You know this place.
Stone beneath your feet.
Dark ahead.
That tight pull in your chest that means
final fight.
You check your grip.
Armor tight.
Your companion stands close enough to touch.
This is where it happens.
This is where it always happens.
You step forward.
And the ground is gone.
Cold water climbs your legs,
your waist,
your chest.
Too fast.
You breathe in to shout
and swallow water instead.
It burns.
It weighs.
Your battle-brother grabs your arm.
Leather.
Panic.
You pull each other closer,
kicking for something solid.
There is nothing.
Your armor drags you down.
The water presses harder.
Your chest tightens.
You try to breathe anyway.
Your lungs stop asking.
His grip slips.
Not torn away.
Not dragged.
Gone.
The water fills the space where he was,
as if he never existed.
That’s when it hits you.
You’re not fighting something in the water.
This is the water.
This time, it isn’t a game.
This is Leviathan.
Long before maps and rules,
people believed the sea decided.
Ships didn’t lose battles.
They vanished.
No wreckage.
No bodies.
Just water closing again
as if nothing had been taken.
They didn’t fight it.
They learned where not to sail.
❓ If the sea chose you…
would you struggle for air,
or go still before it takes the rest?
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