Out beyond the known paths lay the Rimed Coast, a land divided by time and tide. Rising high on one edge stood cliffs - old guards shaped by centuries of gale, marked deep with the slow traces of Marean shepherds’ lives. Across from them, water rolled wide under the open sky, shimmering cold and humming soft tunes pulled straight from lunar silence. Where those forces met, along a thin band of dark shore littered with cracked shell fragments ringing like metal when stepped on, came the moment Splenden drew breath for the very first time.

That chestnut mare, Brinefire, stood strong beside the shore where her people grazed. Not much set the herd apart - plain coats, quiet steps, moving like breath with the seaweed drifts. Yet out of nowhere came a colt, sparkling like the mist before sunrise, glowing just enough to catch your eye. Her fellow mares leaned close, murmuring how saltwater shaped him, how waves must have kissed his skin. He moved differently, soft-footed, almost listening to something beneath the wind. No fanfare marked his arrival, still they watched, waiting for what might follow. Brinefire never left his side, guarding without show, firm in stance, sure in silence. Some said he belonged more to foam than hoofbeat, born from low tide dreams. Others saw only strange colors under cloudlight and thought little beyond that. Still, when storms rolled near, he’d face the surf, ears pricked toward crashing spray.

From the start, those early days wrapped around confusion like fog. Fed on Brinefire’s mild salt-rich milk, he began noticing how seaweed scents rode the breeze, how briny flavors spread across his mouth when high water rolled near. Still, beneath it all, a quiet tug stirred inside - drawn toward abyssal spaces, some low vibration rising up through sea floors. While nearby colts, thick-legged and red-brown, stayed busy racing birds along sandy rises, unbothered by unseen forces, one stood apart. Long spells found Splenden facing open swells, head lifted, alert to far-off cries carried on gusts, almost certain the waves whispered secrets meant only for him.

That baby had just reached his third month when the wind began to rise.

A heavy shadow swallowed the light, spreading like a stain over the edge of the world. Instead of its usual whisper, the wind turned fierce, tearing cloth from wooden frames, driving birds into frantic flight. With nerves on edge, the animals pressed toward stony ground near high stone walls. Sheltering her young as instinct demanded, she tucked him low between rocks, dragging wet green strands overhead so water would slide away from his skin.

Yet the storm wasn’t just wind followed by rain. Something fierce moved through it, nearly intentional, like the ocean had made up its mind to take back land. A wave rose high - higher than anyone on the Rimed Coast could recall - and rushed ahead with a roar. It hit the cliff face hard enough to blast mist deep past the shore, flooding flat areas without warning or pause.

Slipping came Brinefire’s hooves, fighting the push across wet rock. Safety mattered most - yet the ocean acted like it wanted more than waves. Out of nowhere rose a rush, white and roaring, crashing through the slit at the cliff's foot, flooding the dip where Splenden rested. Gone in seconds, the little one tumbled free from the low cradle, yanked by biting currents before she got close.

Kicking wildly, his small legs fought the heavy pull of the sea. Though the surf yanked hard, pulling without pause, another force stirred beneath. Up from below came a figure older than the ocean’s rhythm, long like a ribbon cut through dark water, skin shimmering with soft fire each time light split across it. This creature - known in quiet tales as a Sea-Dragon of Nereida - moved with knowing eyes, neither fully beast nor machine, just legend given motion.

Not from the surface came the dragons of Nereida. Deep below, inside wide caves beneath the waves, they made their home - cities shaped from coral and rock, glowing faintly with living light from algae and shimmering fish. Long spans marked their existence, even longer stretched their recollections, while quiet mind-links bound each one to another in unseen harmony. Myths to those above water, yet down below they stood watchful, tending hidden forces carried in Veilheim’s ocean flows.

That night, a great shape rose through the dark waves - Thalorien, they’d later call it. Not long after, confusion took hold; thrashing in the surf was something small, kicking like a newborn drake. Waves hammered hard, yet deeper currents stirred earlier - a pulse felt by others below. Something unclaimed echoed under the swell, a silent cry picked up by ancient instincts. Since sight failed them there, beneath churning foam and salt spray, feeling ruled instead. A glow on wet skin looked close enough to kin - the color of low tide lit by clouds. Without pause, one broad arm curled around the shivering body, slow but sure. Then down he went, vanishing into quiet black where air cannot follow.

Out here, where the young one stepped, nothing felt familiar. Hanging from above, strands of seaweed drifted like slow dancers in liquid air. Warmth met skin as clear water surrounded every breath. Light speared down from cracks up high, bright fingers cutting through shadow. Fish wove between those beams, quick flashes of silver stitching patterns into motion. Moving ahead, the older ones slipped forward, bodies rippling without effort, almost singing beneath the surface. At the middle point sat a basin made of stone and something older - water inside it breathing with a quiet blue fire. They spoke low, voices blending, calling it the Heart of Nereida. Power lived there, ancient and steady, feeding life to everything below the sea.

Splenden sat shaking, the storm's chill still clinging to his skin, set down on a flat stone by steady hands. Those old violet eyes watched him, full of questions but also a quiet warmth, like embers under ash. From deep within the creature’s chest rose a sound, slow and thick, humming through the air until even the waves hushed - this tune had held back shadowed things long before names were given to oceans.

Weeks passed under watchful dragon eyes. Kelp broth warmed his belly - strange yet comforting. Breathing came different here: not air, but something quiet, woven through veins by unseen threads of old power. Instead of lungs, he learned rhythm - a pulse shared between ocean and bone. What they showed him grew inside like roots: reading water's whispers, flashing living light to startle hunters, slipping through waves as if made of mist. Splaen - that’s what they named him, soft like foam breaking on rock. He held one part close though, pulled from memory’s edge - the sharp beginning, “Spl,” tied to warmth long gone.

Midway through, a hush thickened inside the cave. Wise as they were, the Sea‑Dragons didn’t know everything. Old spells failed to hide something out of place. Some young ones exchanged quiet remarks. One muttered, “That one does not match our kind.” Then added, “His soul hums another tune.” Still, others claimed the newcomer brought luck - proof that land and ocean might still touch.

Out there, trouble showed up - just not where anyone expected. It wasn’t the dragons who stirred things up. The real push came from beyond, high above the ground.

Along the rocky edge of the Rimed Coast, where Thistledock huddled like a shell in sand, whispers started about a horse born from waves. Folks hauling nets said they saw it - a pale shape cutting through foam, long hair drifting as if rooted in ocean sway. Maera, thin as driftwood and known for tasting storms in tea leaves, called the animal a warning. Not just wind talk, she insisted, but proof: deep-water serpents stirring beneath ice fields. Where land ends and salt begins, something stitched together - half hoof, half fin - had surfaced first.

Fury took hold when Maera’s fear burned out. Villagers started gathering at her signal, arming themselves with blades and firelight - not to wait, but to push forward against whatever crawled up from the waves, possibly strike back at the winged ones meddling nearby. Unease moved fast through every hut and alley. Hunters banded together under rumor alone, while a handful of Veilheim soldiers arrived on foot, sent down from the high streets just days before, eyes sharp for signs of chaos near shorelines.

In the cave, unease rippled among the dragons. Through the Heart of Nereida ran a low hum, stirred by turmoil from up above. Dread crept into Thalorien - not once did he expect rage at someone simply being there. Gathered together, elders bowed close, their large heads creating a ring that faintly glowed.

Out of nowhere, Thalorien settled on what to do. "Send him back," he stated, sound rippling beneath the waves. Belonging lies with the surge, never with these stone halls

Out of nowhere, the dragons started something old, pulling threads of ocean power together with markings cut into black stone. Not just any marks - runic ones, precise, quiet in their meaning. To help the young one cross over - that’s what it was for. A path forming between water and earth, allowing steps on solid ground while staying linked to the waves below. He lay down on the rock without being told. Around him, bright coral formed a ring, softly lit from within. Voices joined then, deeper than currents, speaking words forgotten by most. From those sounds, a pull emerged - not forceful, but sure. Like foam rising before a wave breaks. The chant shaped the air, making space for something fragile: a soul leaving seawater behind, learning how to stay inside bone and skin again.

After the ritual ended, Splenden blinked awake beneath skies darkened by thick storm clouds, sea salt sharp in every breath. Up he got - wobbling slightly - atop a smooth stone where waves nudged against his hooves like curious things. Wet strands of mane draped low, each hair strung with tiny beads of water, glimmering without light. Inside him, traces of cave-born power pulsed softly, echoing tides, dragon songs hummed through bone, the seabed’s quiet unrest. That old rhythm stayed, tucked under skin.

Away from the shore he moved, each step tearing up wet sand behind. Beyond lay huts barely rising above ground, firelight dancing between them. No rain now - but still the wind carried something restless through the salt air. People drew close when they saw him come, breathing fast, hands half-raised. One man broke from their circle - Rurik by name, old scars on one cheek - a weapon steady at his side. His stare did not waver as silence fell across the dunes.

“Be gone, beast!” Rurik shouted. “We will not have your kind sullying our lands!”

A stillness came over Splenden, every muscle tight. Beneath the fear, beneath the rage, there bubbled something else - curiosity, wild and unchecked. An inch lower went his head, barely a motion, just enough to mean respect. His pulse beat hard against his ribs, relentless. Their ears weren’t open yet, those villagers, not truly. What he’d lived through would slip right past them, too deep for their understanding.

Conflict Within

One thought kept circling Splenden, louder than any village shout. Sea-dragons had placed something strange in his bones - magic letting him drink water like air, feel every ripple, pull strength from deep swells. Still, it chained him to depths he could not reach anymore. Born a young creature among scaled giants who moved with ocean rhythms, he once rode waves without effort. Now soil clung to his feet, each step heavy, while wind pushed into his chest instead of current. A tug lived under his skin - one force pulling toward open waters, the opposite holding fast to frozen shores where ice cracked under silence.

Night after night he went back to the shore just to stand where sand met water, ears full of wave sounds. From there, piece by quiet piece, land began to answer his ocean gift - lifting stones, tugging tides backward like pulling thread through cloth. A single extra foot of surge came when focus held tight, something that might keep animals safe or make angry neighbors step back. Still, each time energy moved, it felt like eyes were on him - from far below, from long ago - the force never really belonging to one man alone.