The church stank of charred wood and ozone.
I stood in the nave, my shoes crunching over shards of stained glass—violet, gold, sapphire—that once depicted saints and constellations. Now they lay like scattered jewels, their light dimmed by the Leviathan's shadow. Claire was on her knees, scrubbing at a bloodstain on the altar with a rag dipped in holy water. Edmund leaned against a pillar, his arms crossed, his new-white hair catching the dawn light.
"You're staring," he said.
I blinked. "At what?"
"At the stars." He nodded upward. The shattered roof gaped like an open wound, revealing a sky still flecked with the Leviathan's residue—glimmers of silver, as if the beast had shed its skin. "They're… different."
I followed his gaze. The stars seemed brighter, sharper, as if someone had polished the heavens. But there was a strangeness to them, too—a faint hum, like a tuning fork struck too hard. My palm tingled, the Ursa Minor constellation glowing faintly beneath my skin.
Claire snorted, not looking up. "You're both mad. Let's focus on the living." She held up a bloodstained ledger. "Father Michael's tally: seven dead, twenty-three injured. The voidspawn left no bodies—just… slime." She shuddered. "The alchemists are burning it. Says it reeks of 'void rot.'"
Edmund grunted. "Good. Rot's better than what comes next."
I tensed. "What comes next?"
He pushed off the pillar, his boots thudding against the debris. "The Leviathan's gone, but it left a mark. A crack in the barrier. And cracks… attract other things." He tapped his temple. "I've seen it before. When the Royal Observatory burned, the voidspawn came in waves. First the little ones. Then the big ones. Then the hungry ones."
Claire froze, her rag slipping from her fingers. "You're saying this isn't over?"
Edmund nodded. "It's never over. The stars are old, Starwatcher. Older than gods. Older than time. And they've got… appetites."
A crash echoed from the tower.
We all froze.
"Stay here," I said, drawing the Astral Pocket Watch from my pocket. Its hands, though cracked, still glowed with a faint blue light. I'd spent the night studying the Stellar Fragments—the book now lay open on the altar, its pages filled with new illustrations: a man (me?) standing beneath a fractured sky, a line connecting his palm to a star.
I climbed the tower stairs, the wood creaking under my weight. At the top, I found the source of the noise: a brass telescope, its lens shattered, lying on the floor. Beside it, a note—penned in a hand I didn't recognize, ink smudged with seawater.
"To the Starwatcher: The Leviathan's eye watches from the deep. The tides remember. The tide will rise."
I crumpled the note. Below, Claire called up, "Zhou? You okay?"
"Fine," I lied. "Just… check the docks. Tell the Night Owl Society to watch for unusual activity."
As I descended, my palm began to itch. The Ursa Minor constellation flared brighter, and I had a sudden, vivid image: the ocean. Waves, black as ink, crashing against the harbor. A shadow beneath them, vast and sinuous, with too many fins.
"The tide will rise."
Port Belen was a city in mourning.
Merchants boarded up windows. Children clutched their mothers' skirts, too afraid to play. The steam clocks, once a symbol of progress, now ticked erratically—some fast, some slow, as if the city itself were holding its breath.
I found Claire at the Black Sparrow Tavern, nursing a pint of gin. Her hair was disheveled, her bracelet missing a cog. "Edmund's gone," she said, not looking up. "Said he had to 'check the alchemists' vaults.' Left this." She slid a folded paper across the table.
It was a map. Old, brittle, marked with red ink: "Site of the Royal Observatory Ruins—1863."
I frowned. "Why would he—"
A scream cut through the noise.
We both froze.
It came from the docks.
We ran.
The harbor stank of dead fish and iron. Dozens of townsfolk clustered around the water, pointing. I pushed through, my heart pounding, and froze.
The sea was boiling.
Black, oily waves crashed against the piers, and in their wake… something. A shape, sinuous and scaled, rising from the depths. Its body was long, like a serpent, with fins that glinted like broken glass. Most disturbing of all, its eyes—two of them, huge and round—stared directly at me.
"The Leviathan's eye," Claire whispered.
The creature let out a low, rumbling roar. The water rippled, and I felt a vibration in my bones—the same vibration as in the church. My palm burned, the Ursa Minor constellation blazing now, hot enough to hurt.
"Run," I said, grabbing Claire's arm.
But she didn't move. Instead, she pulled a small brass whistle from her pocket—the one Edmund had called the "Pigeon Whistle." "The spirit pigeons," she said. "They'll distract it."
She blew.
A high, shrill note cut through the air. From the rooftops, a flock of pigeons erupted—hundreds of them, their wings glinting with a faint, unearthly light. They swarmed the creature, pecking at its eyes, its fins, its scales. It roared, thrashing, but the pigeons were relentless.
I took the opportunity to drag Claire back, but as we ran, the creature's gaze followed me. Its eyes—those eyes—burned with a malevolence that felt personal.
We reached the church just as Edmund barreled out, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. "Got it!" he yelled. "The Eclipse Anchor—it's in the Royal Observatory's vaults. A chunk of void-touched obsidian. It can seal the crack!"
He tossed the satchel to me. It was heavy, cold, and radiated a strange energy.
"What's the catch?" I asked.
Edmund's face was grim. "It requires a sacrifice. Blood. From the Starwatcher."
Claire froze. "Edmund—"
"It's the only way," he said. "The anchor needs a life force to bind to the barrier. Yours. Mine. Doesn't matter. But we need to act now."
I looked at the satchel. At Claire, her face pale but determined. At the boiling sea, where the creature's roars were growing louder.
"The Leviathan's not the only one watching," I said, recalling the note. "If we don't seal the crack, more things will come."
Edmund nodded. "So what's it gonna be, Starwatcher? Bridge… or martyr?"
I thought of the dockworkers. Of Edmund's locket. Of Claire's star-pigeons, their wings still glowing.
"I'll do it," I said.
Claire grabbed my hand. "No. Wait—"
"Do you trust me?" I asked.
She hesitated, then nodded.
I unsheathed the Astral Pocket Watch, its hands spinning wildly. The Eclipse Anchor pulsed in the satchel, matching its rhythm. I pressed the watch to my chest, feeling its cold metal sear my skin.
"Now," I said.
Edmund sliced my palm with a dagger. Blood dripped onto the anchor, sizzling like acid. The satchel glowed, and I felt a surge of energy—old, vast, and angry.
The creature on the harbor roared, its body contorting as if in pain. The sea calmed, the waves receding.
But the pain in my chest was unbearable. I fell to my knees, gasping. Claire caught me, her tears falling on my face.
"It's okay," I whispered. "We did it."
But as the light faded from my eyes, I saw something else.
In the distance, beyond the harbor, a shadow loomed. Larger than the creature. Older. And it was smiling.