The sea had never truly slept, not even after the serpent's corpse had sunk to the ocean floor. For days, the waves rolled with a strange restlessness, carrying the stench of rot and oil, and the ghostly echoes of a thousand drowned voices.
In Frostfang, fear and hope lived side by side, feeding on each other. Aldric's soldiers drilled through mud and frost until their hands blistered and bled, forging their courage like steel. But every night, strange lights danced upon the sea — a baleful green glow that set men's teeth on edge, as though the dead themselves were prowling the deep.
Rowena stood upon the outer wall, bow in hand, scanning that shifting horizon. The breeze tangled her hair, carrying the acrid tang of salt and something fouler, something she could not name. A shudder went through her, like a blade drawn across the spine.
Something comes, she thought.
---
A Call from the Deep
Torven was the first to see the sails.
He had been patching a battered skiff with pine tar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, when the cry went up from the crows' nest. He looked, squinting against the morning sun — and there, far across the water, a silhouette moved.
A ship — if it could be called that — drifting closer on torn black sails, its mast a twisted spire of bone lashed together with kelp. It moved almost without wind, like a beast creeping on silent paws.
Torven felt the hair on his neck stand straight. "Rowena!" he bellowed. "Fetch the king — now!"
The alarm bells rang, harsh and jarring, and the soldiers scrambled to arms.
When Aldric arrived at the rampart, he took one look at that monstrous vessel and felt an ancient, bone-deep dread. The ship seemed woven from nightmares — a figurehead carved like a weeping woman, chained in agony, with ruby eyes that glowed even in daylight.
Kaelin came to stand beside him, her hammer hefted on one broad shoulder. "What manner of horror is this?"
Rowena's voice was cold as a glacier. "Witchcraft."
Aldric set his jaw. "Then we will burn her out."
---
The Witch Appears
The ship slipped into Frostfang's outer harbor without a sound. Its anchor was nothing more than a length of rusted chain tangled in seaweed, crashing against the docks with a hollow, lifeless clatter.
And then — the witch stepped ashore.
Her hair was white as sea-foam, cascading around her shoulders in thick, clotted strands. Her robes clung to her like a drowned shroud, stitched with shells and bones that rattled as she walked. In one hand, she carried a staff crowned with a bleached skull, the other hand wrapped in chains that seemed to move of their own accord, whispering in voices no living tongue could understand.
Soldiers flinched at the sight of her, stepping back with the sign of warding pressed to their chests.
But Aldric stood firm, sword half-drawn. "Name yourself!" he commanded.
The witch stopped at the dock's end, her eyes twin pools of black water. When she spoke, her voice was like wind howling through the ribs of a shipwreck.
"I am Maerlyn, daughter of the Abyss. I bring word."
Kaelin spat on the stones. "No witch has business here."
Maerlyn raised a single, skeletal finger, and a hush fell over the entire harbor, as if even the sea itself listened.
"You have slain the serpent," she rasped, "but you have awoken worse things. The ocean stirs. Its lords remember. And they will come."
Aldric stepped forward. "And you? Are you one of them?"
The witch's mouth curled in a smile that made the blood run cold. "No, wolf-king. I am their enemy."
---
A Bargain in Shadows
In the Great Hall of Frostfang, they made her speak her truths. Torches burned high, chasing the shadows into corners, but Maerlyn seemed to carry her own night around her, swallowing every flame.
She told them of the Reaver lords, who had once bound the serpent with iron runes, keeping it leashed. Its death had snapped those chains — and now darker powers were unbound.
"They will rise from the deepest trenches," Maerlyn warned, "from cities older than your oldest bones. They will drown this world."
Rowena met the witch's gaze unflinching. "Why warn us?"
Maerlyn lifted her staff, coral crusting its shaft like tumors. "Because I would see them fall."
Aldric's eyes narrowed. "And what price do you demand?"
The witch bared her teeth — a ragged, predatory grin. "Blood. Your blood, wolf-king. An oath, sealed in your heart, that you will fight them without mercy."
Kaelin snorted. "If it's slaughter you want, you'll have no shortage of blades."
But Maerlyn shook her head. "Not just blades. You will need sorcery. The sea cannot be defeated with iron alone."
---
The Iron Oath
That night, Aldric stood alone on the battlements, wrestling with the weight of the witch's bargain. The cold gnawed at his fingers, but his thoughts burned hotter than any forge.
Rowena found him there, stepping softly across the stone. "You don't trust her," she said.
"Should I?"
Rowena sighed. "Trust is for children and priests. But the sea is vast, Aldric. If this Maerlyn speaks truth, we need her."
He clenched a fist. "I would sooner carve out my own heart than make a pact with a witch."
"Then carve it out," Rowena said, fierce and unyielding, "but carve it for us. Because we will die if you do not."
Her words cut him, cleaner than any blade.
Aldric looked at the rolling sea, heard its distant roar. Finally, he spoke:
"Bring her to me."
---
The Pact
Beneath the stars, on the broken flagstones of Frostfang's courtyard, Maerlyn stood with the king. Soldiers watched in terrified silence.
She drew a dagger carved from a shark's jawbone, its edge honed to a pale gleam. Aldric did not flinch as she sliced a shallow line across his palm, then pressed her own bloodied hand to his.
"By salt and bone," she intoned, "by the memory of the drowned, I bind you to this war."
Aldric felt a rush, as if the ocean itself had taken root in his veins, cold and merciless.
Maerlyn's grin returned, wolfish and hungry. "Now, wolf-king, you are mine."
Aldric pulled his hand free, voice steady. "No, witch. We are yours — but you are ours, too."
The witch laughed, a hideous sound, half joy, half madness.
"So be it," she whispered.
---
Storm-Summoned
Days passed in grim preparation. Maerlyn's knowledge was terrifying, yet desperately needed. She taught Aldric's mages to weave nets of runes that might catch things with no flesh, only hate. She taught Kaelin how to bless her hammer with storm-iron so it would never rust or break, even against scales harder than any shield.
And she taught Rowena secret words of binding, words that would twist through the sea's currents and turn them aside, should the waves rise against Frostfang's walls.
The soldiers trained harder than ever, for they felt in their bones that something vast and ruinous was coming. The wind carried strange songs from the horizon, and in every dream, they saw cities drowned, towers toppled, and the sea swallowing the land.
Aldric barely slept. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Maerlyn's ship drifting closer, always closer, even when he knew it was anchored. The knowledge of what he had promised gnawed at him, cold and poisonous.
---
The Black Shoals
And then, at last, came the night Maerlyn had warned of.
The sea turned to ink beneath a churning sky, the waves boiling with an unnatural fury.
From the deeps rose ships — dozens, no, hundreds, manned by sailors who should have rotted centuries ago, their faces green with slime, their weapons bright with rust but still sharp enough to kill.
They carried banners sewn from skin, their masts crowned with the severed heads of those who had dared defy them.
Aldric stood upon the tower of Frostfang, his sword bright in the stormlight.
Kaelin to his right.
Rowena to his left.
Maerlyn behind, her staff aglow with a sickly blue flame.
The sea had come to claim them.
But they would stand.
---
The Wolves Howl
Aldric raised his sword high, and his voice cut through wind and wave:
"FOR FROSTFANG!"
The warriors roared, shields slamming together in a thunder that rivaled the sky.
Rowena loosed the first arrow, blessed with Maerlyn's dark sorcery. It struck a drowned captain between the eyes, and the creature fell screaming, flesh boiling like wax.
Kaelin leapt from the walls, hammer blazing with stormfire, shattering the first boarding ladder in a spray of splinters.
Torven's new warships surged from the harbor, iron-shod rams splitting the undead fleet like glass. Sailors screamed battle hymns, their blades singing with the fury of a people who would not bow.
From the ramparts to the surf, Frostfang burned with the unbreakable light of defiance.
---
The Witch's Fury
At the heart of it all, Maerlyn raised her staff to the storm. Lightning answered, dancing down the shaft in jagged silver threads. With a single word, she unleashed its power — and the ocean exploded, waves crashing down upon the drowned ships, crushing them into nothing but shattered planks and bone.
The smell of charred brine filled the air, and the witch laughed, a terrible, triumphant sound that rattled the very stones of Frostfang.
---
The Battle Joined
Aldric fought like a wolf unleashed, sword rising and falling in a dance of death. Every foe he struck, he named, so their memories would not be lost to the deep.
Rowena fought at his side, bowstring snapping, eyes bright with a fury that could rival the sea's own rage.
Kaelin broke line after line of undead, hammer ringing like a war-bell, refusing to let the tide sweep them away.
The drowned hordes came on and on, endless, relentless, but Frostfang held.
As dawn broke, red and savage, the sea retreated at last, dragging its dead behind it.
And in that blood-soaked silence, the wolves howled their victory to the dark, swearing that Frostfang would never fall.