The Dead Sea was well named. Its waters, ink-black beneath the grey sky, reflected no light. No fish swam there. No bird flew over it. Morvena took the helm as soon as they left port, guiding their ship toward a sunken wreck — the temple of Sylphides, sunk during the supreme battle.

Elyndra conjured a bubble of air. They dove. The descent was slow, silent, oppressive. The black water swallowed all light. Indistinct shapes glided through the darkness. The temple rose like a ghost — columns covered in black algae, broken statues, and a massive door engraved with a wave entwined with a serpent.

Inside, the temple was intact but desecrated. The face of Sylphides defaced with the seal of Shabakan. The altar empty.

— The blade is not here, said Grundar, incredulous.

— Of course it is not here, a voice echoed behind them.

Members of the Red Force emerged from the shadows. Vargath, their leader, claimed the tribute of Héréclès the Bloody. The fight was brutal and bloody. Then Vargath cut the arm of each warrior — a red scar in the shape of a serpent entwined with a dagger, the seal of Héréclès.

— I have marked you. Héréclès the Bloody watches you now. Wherever you go, whatever you do, the god of blood will know. And when the time comes, he will claim his due.

He threw down a blackened parchment.

— The blade lies on the isle of Whirr, in the old atíum mines. The Tessarians of Darkness stole it a century ago.

Then Vargath and his assassins vanished into the shadows, dissolving like smoke.

— We are cursed, Aelith murmured, staring at the mark on her arm. We bear the seal of the god of blood.