They descended to the cells within another instant. Hanne barely caught herself as the pull faded, leaving her to stand on her own.

The Chief Speaker wasted no time, stepping forward to the furthest door. Her footsteps echoed through the prison.

This level held only those mortals who had committed offenses against Maritima's people—trespassers were kept elsewhere as they awaited banishment, and seafarers guilty of crimes were tried by a court of their peers.

Anyone here was unlikely to leave without someone outside the settlement paying a hefty weregild—if ever at all. To be held within the confines of a temple to the waves, yet as distantly as possible from them, was a layer to the punishment only seafarers were privy to.

It was an insult.

Hanne followed her grandmother into the room, the sea glass reforming the sealed door behind her once she had fully stepped inside. A layer of white-pink salt dripped over it, obscuring what happened within.

The entire room was coated in such salt, the scent powerful enough to irritate even the nostrils of a seafarer like Hanne. She suppressed the urge to sneeze, for they were not alone.

“Your time has come,” the Chief Speaker told the Mortal man strapped to the inclined table—Hanne could have sworn he sighed in relief. Enchanted restraints had been placed around his forehead, shoulders, wrists, hips, and ankles.

Contrary to mortal propaganda, few ever got to be placed in an oubliette such as this one. It was a fate saved for only the worst of the worst.

He was likely a thief.

The room's enchantments kept the condemned from needing to perform any bodily functions, and they could partake in neither sleep nor the consumption of food and drink.

Then they waited for their time to come, either by a temple official's hand or by aging brought on by time itself.

“Drink,” her grandmother commanded of the man, pressing the opalescent phial against his lips and letting its rust-colored contents pour in. In this position, he was neither laying down nor sitting, and he swallowed the contents without resisting. The bright teal phial followed, and the Chief Speaker stepped back, joining her grandchild with folded arms as they watched the man. “Forty turns of the clock, you said.”

“Indeed,” Hanne confirmed. She gulped despite herself. The thought of spending so long simply waiting troubled her—yet her grandmother spoke again before she could dwell upon it.

“My Understanding permeates everything in this room,” the Chief Speaker noted. “Your first concoction begins taking effect almost immediately—the part of it that handles the sunsetblade's effect, in any case. I suspect the hidden Status Effect that prevents [Integrity] failure is applied the moment it touches the subject's tongue.”

Her grandmother was an expert in these matters, whereas Hanne was no better than a crawling toddler in comparison. As time passed them by, the commentary continued.

“Your creation exacerbates venaroot's effects—I commend that, for I will take notes. Examining his body grows easier by the second, and his natural defenses are dropping faster than they normally would, even with a high dosage of venaroot alone. He is also starting to feel me,” her grandmother flashed an ugly smile as the condemned started squirming in place. “It's impressive, really. You've lowered the time it takes for mortal veins to become makeshift channels to under a fourth of an hour. Brilliant.”

“My friend showed no reaction at this point.”

“Did you probe him?”

“I did, but it was over the half-hour mark. He felt it, then, but he expressed little discomfort. Granted, I was being as gentle as I could manage.”

“That would do it. Even under these effects, there are few forms of ambient mana mortals could detect—only intrusions make a difference here,” the Chief Speaker explained as the prismer started cried out. “I am not being gentle here. I must continue to praise your work. I can easily saturate his blood like this. This is superb. Then again…”

At once, the screams stopped, replaced by ragged pants. Hanne's grandmother was frowning. “I cannot observe your second creation's effects if he's barely conscious from my probing. Remain awake, you.”

The man's name whooshed past Hanne's ears—it had not been shared with her. This was what usually happened, and the reason for her curiosity about Anselm's family.

“I am starting to detect… abrasions,” the Chief Speaker said. “His insides grow sore, starting with his mouth and throat. Did your friend mention anything at this stage?”

“I don't believe so.”

“Interesting, then. If this man lives, he would be unable to process a meal for days, if not weeks. The internal lining is starting to be peeling away by the waves it's generating.”

Hanne knew she would have gone paler had that been possible. “Waves?”

“Your key ingredient is an awakening elixir made from seawater, girl. Does it genuinely surprise you to hear this?”

The man was groaning again now, the occasional heave mixed in. He pressed his lips against each other, gasping every now and then.

“Start healing him.”

Hanne raised an eyebrow.

“He will die before we can see the rest of it, if you do not,” her grandmother warned. “The waves are not fond of him.”

Hanne did as she was asked, wrapping a hand around the man's right ankle and pouring her cold, healing mana in. She watched as he relaxed slightly, the pain dulled by her magic.

Despite the irony of her being responsible for it, she found herself growing glad that she had been around when Anselm used this. Hanne's intervention had mattered, after all.

“You have delayed the worst of it. The power within the seawater has split itself from the liquid itself, and is now beginning to spread through his primed bloodstream,” the Chief Speaker continued. “Had you already started healing your friend at this point?”

“I am uncertain,” Hanne admitted. “I was already examining him when it started, precisely because he'd yet to show a reaction.”

“This man was closing in on potential swift deterioration far before your claimed forty-turns mark,” her grandmother said—as absurd as the notion was, she sounded hesitant. “Before thirty turns of the clock, as well. Are you certain about the timeframes you shared with me?”

“I am reasonably confident. But why?”

“You're not seeing what I'm seeing. I find it difficult to believe someone could last this long without feeling anything. Were you not currently healing him, this mortal would be breathing their last from seasickness by now. His blood is rotting while his heart still beats, detritus accumulating in his veins with each sweep of the brine.”

The man had started choking by then, his face contorted in agony. He was twitching, albeit less violently than her friend had. Hanne caught sight of the darkening for the first time as well, the veins on the man's legs beginning to protrude. They were slowly turning a green-black shade, visible through the skin.

“Thirty turns of the clock have passed,” the Chief Speaker informed her over the man's groans, which turned to screams a moment later. “You were right about the inconsistency. This form of seasickness is not one I had witnessed before—it skips many possible stages of convalescence.”

“So it becomes chronic almost immediately?”

“No,” her grandmother stepped closer. “Are you healing him as best as you can?”

Hanne moved to intensify her efforts, only to find this was already the fastest she could work. She nodded. “I am.”

The man's legs had bloated to over twice their original size now, with patches of fist-sized clots growing visible. His bare stomach was lined with raised veins, and his armpits had swollen where they met his restraints—blackened flesh squeezed its way out from under them as the swelling continued to worsen.

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“Not a single drop of his blood has been spared from the brine by now.”

The man's neck had doubled in size, and it became clear he could no longer breathe, just as the bloating reached his fingertips and blackened veins spread through his face, his skin now a sickly green, worse than the worst of pallors.

He choked, gasping for air that would never reach him.

Hanne saw it, then. Seawater—its magic unmistakable—erupted from where tears could not, soon lightly streaming from his ears and mouth. It leaked from his finger and toenails as his breathing was stilled forever with one last, desperate gasp.

“He is dead,” the Chief Speaker stated the obvious as if it somehow shocked her. “Thirty-seven turns of the clock.”

Hanne hadn't the faintest clue as to how to react.

Another minute passed, and the corpse showed no signs of dissolution—a true death caused directly by seasickness, then. There would be no obit for him.

Her grandmother stepped forward, pressing a hand against the man's chest. Her frown deepened as she summoned a scalpel from her inventory, jamming it into the corpse's neck. Blood a red so dark and rusted that it appeared ancient poured out, mixed with even more seawater.

“Hanne,” the Chief Speaker's voice was so airy that Hanne immediately gaped at her grandmother. “For a mortal, this is not survivable. Do you understand?”

“It was not…” Hanne gulped, hugging herself as she shook. “There was no seawater involved, when my friend and I tried it. The symptoms were similar, yes, but…”

She watched as the water continued to stream out despite the lack of a heartbeat to push it—far more seawater than the original awakening elixir had contained, let alone that single phial.

“At which point do the results diverge?” her grandmother continued making cuts, allowing more seawater to pour from each wound, mixed with dried clumps of blood. “At which stage did it stop for your friend?”

Hanne didn't want to speak. “I know not. I saw all of this, though my Intuition lacks the rigor of your Understanding. This was nearly a mirror to it all, save for this experiment progressing faster, and the fact that he did not… burst.”

At last, only drops were falling now, absorbed by the salts coating every surface in the room.

“Your friend is mortal.”

“He is. His need for an Affinity was what drove us here.”

“Is he human?”

Hanne frowned. That was not a question she would have ever expected. “He is.”

“Entirely?”

“Yes.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“I grew up knowing him. His family is composed entirely of mortal humans, save for the lady of the house’s youngest daughter. They—”

She froze.

“Their names are unprotected,” Hanne admitted.

The Chief Speaker exhaled. “So it could be that.”

“The sea cares for those things?” she asked. Barely into her thirties, Hanne was still ignorant about many things. Perhaps this had been one of them.

“Your friend likely descends from one of the seablooded,” her grandmother's confidence had returned. “Very distantly, if he can experience seasickness this gravely. But it would explain matters to an extent. It would be enough for the sea to let him keep his life, if only that.”

Hanne bit her lip. She suspected literally no one within the Rīsan family would appreciate learning that. “Is that the only possibility?”

“No, but it is the likeliest, if you are correct about their names being unprotected.”

“Kristian, Katrina, Beryl, Anselm, Thekla, Bernadette, Kristoffer. Alaric.”

Her grandmother's mouth opened and closed. “I cannot say that,” she worked her jaw. “Katrina. Beryl. Anselm. Thekla.”

After a pause, the Chief Speaker continued. “Again, I cannot. Kristoffer. Alaric. You are correct, but this does not apply to all.”

“I cannot name the youngest children like this, for all I have heard their names.”

“As it should be.”

“Yes,” Hanne agreed. “If there is a connection to… them, then I say it has to be Kate. Katrina. I knew her, before she passed. She struck me as kind enough, so forgive me if I cannot reconcile the idea with the memory of her.”

“It is not some black mark. You would be surprised to learn just how many descend from them. It is rare, but far from unseen,” the Immortal actually snorted, then. “It's usually our people who carry such heritage, not that any would admit it. Our nature would guard our names regardless, and as such, it is not easy to detect if it was previously unknown. In all my time, I've only heard of a handful who carry a drop of their blood without being one of them, but it happens.”

The Chief Speaker paused. “You stated your friend's condition was worsening regardless.”

“It was.”

“It would have spared him, but he's still mortal, yes—having all that remain within could still kill him, just slowly,” her grandmother mused. “Tell you what, child,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Fetch some sangsue from the fourth level here. I suspect your friend may not be amenable to the idea, but if the problem stems from lingering brine, removing it could at least slow any further deterioration, if not halt it completely.”

Hanne frowned, eying the corpse in the room. “Seablooded ancestry or not, would it not have killed him, if the waves coursed through his veins?”

“Not necessarily. The sea does as it wishes. If it wanted his heart to keep beating, it would get what it wants—even if it were slowly tearing his insides apart in the process. Some damage is bound to be permanent, but bleeding him could offer some relief, if not—”

The corpse in the center of the room sat up, tearing through the enchanted restraints as though they were nothing. It heaved forward, a waterfall draining from its mouth as it hung open. Instead of coughing, it kept its head tilted until its neck had thinned back into a normal size, before raising its head in a jagged movement. “The mind is fresh but broken as well. Broken, broken.”

Hanne's back had reached the wall already.

Her grandmother, for her part, remained in place, though her Presence had wavered for a split second in presumable shock. “I greet the sea's visitor.”

“Dust to dust, soon,” the risen sibyl shifted again, its head now hanging limply to one side. It smiled as only things wholly unused to having mouths did. “You. Make. This.”

“It is my grandchild's doing. Her Skills grow by the day,” hearing such praise coming from the Chief Speaker's mouth was surreal. “Might I ask what she has made?”

“Hollow out, hollow out. This mind was damaged, before. But hollow now, hollow now.”

“It was a mortal, condemned.”

How her grandmother was understanding enough to hold a conversation was beyond Hanne, but the Immortal served as Maritima’s Chief Speaker for a reason.

“Your prerogative,” the sibyl said with an eerie nod.

“As it should be,” the Chief Speaker returned the nod. “This one was made. The child knew not, that this would happen.”

“Neither did It,” the sibyl said. Hanne hadn't had the privilege of hearing one who understood the sea speak more than once or twice in her life, but even she could tell that this—frightful as it was—far exceeded the expectation of how eloquent such a vessel could be. Their broken minds were meant to glimpse into the sea's schemes and somehow interpret them, but they were simply a filter through that which could never actually be understood, could be heard. “You raise her. Well.”

The Chief Speaker bowed. “I am unworthy of praise given the source of it.”

“You raise her well,” the sibyl insisted. “Dust to dust, soon. Ask. Much is foreseen. Ask.”

“She used that which she made this with before, and if I might, I would ask for whatever you may graciously tell me something,” her grandmother remained bowing. “In the past, she sought to work this on a mortal. One whom the sea spared, granted the privilege of its mercy.”

“No. That. Yes. Not for his sake. In Seolferġiefu’s lands. The one from above. Since gone. Deader than dead, as they often are. But prized all the same. As all of his are.”

“It spared him because of where he was?”

“Where. Who. Who cared. Interest. It did. It did,” the sibyl nodded, and its jaw unhinged. It raised a hand, pressing the back of it against it to put it back in place. “Dust.”

Hanne noticed then how a thin sheen was covering its skin, as if it were sweating brine.

“Is there anything I can do for this vessel?” her grandmother asked, clearly having noticed the same.

“No. Too weak, too weak. Falters,” it said, just as its left eye appeared to boil over, foul algae-like gunk exiting the socket. “Visit more. Sibyls. Fond of functional tongues. A mind that worked. Would do. Would serve. Interests It.”

“I apologize for the inadequacy.”

“No. It was. Surprise. The sea will thrive forevermore,” the sibyl waved her off, the gesture too brusque. The hand it used slipped from the wrist, most of its flesh practically melted by now. Hanne practically choked, both from the sudden stench and from how she could have sworn the sibyl reacted to its vessel's crumbling with a low, disappointed “Aw.”

“I thank you, from the core of my heart, soul, and Existence, for allowing me to converse with you.”

“Conversing would do well. More. If it is to be. Perhaps. Always. Never. This. Was. Nothing,” the sibyl's remaining hand faltered in its grip of its chin. It fell back then, as if it were a boneless bag of skin. “Do—” make more of this.

The body collapsed in full then, becoming little more than a clump of dark green-blue detritus that looked the part of something that had been rotting for centuries.

Her grandmother's glee took the form of laughter, genuine yet somehow unbecoming of an Immortal, all over having been spoken to.

Hanne felt her back slide against the rough texture of the wall, and she sat on the ground, a crumpled mess. “Have I done…?”

“An achievement among achievements, Hanne,” the Chief Speaker grinned. “We could commune with far greater ease like this, beyond what the sibyls above can manage, if only fleetingly.”

Hanne, for her part, could not begin to parse the feeling. “My friend—”

“Enough of that. You heard it yourself—he gets to live. And I provided you with a remedy for the rest, already. If it will put you at ease, leave with the sangsue after I have learned from you. What matters now is what you have created. Come, follow. We must make more. Show me every step. We need not waste another second.”