Chapter 8: The Depths of Truth
Lydia stood at the edge of the sea, the cold salt air licking her skin, her heart pounding with the weight of the decision she had made. The storm above had calmed, but the air felt thick with anticipation, as if the ocean itself was holding its breath, waiting for her to make her move.
The man—he had told her everything she needed to know, or so he claimed. She could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the guilt that clung to him like the very water he had been born from. But none of that mattered now. She had already made her choice. The cathedral, submerged beneath the waves, held the answers she sought, and it was there that she would find the key to breaking the curse.
With every step she took toward the water, the sound of the waves seemed to grow louder, more insistent. They crashed against the shore like an endless, rhythmic warning. The drowning roar of the ocean threatened to swallow her whole. But she couldn’t turn back now. She had already come too far.
The memories of the drowned souls, their faces twisted in agony, haunted her thoughts. Each one of them had been a victim of the same curse that had claimed the man who now stood behind her, watching in silence. She couldn’t help them all—she knew that—but she could end it. She could stop the cycle of vengeance and suffering. If she was strong enough.
Her feet sank into the wet sand as she waded deeper into the surf. The water lapped at her ankles, then her knees, then her waist. The chill seeped into her bones, the cold wrapping around her like an old, familiar cloak. But it wasn’t the cold that unnerved her—it was the darkness. The deeper she waded, the darker the water became. It wasn’t the color of the sea at all; it was the water itself, as though something was pulling the light from her very surroundings. The shadows seemed to stretch out from the depths, reaching toward her like tendrils of a long-forgotten nightmare.
The whispers began again, faint at first, like the soft murmur of voices lost to time. As she pressed on, the sound grew louder, until they surrounded her, drowning out everything else. She could almost make out words now, but they were distorted, fractured—an amalgamation of grief and anger, regret and hunger. It was a chorus of souls who had drowned long ago, still crying out for justice, still bound by the wrath of the sea.
And then, she saw it. Rising from the dark waters, the outline of the cathedral loomed before her like a broken sentinel. Its jagged spires pierced the sky, but it was not the towering structure she had imagined. The stone had been worn away by centuries of salt and wind, twisted and eroded by the relentless tide. The once grand church was now a ruin, a ghost of its former self, but the magic—the curse—remained, coiled like a serpent beneath its decaying walls.
Lydia felt a strange pull in her chest, as if the cathedral itself were calling her. She hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward. The cold water reached her chest, then her shoulders, until it was over her head, pulling her down into its depths.
And then—silence.
For a moment, Lydia felt suspended in time. The darkness around her was absolute, the water a suffocating embrace. Her breath caught in her throat, but there was no panic. There was no fear. It was as though the ocean had swallowed her whole and she had become part of it, a single drop in an endless, undulating sea.
She opened her eyes, and through the murky water, she saw it: the cathedral, submerged and abandoned. The once holy place had become a tomb, a grave for the souls trapped within its walls. The stained glass windows, now cracked and warped, seemed to shimmer faintly beneath the surface, casting eerie, fractured reflections on the water around her. The altar stood at the far end, surrounded by skeletal remains of long-dead priests and worshippers. The scent of decay and salt filled her nostrils, mingling with the soundless whispers of those who had perished.
But among the rubble, there was something else. A shadow. A shape that did not belong to the cathedral. Lydia’s pulse quickened as the figure seemed to shift, emerging from the darkened corners of the church. It was tall, its form vaguely human, but distorted—twisted, as though it had been bent out of shape by the very ocean itself. Its eyes—if they could even be called eyes—glowed with an unnatural, otherworldly light.
It was one of the drowned souls.
The creature moved slowly toward her, its body twisting unnaturally as it glided across the water, the sound of its movements muffled beneath the crashing waves. Lydia could feel the coldness of its presence, the weight of its ancient wrath pressing against her like a physical force. It was angry. Angry at her, at all who had dared to disturb the silence of the deep.
“You should not have come,” the creature whispered, its voice a rasping echo of the wind. “The curse is not yours to break.”
Lydia stood frozen, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. “I didn’t come to break it. I came to end it.”
The creature’s laugh was a hollow, empty sound, like the rattling of bones in the depths. “You think you can end it? You think you can escape the depths? The pact is not yours to sever. You cannot change the tide of fate.”
But Lydia did not flinch. She had already made her decision. She had already seen too much, learned too much to turn back now.
The creature lunged at her, its form a blur of shadow and water. But just as it reached her, the world seemed to freeze. The water stopped moving. The cathedral around her began to disintegrate, its stone crumbling away, dissolving like ash in the current. The darkness lifted, revealing a vision of the past—a time when the cathedral had been whole, standing tall against the sky, untouched by the sea’s rage.
And then, she saw him. The man who had once been bound to the cathedral, standing at the altar, his face filled with sorrow. The pact had been made, long ago, and he had been its first victim. His eyes met hers, filled with a silent plea.
“You are the last,” he said, his voice echoing in her mind. “The last to undo what we began. You must face the truth and end it.”
The vision faded, and Lydia found herself standing at the altar, the creature gone. The water around her had become still, and in the silence, she knew the truth. The pact was not merely a curse—it was a cycle, one that could never truly be broken. But there was a way to end it.
Lydia closed her eyes and reached for the altar, her fingers brushing against the cold stone. She spoke the words that had been given to her, the final words of the curse. And as she did, the water began to recede, the cathedral slowly rising from the depths, freed at last from the ocean’s grip.
But as the waves pulled back, she knew—she had not escaped the sea. The sea had never truly let her go.
