The sea lapped gently against the worn wooden docks. For Henry, though, the world around him faded into silence, drowned out by the thunder of his triumph. Darkness enveloped him, illuminated by the light of lanterns and torches.

Their glow danced across the harbor, casting jagged shadows that twisted and turned. This heightened the tension in the air. Henry's boots struck the dock rhythmically, each step deliberate and heavy with purpose.

His men, the few who had survived the chaos, stood in a tight formation around the captives, their expressions hardened and watchful. Behind him, his ships loomed like predators ready to strike, dark silhouettes against the moonlight.

And then, there she was.

Arieshell.

She hung suspended in a thick glass tank, partially filled with seawater that swirled around her like a mystical cradle. Her long hair floated gracefully, cascading around her like ribbons of black ink bleeding into blue. Despite the liquid rising to her shoulders, her gaze remained fierce and unwavering, full of a dry intensity that belied her confinement.

Henry felt his breath catch as he leaned closer to the tank, his reflection rippling against the glass. Pressing a gloved palm against it, the icy surface varied with the heat of emotion burning inside him.

"Do you feel it?" he murmured, his voice low and conspiratorial. "The tide shifting?"

Nearby, Gus writhed in chains, his wrists raw and bloody, a gag muffling his growls of defiance. Fury burned in his eyes, but Henry offered him only a glance, knowing the real prize was not him but the woman floating in the tank like a storm craving release.

Jacques lay crumpled against the base of the tower ladder, unconscious and vulnerable. His face was stained with dried blood, and his shirt clung damply to his body. A pair of guards hovered over him, anxious but unaware he posed no immediate threat. His breath was shallow, barely audible against the night.

All eyes were on Arieshell. Awake. Confined. She radiated a power that seemed to vibrate in the air around her.

Henry turned from the glass, altering his demeanor as he addressed his men and the prisoners, gesturing like a conductor guiding an orchestra preparing for a grand performance.

"They thought they could cage me," he declared, his voice steady as he stretched his arms wide as if to embrace the inundating darkness. "But the sea remembers who it served first."

Silence enveloped his soldiers, an electric charge hanging in the air, as if even the creatures caged behind them—the siren owls, their feathers glimmering like lost dreams; the scaled ravens, their emerald eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom; the jungle wolves, wild and restless—paused in reverence, aware of the weight of his words.

Then came the truth—an unsettling clarity bloomed within him.

"I could end them all," he whispered, the thought igniting a fire in his chest.

It was a righteous flame, ancient and raw. With Arieshell's voice tantalizingly within reach and Ambudhi's blood swirling nearby, the essence of power coiled around him like a serpent ready to strike. He felt dominion over the tides, over men, over the fabric of memory itself.

From the shadows, a guard approached, his helmet tucked under one arm, apprehension written on his face.

"Your Majesty," he said carefully, choosing his words with care. "We scoured the hills and the jungle... the girl—Belle—she's nowhere to be found."

Henry blinked slowly, absorbing the information, then a dark smile spread across his lips, promising something thrilling and terrifying."Let her run," he stated plainly.

The guard hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "But—"

"She was never the tide," Henry replied, his tone chilling and resolute. "Just driftwood."

He turned back to the tank, where Arieshell floated, a tempest ready to unleash its fury on the world.

"But this," he pronounced softly, awash with awe, "is merely the beginning."

In that moment, as anticipation thrummed in the surrounding air, he understood what came next, wrapped in danger and possibility, ready to set everything into motion.

The sky fractured open, a single sliver of sunlight piercing the heavy clouds and illuminating the platform beneath Henry's feet—his stage, set against a tumultuous sea. As he ascended the ultimate step, the air crackled with anticipation, and he reveled in the profound silence enveloping the port.

Normally alive with the noise of merchants haggling, crates clanking, and seabirds crying through the salty breeze, the atmosphere now resonated with a sacred hush. Every soldier, every loyalist, every witness stared at him, just as it should be.

And then he saw her.

Suspended majestically at the center of the platform was the tank—an unsettling monument of glass and iron, shimmering with ocean hues, filled with brine that glowed faintly blue and cast a surreal light around. Inside, the siren floated—a vision of captivating beauty and haunting sadness.

Her hair spilled like ink against the water, and her eyes, barely open, held the weight of unfathomable depths. Her arms hung languidly at her sides. Even in stillness, she wielded power, stirring the water with subtle, rhythmic pulses—tides of something sacred yet irrevocably broken.

Henry's lips curled into a smile—not one of warmth, but a calculating smirk.

"The sea once defied kings," he shouted, his voice sharp and clear, slicing through the heavy quiet that cloaked the crowd. "But today..."

He turned slowly, his arms raised like a prophet delivering ominous news."...it kneels."

Cheers erupted from the crowd, initially hesitant but quickly swelling into a frantic roar. It didn't matter that they didn't grasp the full weight of what they cheered for. Power, after all, was a performance, a grand spectacle, with Henry as the lead actor commanding the stage.

His boots echoed ominously as he paced the length of the scaffold, each step a demonstration of control. At the foot of the wooden structure knelt two men, shackled and exposed like forsaken souls waiting for judgment: one seething with anger, the other a broken shell of defiance.

Jacques lay still, his head bowed, blood drying against his temple—a crimson testament to Henry's meticulous hand. Silence was a luxury Henry had allowed himself, a stillness he preferred to maintain.

But Gus—Gus was a blaze refusing to be extinguished.

His molten gaze met Henry's with fierce contempt, a wildfire of rebellion unyielding in its intensity. When Henry approached the edge of the platform, Gus spat near his boot, the act dripping with disdain.

"You think she'll let you do this?" Gus said, his voice a menacing growl. "You think this ends with you in control?"

Henry cast a downward glance at the defiant sailor before allowing a cold, tight smile to appear on his face.

"I don't think, sailor. I know."

With that, he pivoted sharply and strode back toward the tank, the sea now firmly under his command.

To his right, flanked by armored guards, stood the princes of the Southern Deep. Abijam's arms were bound, his posture faltering yet still refusing to break. Henry noted every subtle tremor, the way Abijam's jaw clenched each time his gaze flickered toward Arieshell.

Ambudhi remained silent, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on the tank. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. Watching the siren was like witnessing a beloved daughter suffer, his heart heavy with unexpressed sorrow.

Henry leaned closer to them, his voice a dark whisper meant only for their ears.

"You lost her the moment she chose the surface—the moment she willingly gave her heart to a man like him."

Abijam's eyes widened in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

Henry refrained from answering, allowing a grin to grace his lips as he stepped away, relishing the chaos he had sown.

"It's strange, isn't it?" he called over his shoulder, his tone laced with mockery. "How the strongest voices are always silenced first."

On the outskirts of the thrumming crowd, distanced from the chanting soldiers, stood Ebenezer Price. Unmoved, he did not gaze upon the king or the spectacle unfolding before him. Instead, his focus lay on the water—its flickers, the way the salt shimmered unnaturally long after Arieshell shifted in her tank.

His brow furrowed with concern. As a seasoned overseer of mines, metals, and men, he had seen too many lies hide the truth. He sensed when something was wrong.

Yet no one else noticed. No one else cared.

Henry didn't notice Ebenezer's gaze, or perhaps he decided to disregard it. The crowd erupted in cheers again, and Henry reveled in their adoration, intoxicated by their fervent devotion.

The girl in the tank, once a master of the tides, now existed as a mere shadow of her former self, submissive to him.

The wind changed direction, bringing a chill from the waves, along with a metallic scent that thrilled Henry. The time for pleasantries was over; now was the time for action. He pivoted to face the royal couple, soldiers standing like sentinels beside them. Ambudhi and Abijam remained silent in the chaos.

"You," Henry began, his voice cutting through the noise with unsettling clarity, "will give me what I need."

A hush fell over the crowd. Heads turned in unison to witness the confrontation.

"A single scale," he declared dramatically, gesturing mockingly toward King Ambudhi. "Just one token. That's all I ask. A scale from your ocean-born form to complete the siphon, to bind her voice to mine—forever."

The cruelty in his smile was unmistakable. Ambudhi's expression stayed stoic, stone-faced, and unwavering.

Henry moved closer, his cloak billowing in the breeze, heightening his menace. "You can either give it to me willingly," he taunted, "or I'll summon the sea to take it from you."

Murmurs spread through the crowd, soldiers shifting uneasily. Even some of Henry's men exchanged worried glances.

Still, Ambudhi remained silent, his jaw tightening under the weight of the moment. Henry signaled to one guard, who stepped forward with a wooden bucket filled with shimmering seawater.

The water vibrated with an otherworldly light, alive and charged. With a reverent gesture, Henry held it high, turning back to face the siren king.

"This is mercy," he declared. "Offer yourself willingly. But I can help... if only pride wouldn't chain you."

He suspended the bucket in the air—both a threat and an invitation. Then, from among the guards, Abijam stepped forward, positioning himself protectively in front of his father.

His voice was low but determined, cutting through the tension. "Don't do this. Father, don't let them. They'll tear you apart if you resist. You know what that water will do."

Ambudhi's gaze flicked to his son—stern, tormented, but resolute. "Then let them," he replied quietly. "I won't surrender my soul."

Henry's patience snapped. Without hesitation, he tilted the bucket, letting the water pour out. The splash hit Ambudhi like a bolt of fire. His body convulsed, a cry trapped in his throat.

Transformation surged painfully as scales erupted through flesh, their silver and green shimmering grotesquely. Gills opened violently, expelling the remnants of his humanity.

He fell, not dramatically, but like a man crumpling at the feet of his enemy. Henry knelt beside the fallen king, his knee sinking into the salt, and with two fingers, he plucked a single iridescent scale from beneath Ambudhi's ribs. It sparkled in his palm like a gem taken from the depths. He raised it high for all to see.

"And so the sea submits," he proclaimed, "scale by scale, drop by drop."

Cheers erupted, but this time they felt smaller, distant, and tinged with uncertainty.

Below, Gus, still bound in chains, lurched forward with a roar. "You bloody parasite!"

But the chains held firm. Above him, in the glass tank, Arieshell pounded her fists against the wall, her face a mask of silent horror. Her voice—her power—trapped beneath the surface. Henry turned, tucking the precious scale into his pocket with a strange mix of reverence and triumph. He had what he needed now.

Everything... except restraint.

The air crackled with tension as Henry stood at the edge of the platform, displaying Ambudhi's iridescent scale like a prized trophy, its colors shimmering in the fading light. The crowd before him—a mix of soldiers, captives, and curious onlookers—watched with dread and fascination. The gentle waves turned sinister, inviting shadows to coil around the docks.

"Thank you, dear sea," Henry sneered, his lips curling into a wicked smile. "A gift from the depths. How truly honored I am." His voice cut through the thick silence, sharp as a blade.

With theatrical flair, he let the scale slip from his fingers, rolling it onto his tongue. He chewed deliberately, savoring each crunch as if he were consuming a revered sacrament. The taste—salty and metallic—sent a thrill through him, invoking both revulsion and exhilaration. Energy surged. A fierce jolt shot through his veins and clouded his vision.

In an instant, he collapsed onto the wooden deck, his body convulsing as waves of transformation crashed over him. Everything around him faded into a blurry haze, leaving only a growing dark force within, pulsing with ancient power.

His skin turned ghostly pale, intricate veins snaking across his body like dark rivers, pulsing with newfound life. Henry's pupils expanded, swallowing the whites of his eyes, leaving only a pitch-black abyss. From that void came a voice, echoing within him—a voice not of Henry, but of Labyrinth, the ancient warlock, long buried beneath the waves of time.

As flesh twisted and reshaped, Labyrinth overtook the man once known, cloaked in a hood as dark as midnight. Gasps erupted from the crowd, waves of horror sweeping through them. The air trembled with fear, and even the sea seemed to bow before this long-dormant power awakening.

The docks shook beneath their feet, while the restless waves calmed, honoring their returning master. Soldiers, once vibrant and defiant, fell to their knees, weapons slipping from their grips as a disorienting fog engulfed them, yielding them to Labyrinth's thrall.

In her tank, Arieshell stirred, wide-eyed and stricken as the water darkened, swirling into an ominous black. The transformation happening within Henry—now Labyrinth—stirred a primal fear deep inside her, a haunting echo of a time when she had felt such raw, unfettered power.

From deep within, Labyrinth's voice boomed like thunder: "The tides remember their master. And now, so shall you."

His presence washed over the harbor, casting an eerie shadow that warned of the chaos yet to come. No longer a mere whisper of legend, Labyrinth emerged as a formidable, mythic force, and his reign was beginning.

As the storm rolled in, dark clouds churned overhead, casting shadows over the port docks where Henry stood, now fully transformed into Labyrinth. A warlock of pure evil, his hands glowed with a damp, coiled magic pulsing with the heartbeat of the ocean. The air turned electric and foreboding, as if the heavens themselves bowed to the power he had unleashed.

His voice thundered across the docks, now more than human, but the voice of the tides—a booming, guttural echo that resonated with ancient grief and despair. "Return to me, daughter of the water. The sea does not forget its own."

Inside her glass prison, Arieshell's tank trembled violently. Water surged and swirled, forming a cyclone that defied gravity, whipping fiercely in response to Labrynth's call. Jacques lay unconscious, oblivious to the chaos, while Gus frantically tried to open the enchanted mechanism, but to no effect; the glass remained impenetrable, bound by Labrynth's command.

Tears of fury and heartbreak filled Arieshell's eyes as she reached out for Jacques through the swirling water, her heart torn apart. Yet, the depths responded to Labyrinth, not to her.

With a final, commanding sweep of his arm, Labyrinth summoned the ocean's might, sending a massive tendril of water spiraling up, wrapping around Arieshell's glass tank like a serpent enclosing its prey. In one swift, merciless motion, it yanked her from her prison, dragging her down into the unfathomable sea like a stolen treasure, her cry lost in the roar of the waves.

Gus and Abijam erupted into frantic screams, calling her name as the waters receded, leaving the docks eerily silent, save for the ominous echo of Labyrinth's laughter.

Calm and cruel, Labyrinth surveyed his stunned soldiers, a horrifying glow illuminating his features. "Let the boy suffer. Let them all suffer," he declared, ancient power surging through him. "This kingdom has forgotten who I am. They will remember."

With a crashing wave, he vanished into the depths, leaving not just the crew shattered and hopeless, but the sky fractured—a harbinger of the despair that would reign in the absence of Arieshell.