The village slept uneasily that night.
Not because of fear—no alarms rang, no storms gathered—but because something old had shifted beneath the calm, like a great current turning far below the surface. The sea rolled in its usual rhythm, waves brushing the shore with familiar patience, yet those who lived close enough swore the water sounded… attentive.
Euryale slept deeply, unaware of any of it.
Dreams did not come to him as visions or voices. Instead, there was only water.
Not drowning. Not darkness.
Just depth.
He stood barefoot on a shore that stretched forever, the sea smooth as glass before him. When he stepped forward, the water parted willingly, cool and welcoming, curling around his ankles like it had been waiting.
Far below the surface, something vast shifted.
Not hostile.
Not kind.
Simply aware.
When Euryale woke, the first thing he noticed was the sound.
The sea.
Closer than usual.
By morning, word had already begun to travel—quietly, carefully, like traders passing coins hand to hand. No one spoke openly of a White Core. They spoke instead in half-sentences.
"Strange light in the crystal."
"Only water, but…"
"Did you feel the air go still?"
Amara felt it most clearly.
She stood near the docks, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind—usually playful around her—barely touched her braids.
"So it's true," she murmured.
Euryale approached, carrying a basket Pa had sent him to deliver. "What's true?"
She turned, studying him like she was seeing him for the first time. "Back home," she said slowly, "they tell stories about the sea."
He blinked. "Everyone does."
"No," Amara said. "I mean old stories. Before realms had names. Before mana had rules."
She hesitated, then continued. "They say the sea doesn't choose warriors. Or kings. Or conquerors."
Euryale shifted uncomfortably. "I'm none of those."
"That's the point," she said quietly. "The sea chooses keepers."
He frowned. "Keepers of what?"
Amara looked past him, toward the endless blue. "Balance. Memory. Endings."
________________________________
That night, far from the village, Master Velin stood alone on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
The wind tugged at his robe, silver constellations glimmering faintly as if reacting to unseen stars. His expression was grave—not with fear, but with reverence.
"A White Core," he said softly to the waves. "After all this time."
He closed his eyes, and memories surfaced—records forbidden to most, sealed within the Celestial Dominion's deepest archives.
When the seas were young, there were those born not of storm, but of stillness.Not rulers of water—but its conscience.They did not command the tide.The tide remembered them.
Velin exhaled slowly.
White Cores were not meant to appear at awakening. They were the end of a journey. Proof of absolute mastery.
Unless…
"Unless the core has already walked its path," he murmured.
He remembered the way the crystal had responded—not explosively, not violently—but recognizing. As if greeting something long absent.
Pure Water affinity. No lightning. No ice. No storm.
Just water in its truest form.
Life. Depth. Erosion. Mercy. Oblivion.
"The Sea Wardens," Velin whispered.
A myth even among scholars.
Beings said to arise only when the world had forgotten restraint. They were not heroes. They were not saviors.
They were reminders.
Velin opened his eyes, gaze hardening with resolve.
"If the myths are true," he said, "then the boy is not dangerous because of what he can do."
He looked toward the distant lights of the village.
"He is dangerous because of what he is."
________________________________
Euryale noticed changes in the days that followed.
Water behaved differently around him.
Buckets felt lighter. Waves calmed when he waded in. Even rain seemed to avoid soaking him completely, sliding off his skin like it knew better.
Silas noticed first, of course.
"You didn't spill anything," Silas accused, squinting at the full bucket Euryale carried. "That's suspicious."
"I walked slower."
"No, you didn't."
Lyra pressed her hands into a puddle near the house. "The water's warm."
"It's the sun," Euryale said quickly.
But deep down, something stirred—quiet, steady, patient.
Watching.
Waiting.
That night, as Euryale stood alone by the shore, the tide rolled in and stopped at his feet.
Perfectly.
He swallowed, heart pounding.
"I don't know what you want," he whispered.
The sea answered only with a gentle pull, like a breath drawn in.
Far away, Master Velin turned from the cliffs, decision made.
"The Sea remembers you," he said into the wind."And soon… so will the world."