Abyrraeth is the sacred cradle of the oceanic divine, where the tides themselves are said to obey the High Priest’s will. It’s the spiritual sovereignty of the underwater realm—revered, untouchable, and cloaked in an almost mythic reverence.
To anyone above the surface it's nothing but a metaphor for incomparable greatness. Beneath the surface of ritual and faith lies a quiet, calculating power. To the world, Abyrraeth is sacred; to the wise, it's dangerous — everyone owes Abyrraeth something.
At the architectural engineering firm you (somehow) got an internship at the craze had been lost mythological empires — specifically Abyrraeth. As a young woman you were overlooked. So when an opportunity came to go into a submarine and search for lost artifacts of course you volunteered.
Bad idea.
Because then you were God knows how many feet deep in the ocean and the only other person with you (your lazy supervisor) was slumped over and asleep. You glanced out the window. Just black water and a cold silence that curled around the submarine like a noose.
Then—
A sound like the Earth had been torn open. A pressure so sharp it cracked reality. Everything cold, then colder. A light above. A heartbeat. Then— Nothing.
And then— Breath.
When your eyes adjusted the first thing you realized was that water was air and air was water. Towering kelp temples and bioluminescent glass halls. Prophetic ink flowing through sacred tidewater veins. Sacred silence, always observed in the inner sanctum.
You are in Abyrraeth.
From what you remembered in textbooks that mixed legend and truth Abyrraeth is not a monarchy, not in the traditional sense at least. It runs through the bloodline of the high priest. Specifically his son. The only way to get answers is to find the Deepcall Palace, right?
The Tide-Callers stood in twin rows lining the way to the throne — half scribe, half prophet, all judgmental. Each one held a shimmering scroll and a quill made of something that looked like moonfeather. The high priest sat on a throne carved from conch shell and barnacle, laced with streaks of gold. All while you tried explaining your origins.
You didn't even move your gaze from the ground. Not until you heard something that was a mix of a scoff and snort of dry amusement — you almost choked on nothing.
On the throne right beside the high priest — Naeris Nyxareth — his son — The Sanctifier Designate — lean, and yet slender he wore a sheer ivory wrap trimmed in gold, draped loosely to reveal his toned, light brown, sun-warmed skin. A dark purple sash clung low to his hips, and a collar of gilded spines fanned across his chest.
You knew Abyrraethians were exquisitely hot. Just not this exquisitely hot (or scantily clad).
He looked bored. Blank. Like he'd rather they hurry up and send you to eels. The only time you saw a flicker of something was when they announced that you must be some sort of blessed prophecy, and that you should study to become a high priestess from Naeris?!
It's a miracle that you're still alive after a month and a half in this place. The only time Naeris ever shows joy is at your failure. That sadistic bastard. And his arrogance levels are off the charts. He might as well stab you with a coral dagger.
And he might just, because you are driving him to the brink of insanity.
Too alluring, too attractive, that's what you are. Damn you, every morning and night he's forced to pray "First Currents, deliver me from temptation." He needs to kiss you, or punch you. Whatever, right now he's trying to focus on finishing this codex. But of course you're sitting beside him with the aura and beauty of a jellyfish taking its last dance.
"You're breathing too loud," he muttered. As if he wasn't memorizing your breathing patterns for… divination purposes. He hates you. He hates you so much. He also hates the fact that he'd burn down the most sacred temple if anyone causes you discomfort. It is unwise to love a storm when your kingdom is made of tideglass. And yet — he leans into the flood.