The *Imperator’s Fist* settled its vast iron bulk into the churned earth, its hull plates groaning like stressed girders. From its elevated command deck, a figure emerged, dwarfing the dozen elite guards flanking him. Grand Admiral Varkos, a man whose face was lined with old dueling scars and whose tunic sagged under tiers of bronze medals, stared down at the burgeoning temple-fortress with contempt. His gaze swept over the hastily erected but undeniably sturdy defenses, then landed with predatory precision on Inessa, who stood beside Teymour, her hand resting on the hilt of her now-idle sword. A heavy gauntlet, forged of dark steel, slammed onto the polished rail of his ship.
“Inquisitor Voran!” Varkos’s voice, amplified by a magi-horn, boomed across the lake, rattling the newly placed stones of the bulwark. “You stand in open rebellion! The Emperor demands your immediate surrender, and your head as recompense for your treasonous alliance with this... river-dwelling hobo!”
Despina bristled, clutching a small, unlit lantern by its brass bail. “He is a god, you blasphemous oaf! Our benevolent patron, Teymour!”
Varkos merely sneered, his eyes narrowing on Inessa. “The Emperor’s justice is swift, Voran. And painful. As for your ‘god’,” he gestured dismissively at Teymour, who was examining a stray pebble on the shore with intense concentration, “he will be vaporized alongside this pathetic monument to your delusion. Cannoneers! Lock targeting systems onto the central structure! Full volley on my mark!”
Around the flagship, the rest of the Grand Fleet, perhaps twenty ironclad vessels that had pushed through the forest behind the *Fist*, began to turn, their broadside batteries whirring into position. The air thrummed as focusing crystals hummed to life, flaring with cold, inner phosphorus. A collective intake of breath broke from the assembled followers behind Despina, several falling back against the raw stonework.
Inessa shifted her footing against the gravel. She knew the power of a Trezantine Grand Fleet volley. It could scour a mountain range clean. The perimeter, despite its rapid construction, would be reduced to gravel.
“Wait!” A voice, surprisingly clear and resolute, cut through the mounting tension. Garek Vond stepped forward from the shadows of the bulwark, a small, intricate device held aloft. It looked like a complicated brass orb, etched with minuscule glyphs. He had been quietly working on it since retrieving it from the crashed *Ironclad Serpent*.
Varkos scoffed. “Who is this insignificant whelp? Another one of your cultists, Voran?”
Garek ignored him, his fingers flying across the device’s surface. He pressed a final rune, and the orb pulsed with a sickly green light. A moment later, a chorus of groans and sparks erupted from the fleet. The arcane crystals on every warship flickered, sputtered, and died. The mechanical grind of gun turrets ceased, replaced by the distressed shouts of naval engineers.
“What in the blazes?!” Varkos roared, slamming his fist on the railing again. “Report! What happened to the main guns?!”
An officer, pale and trembling, leaned into a comms unit. “Commander! All firing circuits... offline! Someone initiated a full-spectrum code override! We’re locked out, sir! We can’t fire!”
Garek allowed himself a thin grin. “Those codes were straightforward to retrieve, sir. From your last *Ironclad Serpent*, as it happens. You might want to update your security protocols. Or perhaps, simply not crash your ships so often.”
The commander's cheeks darkened to mottled plum. He glowered at Garek, then at Inessa, then at the entirely oblivious Teymour, who had now found a particularly shiny rock and was trying to skip it across the lake. His chest rose and fell beneath his medals.
“You insolent worms!” he bellowed, his voice raw. “You think you’ve won? You think you can stop the Empire’s might with a parlor trick?” He pointed a shaking finger at the lake. “The Empire needs this water! And if I cannot blast your temple to ruins, I will simply drain your cursed pond dry!”
He spun around, grabbing a lever set into the command console. “Engineers! Override all safety protocols! Divert all available power to the water pumps! Activate the hydro-siphons! Max flow! Drain this lake, and let the corruption consume you all!”
Despina cried out, “No! Teymour’s sacred waters!”
A deep, earth-shaking rumble began beneath the fleet. Massive pipes, thicker than a man’s torso, unfolded from the undersides of the warships, plunging into the tranquil lake. With a deafening whine, the industrial pumps engaged. The water, which had been lapping gently against the bulwark moments before, began to recede with horrifying speed. Ripples became currents, currents became a frantic pull, dragging at anything not rooted firmly to the shore. Within seconds, meters of water vanished, exposing slick, muddy lakebed. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something acrid, metallic.
“He’s doing it!” Inessa shouted, stepping toward the churning bank. “He’s draining it too fast!”
As the water level plummeted, the ground in the center of the now rapidly shrinking lake began to churn violently. A sickening squelch echoed across the chasm where the lake had been, a sound that spoke of things ancient and foul being disturbed. A geyser of pitch-black muck erupted from the exposed lakebed, spraying a noxious mist into the air. The ooze coalesced, gathering mass, rising higher and higher into an immense silhouette. It was Osenya, but twisted, expanded, consumed by the very curse he had fought so long to contain. His shape, once scarred but recognizably humanoid, was now a towering column of sentient tar, dozens of paces tall, crowned with a single crimson aperture burning through the mire. The released rot discharged a silent shockwave that resonated directly in the minds of all who witnessed it.
The ground beneath Inessa’s feet trembled. Teymour, momentarily distracted from his rock-skipping, frowned at the sudden appearance of the enormous, angry mud monster. Before he could react, an enormous tendril of black mire whipped outward from the entity, lashing through the mist. It swept across the receding shore, bypassing the terrified soldiers and followers, striking with terrifying accuracy. It wrapped around Inessa’s waist, buckling the steel of her breastplate and wrenching her off her feet. She cried out, her hand reaching for Teymour, but the momentum was too great. The surging mire pulled her into its churning, toxic mass. Her last sight was Teymour, still frowning, reaching out with a hand that seemed too slow. Then the black sediment closed over her, pulling her under the churning surface of the basin.