Climbing through three upright leagues of ocean is not a return to life. It’s a controlled retreat from a headsman who holds your blood hostage.
The heat-rising heat plume that had launched them from the crumbling ruins of the First High court carried them upward through the hadal deep pit at terrifying speed. For the first two thousand deep-water lengths, the water was a blur of black ink, living-glow flares, and the screaming roar of white-hot water rushing toward the mantle’s cold ceiling.
Then, at three thousand deep-water lengths—the boundary where the hadal rift gave way to the vast deep-sea plain—the heat upwelling faded away into the freezing deep-sea currents.
“Drogues out!” Deep-Diver Ren bellowed through the brass fittings.
The smuggler didn’t wait for Ren to respond. Reaching behind his back, Deep-Diver kicked free two heavy canvas sea drogues from his salvage harness. The parachutes of tarred sailcloth caught the rushing water with a violent, shuddering snap, arresting their positive floating lift like an iron brake slammed against a locomotive wheel.
The sudden slowdown jerked Ren against the tow-harness, the hemp thick ship rope digging deep into his ribs. Through his gum mouthpiece, he tasted copper.
“Why are we stopping?” Ren gasped, his knuckles white around the gold-silver metal rim of the Speculum. “The shelf collapsed! If the Spire fleet is dropping depth charges—”
