothing of pain!” The misery and anguish of her scream echoed through his consciousness, shattering the last barriers of his sanity. Finally, Iarvahr was completely broken.

The world fell silent, save for his sobs. He looked around, but he could see nothing in the void around him. “Leonie...” he whispered.

She stood in front of him, with a long, bleeding wound across her throat. Her voice gargled. “Help me, Iarvahr. Get me out of here.”

“Out of where?” he screamed, half insane.

“I’m dead, Iarvahr. But you can bring me back. Only you can bring me back.”

“But how?”

“Wield the arm. Wield the projector. It will show you the way.”

***

He found Suranihr atop the watchtower of Luthra, and approached him carefully.

“You look as bad as I feel.” Iarvahr muttered. Suranihr did not laugh at the bad joke, he just nodded slightly.

“Luthra took the beating heroically, but… to see my ship being towed, unable to sail on her own…”

“We’re alive, captain.”

“The crew isn’t.”

Iarvahr leaned against the railing of the watchtower. “Luthra will get patched up at home. Don’t worry.”

“She is just a ship, and a ship can be repaired. I’m not worried about her.” Captain let out a long sigh, and locked his eyes with Iarvahr. “This was madness. The enemy came from below, unseen. Unnoticed. Unknown. I’ve spoken a few words with Morro, and as the oldest captain of the fleet, he has never heard of anything even remotely resembling… Shrieks. Nobody has.”

Iarvahr was unsure how to react, his mind still preoccupied by his latest nightmare. “Your point being, captain?”

“We need to adapt. Change. Find a way to scout underwater, as well as above the water. And then…”

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They were silent for a while, their ears filled only by the blowing wind and splashing of water.

“I had a dream. I’ve dreamt of Leonie, and of projectors…”

“What are projectors?” Suranihr asked, puzzled.

“Those metal arms we took from the tunnels. Leonie called them projectors in the dream. She wants me to save her. Bring her back to life. To wield those arms.”

Suranihr did not laugh at him. “An oddly specific dream. A nightmare brought on by recent emotional fatigue, perhaps. But still, just a dream.”

“Perhaps. But I can’t shake the feeling that it might be more than that.”

***

They sailed for a few silent days. None, save a few always cheerful souls and drunk deckhands, had the mood for talking - not after such a quick, terrifying encounter with Shrieks. Several fleet mechanics were transferred to Luthra, both to assess the structural integrity of the ship and to study the projectors and other artifacts that the few surviving scout teams brought from the bowels of the floating island. Iarvahr occasionally accompanied them.

Wield the arm she said. Wield the projector.

He tried. He offered himself as a volunteer, to somehow try to wield them under the guidance of fleet mechanics. They tried to activate them, to discover their purpose, to determine their value… But projectors always remained dormant.

Perhaps something was missing from them. In his recurring dreams, the projectors always shone - a dim light, usually with a soft, warm, blue hue - but in the real world, they remained cold, dark and lifeless.

Nevertheless, they tried, again and again. And his dreams kept returning, again and again.

Wield the arm. Wield the projector.

A week after an encounter with shrieks, the fleet came to a halt. A line of foreign ships under the banner of Malorea covered the distant horizon. On a first glance, they resembled a…

***

“Blockade.” Morro Lyn growled, looking through a telescope glass. “And a single, small boat heading towards us. Neutral flag. Diplomats.”

“Orders, sir?” His first mate Layana asked calmly.

“Send a message to other ships. We will use Luthra as a negotiation place. Albeit broken, she is still the largest ship from our fleet. The most intimidating. And her captain is calm and sensible.”

“And good looking.” Layana muttered.

“I’ve heard you, first mate. Your opinions regarding the visage of fleet captains are not welcome on my bridge.”

“With all due respect, Captain Lyn, I meant that he looks respectable. Looks matter during negotiations.”

Morro’s answer was silence.

***

Fury stormed inside Suranihr, but he managed to keep a calm face. “As far as I know, you’ve learned how to make gunpowder in your cannons from us. Your steam engines were originally designed by us, same as the ship screws under water that move your ships. Your excuse for a fleet exists thanks to the grace of Triarchy of the Citadel. Thanks to all the long lasting pacts made between Malorea, and us.”

The Malorean delegate made a single nod. “And we thank you for all you have done for our homeland. But the waters that rightfully belong to Malorea are no longer welcoming to your fleet.”

“We could simply ram through your blockade. Shatter your ships.” Captain Lyn said coldly.

The Malorean delegate chuckled. “Yes, and you would surely obliterate our fleet. But, at the same time, you would take a lot of casualties. Your ships would be damaged, many of your sailors would be either injured, or dead. Is it worth it?”

“If I may…” Iarvahr asked for a word with a raised hand. “You could escort us through your waters, so that our fleet would pose no danger to…”

Delegate shut him down. “That will not work. We have to take the question of logistics into consideration - that would cost us dearly, in terms of supplies, fuel for our steam engines, and freshwater. Maybe if you offered us a form of generous compensation…”

“You want gold?” Suranihr barked. “No. We are done here. Leave my ship, delegate Torvis.”

“Very well then.” Torvis nodded. “By the name of High lord Xanwryn, I bid you all a farewell.”

“Xanwryn?” Iarvahr muttered, with a confused look focused on the backs of the Malorean delegate and his honor guard.

“Apparently, there were some changes in Malorean royalty.” Morro stated calmly. “That might explain their disdain towards us.”

***

They took a detour to the north, away from Malorean blockade, away from the waters close to Malorean shores. Although the question of logistics seemed so important to Delegate Torvis, a full blockade flotilla followed Citadel ships from afar, obviously not minding the waste of fuel and supplies. It lasted for a whole day.

As the trials with projectors seemed futile, Iarvahr decided to spend an early evening in the watchtower of Luthra. He had to admire the beauty of such a vessel. Thick, riveted armor plating painted red and black, seven multi-purpose ship cannons - five at the bow of the ship, two at the stern, three slender, coal-smoke spewing chimneys rising from large steel-reinforced building with crew cabins, mess hall, storage, ship hospital and laboratories for mechanics inside of it. Almost everything was adorned by flags of the Citadel - a red drop of blood upon white field. He couldn’t help himself but to admire the ingenuity of Citadel’s ship builders and mechanics. To make such a vast, steel-clad giant be able to float atop the water…

A distant ball of fire caught his eye. He grabbed the closest telescope and tried to focus his sight on the bright theater.

The Malorean fleet was… exploding. One by one, ships' hulls burst open, spewing black, thick smoke from wounded hulls. Those that still could have fired salvoes against Shriek behemoth rising out of water amongst the ships

No… Iarvahr thought. It’s not a single behemoth… two, three, four distinct, hole-ridden islands are rising from the water…

It was only after a few seconds that muffled sounds of distant explosions hit him, followed by a constant, heart-throbbing buzz and hum of Shriek weaponry. He grabbed the bell chain next to him and started ringing the alarm.

Although the speed with which the fleet mustered was impressive, it was too late for the Malorean fleet. Citadel sailed towards the floating debris of broken ships anyway, spewing highly explosive and fragmentation ammunition from afar, but the islands retreated back under the water before they could be seriously damaged. When the citadel fleet caught up with burning remnants of Malorean blockade, the Shrieks were already gone, yet everyone expected them to re-emerge from the water any second. Luck was on the side of Citadel’s fleet, as the Shrieks did not return.

Nobody asked what was the point of Citadel’s fleet returning to help their enemy. They were human first and foremost, and perhaps this was a chance to reforge broken alliances, to rekindle flames of cooperation... However, what began as reinforcements for the Malorean fleet ended up as a scavenge run for the Citadel.

Even though the Citadel’s fleet looked for survivors, everything was covered by thick smoke from burning, floating wreckage and a single row boat had escaped them unnoticed. Three Malorean survivors were rowing for their lives, away from the demons from the Citadel. To them, there was only one explanation for what had happened - Citadel’s fleet had been denied passage and therefore, they had destroyed Malorean ships with some new, unknown weapons, only to then gather spoils of war from wrecked ships. This was the story they were going to report to anyone willing to listen, if only they could make it to the shore…

Eyeless beasts from the depths pulled them underwater without a sound before they rowed a league away from the wreckage. The last thing they felt was the stinging of seawater in their fang-made wounds, as they were being eaten alive.