Dracule Marya Zaleska: Oni Phantom - Devil Fruit Origins

The air in the Owl Library hung thick with the scent of ancient parchment, volcanic ink, and the faint tang emanating from Valgard's glacial-blue skin. Dust motes danced in the slanted shafts of late afternoon sunlight piercing the high, arched windows. Around a massive Adam Wood table, scarred by centuries of scholarly debate, the unlikely assembly bent over their task.

Marya stood beside Scopper Gaban, her posture calm but alert, her eyes scanning star charts and tide logs with focused intensity. Across the table, Jaguar D. Saul's massive frame nearly dwarfed the chair, his gentle giant's brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully turned pages of a giant-sized atlas with fingers surprisingly deft. To his right, Gotfrid "Scroll-Singer" hunched over, his silver corkscrew curls brushing the vellum as he peered through his magnifying monocle, its lens projecting flickering holographic runes above a fragmented celestial map. He tapped a fossilized ink vial nervously against the table. "Indubitably perplexing! The lunar declinations simply don't align with the Vanir star-song fragments unless… unless Lumenara possesses a variable celestial anchor!"

Beside Gotfrid, Valgard "Frost-Scribe" remained unnervingly still. His eyeless sockets, covered by smooth lenses of ice that refracted the light into faint rainbows, seemed fixed on a point beyond the table. Prismatic frost crackled faintly across his glacial skin as he traced a clawed finger over a section of his frozen atlas – continents carved from Sea King teeth shimmered under his touch. His icicle dreadlocks clinked softly, a melancholic chime. "The corruption signature," he rasped, his voice like ice shifting deep underground. "It fluctuates… here." His frost-etched claw tapped a spot on his ice map, leaving a momentary condensation star. "A three-year cycle. Minimum. The island doesn't just hide… it displaces."

Ange, the librarian, moved quietly around them, her footsteps surprisingly soft for a giant. She replaced spent oil lamps with fresh ones, her expression one of patient reverence for the knowledge being wrestled from the library's depths. High above, perched on a carved stone stoop overlooking the entire chamber like a silent, feathered sentinel, sat Biblo. The ancient owl's dark plumage absorbed the light, his prominent, downward-pointing ear tufts giving him a perpetually stern expression. Behind his spectacles, tired, intelligent eyes watched the proceedings, occasionally blinking slowly.

Gaban stroked his chin, the firelight glinting off the faint scar tissue there – a relic of countless storms navigated. He picked up a sextant carved from Adam Wood, a familiar tool in his weathered hands. "Displaces, eh? Roger saw currents bend around nothin' in the Calm Belt… pockets of dead air thicker than tar. But an island slippin' in and out like a shy whale?" He manipulated the sextant, aligning it mentally with charts only he could fully decipher. "Valgard's frosty math and Gotfrid's star-whispers line up. Six months. That's when the celestial lock next clicks open for Lumenara."

Marya absorbed the verdict, her stoic face betraying little. Six months. Time enough. Her gaze drifted from the complex charts to the high windows, picturing the vast, open sea beyond Elbaph's shores. "Then I use the time," she stated, her voice clear and decisive in the hushed library. "Fishman Island first. The coating."

A genuine grin split Gaban's face. "Smart lass. Deep currents are tricky beasts. You will need to go to Sabaody, I know a coater down there – old Rayleigh. Does work so smooth, even Sea Kings get jealous. Got a Vivre Card tucked away somewhere for him." He carefully rolled up the large, composite chart they'd painstakingly assembled – parchment layered with Gotfrid's holographic projections and Valgard's ethereal ice-etched coordinates – into a sturdy leather tube. He handed it to Marya. "Your roadmap. Don't lose it in the locker." He winked.

He then leaned back, the old navigator assessing the vessel. "Speaking of… how's that steel sardine can of yours? Ready to kiss the bottom of the sea?"

Marya secured the tube at her hip. "Checked this morning. Hull's sound. Engines purr. Just needs provisions loaded. Then it dives."

Gaban chuckled, a warm rumble that echoed slightly in the cavernous space. "And the wobbling menace? Jelly tagging along for the deep dive?" He gestured vaguely towards the library entrance, where the sentient gelatin had likely found a dark corner to nap.

A rare, faint smirk touched Marya's lips. "Who knows? He's his own… entity. Follows whims, not plans." The sheer absurdity of trying to predict the gelatinous creature's actions was a quiet amusement.

Gaban's laugh was louder this time, rich and full. "Ha! Ain't that the truth. Well, if the gooey scoundrel does sail with you, tell him old Gaban'll miss the bloop-bloop soundtrack by the hot spring." He pushed himself up from the table, the chair groaning in relief. "Right then. Heavy thoughts need lightening. One last round at Mato's before you vanish into the brine? My treat. Celebrate charting the unchartable."

Marya met his gaze, a flicker of something akin to camaraderie in her usually guarded eyes. "As long as you're buying," she agreed, the simple phrase carrying the weight of their shared training and respect.

As the others began gathering their own notes and tools – Gotfrid muttering about cross-referencing, Valgard's frost receding slightly, Saul offering Ange a gentle smile – Marya's gaze drifted upwards again to Biblo. The ancient owl hadn't moved, a silent monument to centuries of knowledge guarded. Without a word, Marya dissolved into a swirl of dark mist. It flowed upwards, silent and swift, coalescing onto the high stone stoop beside the giant avian librarian. The empty chair reserved for Biblo's rare visitors stood nearby, but Marya remained standing, turning to face him directly. She met his tired, bespectacled gaze, unblinking.

"Couldn't have charted that particular madness without you," she said, her voice low but carrying clearly in the quiet of the upper perch. It was a simple statement, devoid of florid emotion, but utterly sincere. Gratitude, from Marya, was rare currency. "Thanks. For everything."

Biblo didn't speak – he never did. But understanding shone in his old, intelligent eyes. He gave a slow, deliberate blink. Then, he ruffled his massive, dark feathers, a soft whuff of air stirring the dust motes. It was a gesture of profound acknowledgment, a silent benediction that seemed to say: Knowledge served its purpose. Go.

Marya offered a small, genuine smile, a crack in her usual reserve. "Maybe we cross paths again. I'll repay the favor." It was a promise, stark and simple.

Biblo responded with a soft, resonant Hoot. Then, with surprising grace for his size and age, he lifted his wings slightly, not to fly, but in a gesture that felt like a final, feathery farewell.

Marya held his gaze for a moment longer. Then, she dissolved once more into swirling mist, flowing down from the perch like dark water, slipping silently past the engrossed scholars and the departing giants, and vanishing through the library's grand entrance, leaving only the scent of old paper and the lingering chime of Valgard's frost behind. The chart to the sky island was secured. The depths awaited.

*****

The air in the sacred grove near Warrior's Spring hummed with a different energy than the library—older, heavier, tinged with the weighty scent of latent magic and the mineral tang of geothermal vents. Glowing amber runes pulsed faintly across obsidian monoliths, and the very moss underfoot seemed to breathe in time with the distant heartbeat of Elbaph. Here, surrounded by the fading power of their goddess, the Volva sisters awaited Marya.

Ylva, the Sightless Seer, stood central, her 80-foot frame imposing even as obsidian skin cracked with weary light, liquid starlight weeping from empty sockets to pool in constellations at her bare feet. Astrid hovered nearby, jade-green hair blooming nervous snow-blooms that drifted like ash, her chameleon skin flickering with anxious rune-patterns. Hilda "Iron-Oak" stood solid as the Adam Wood roots she shaped, volcanic glass tools fused to her forearms glinting dully, her silver locs braided with Freyja's amber tear-wire pulsing a slow, tired rhythm. Sigrun "Ghost-Foot" leaned against a lichen-covered stone, her ashen skin nearly blending with the rock, the crimson fungi on her hairless skull pulsing softly, smoke-feet trailing comet sparks in the grove's perpetual twilight. Valgard "Frost-Scribe" was a statue of glacial blue, his ice-lens eyes fixed on nothing, prismatic frost crackling silently across his skin, the clinking chime of his icicle dreadlocks the only sign he wasn't carved from winter itself.

Marya materialized from swirling mist before them, a stark silhouette against the grove's ethereal glow. She wasted no time. "The crystals," she stated, her voice cutting through the grove's ambient hum like cold steel. "They were depleted."

Ylva tilted her head, cloud-white afro absorbing the grove's dim light. "Freyja sleeps," she intoned, her voice echoing like stones grinding deep underground. Liquid starlight dripped faster, forming the rune for 'serenity' at her feet. "The disturbance rests. The Root-Serpent coils, waiting for the new dawn to—"

"I don't need a prophecy, Seer," Marya interrupted, her calm tone edged with impatience. She held up a small, now-dull crystalline shard – once vibrant with captured starlight, now grey and inert. "They need to be renewed. Recharged. Repaired. I don't know if my path leads back here. If there's a way you can do it yourselves, you should—"

"Child of the Tempest," Ylva cut in, her voice swelling with the cadence of ritual. Starlight tears flowed freely, etching the symbol for 'destiny' beside 'serenity'. "The Tideglass fragment calls! The sky-wound bleeds starlight onto the waves! You are the key woven in the Weaver's final—"

Marya sighed. A sharp, frustrated exhalation that silenced the Seer mid-kenning. She'd heard enough. Dogma. Ramblings. Obstacles dressed in mystic finery. Her gaze swept past Ylva, briefly meeting Astrid's worried eyes, flickering over Hilda's stoic understanding, Sigrun's detached observation, and Valgard's frozen indifference. None offered practical solutions, only the weight of expectation and cryptic verse.

"Good luck," Marya said flatly, the words final. She turned on her heel, the worn leather of her boots scraping volcanic grit. Mist began to coil around her ankles, tendrils of darkness reaching up.

"Wait!" Ylva's command rang out, sharp as shattered crystal. The starlight pooling at her feet flared, casting sharp, dancing shadows. "The threads of fate are taut! The Vanir moonstone beads sing of your return across the—"

The rest was lost. Marya dissolved completely into the swirling vortex of dark mist. It flowed swift and silent between the glowing monoliths, past the startled Astrid who instinctively reached out a vine-tendril hand that passed through empty air, past Hilda who merely grunted and tapped her volcanic glass knuckles against her meteor-iron grafted thigh in a rhythm of resignation. The mist streamed towards the grove's entrance, leaving only a faint chill and the scent of ozone in its wake.

Ylva stood rigid, starlight tears etching furious, chaotic patterns on the moss. Astrid's snow-blooms wilted instantly. Sigrun hummed a low, discordant note, her fungi pulsing erratically. Valgard's frost spread an inch further across the rock beside him with a brittle crackle. Hilda sighed, a sound like grinding stones, and bent to examine a blighted Adam Wood sapling at the spring's edge, her amber tear-wire dimming slightly.

In the sudden silence, broken only by the gurgle of the sacred spring and the distant tremor of Elbaph's roots, the weight of Marya's departure hung heavy. She hadn't come for blessings or prophecies. She'd come with a problem and left when offered only riddles in return. The path to Fishman Island, and the depths beyond, awaited a navigator who trusted charts and currents far more than the weeping stars of blind seers. The Volva sisters were left with their sleeping goddess, their depleted crystals, and the echoing silence where pragmatic words had been cut off by mist.

The scent of volcanic rock stew, seared mammoth steak, and Brenna's infamous 'World Government Skewers' (extra spicy) washed over Marya as she pushed open the heavy Adam Wood door of Mato's Tavern. Inside, the air buzzed with warmth, laughter, and the comforting clatter of giant-sized cutlery. After the cryptic chill of the sacred grove, the tavern felt like sinking into a well-worn glove.

Gaban's log house deck, overlooking the twinkling lights of the Western Village far below, had been deemed too small for the impromptu send-off. Mato's was the natural choice – its sturdy beams, worn stone floor, and hearth large enough to roast a small Sea King radiated convivial chaos. Marya spotted them immediately near the roaring central hearth: Gaban leaning back in his chair, Ripley beside him with a fond smile, Colon perched precariously on a stool trying to balance his wooden sword on his nose, Saul's massive frame dominating one end of the long table, Ange chatting animatedly with him, and Jelly… well, Jelly was blooping rhythmically atop a stack of empty ale barrels, seemingly conducting an invisible orchestra.

Bjorn "Quake-Fist" nursed a tankard the size of a bathtub, his Adam Wood dreadlocks glinting. Gotfrid "Scroll-Singer" fiddled nervously with his monocle, occasionally dropping a fossilized ink vial. Rurik "Boulder-Tongue" boomed a saga fragment to Brenna "Hearth-Hand," who was ferrying steaming platters from the kitchen with practiced ease, her fiery red knife-dreadlocks swaying. Einar "Sky-Hook" balanced on the back legs of his chair, his copper dreads crackling faintly as he recounted some sky-path near-miss to a grinning Valgard "Frost-Scribe," whose icicle locks chimed softly in counterpoint to the tavern's din. Mato, her distinctive winged-straw hair bobbing, flitted between tables, her maroon "WAR" apron pristine despite the bustle, dispensing warm bread and kind words.

Marya slipped into the empty seat beside Gaban. He didn't turn, just nudged a tankard of frothy Elbaph mead towards her, his eyes still on Colon's precarious balancing act. "So," he rumbled, a smirk playing on his lips. "How'd the audience with the Oracles of Obscurity go? Get blessed? Cursed? Given a riddle wrapped in a prophecy inside an enigma?"

Marya took a slow sip of the sweet, potent mead, the warmth spreading through her. She rolled her eyes, a gesture so uncharacteristically expressive it drew a chuckle from Ripley and a knowing grin from Saul. "Tried to tell them the starlight crystals were dead. Got told Freyja naps and destiny awaits. Tried to suggest they fix them themselves. Got a sermon about sky-wounds and Tideglass keys." She shook her head, a flicker of exasperated amusement in her usually guarded eyes. "Left before the Weaver's Loom got involved."

Gaban threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound that momentarily drowned out the tavern's noise. "Ha! Sounds about right. Ylva could make a weather report sound like Ragnarök delivered by a cryptic pigeon." He clapped Marya on the shoulder. "Don't take it personal, lass. They breathe different air up on Prophecy Peak."

Marya nodded. "Saying my goodbyes," she stated simply, her gaze sweeping the table – Saul's gentle strength, Ange's bright curiosity, Ripley's quiet warmth, Gaban's irreverent wisdom.

Ange leaned forward, her eyes wide. "Oh, Marya! So soon? When are you off?"

"In the morning," Marya confirmed. "Tide waits for no cryptic seer."

Colon's wooden sword clattered to the stone floor. His pink hair practically vibrated under his horned helmet as he whipped around, eyes wide with dismay. "NO! Tomorrow? But… but you just got here!" He scrambled off his stool and latched onto Marya's arm, looking at her with the full force of a giant child's tragic pout. "Don't go! We haven't even finished our pirate ship in the hot spring cove!"

Jelly, sensing the shift in mood, blooped excitedly off the barrels, landing on the table with a soft splortch near a platter of roasted root vegetables. "ADVENTURE!" he vibrated, his gelatinous form shimmering with eager light. "SEA CALLS! WAVES! BLUP BLUP!"

Colon turned his pout on the sentient gelatine. "Jelly! Are you leaving too?!"

Jelly wobbled thoughtfully, forming a vague, wiggly shape that might have been a ship. "JELLY… LIVES FOR BLUP!" he declared proudly. "SUNKEN TREASURE! FISHY FRIENDS! SEA-SONG! YES!" He bounced enthusiastically, narrowly avoiding Brenna's latest platter – a steaming mountain of spice-crusted tubers that made the air shimmer with heat.

Colon's face crumpled. He dramatically flopped face-first onto the worn wooden counter, his small frame radiating utter dejection. "It's not FAIR!" his muffled voice wailed. "I wanna be a pirate! I wanna go on adventures NOW! I wanna have a jellyfish friend!"

Ripley reached over and gently ruffled his pink hair under the helmet. "Hush now, little thundercloud," she said, her voice soothing. "Your time will come. Plenty of sea out there for everyone. For now," she added, her tone firming slightly, "your adventure is finishing your stew and not terrorizing the village goats with that sword."

Bjorn grunted into his tankard. "Sea's no place for babes," he muttered, though there was no real heat in it.

Brenna plunked a smaller, equally steaming bowl of stew in front of Colon's buried head. "Here, little sprout," she boomed, her voice thick with volcanic warmth. "Eat your 'World Root Porridge'. Builds bones strong enough to swing a real warhammer someday. Pirating can wait till you stop tripping over your own feet." She winked at Marya, her spice-caked skin gleaming in the firelight.

The farewell dinner unfolded in a warm haze of shared food, clinking tankards, and overlapping conversations. Saul raised his own immense mug. "Look out for yourself down there, Marya," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying easily. "The deep holds wonders… and terrors sharper than any blade."

Ange nodded vigorously, a little misty-eyed. "I'll miss our library dates! Honestly, the most fun I've had in decades. Don't be a stranger… if you can manage it?"

Marya offered a small, genuine smile to Ange and a respectful nod to Saul. "I'll manage." Her gaze met Gaban's. The unspoken gratitude for the training, the shelter, the charts – it was all there in the quiet acknowledgment.

As the feast wound down, the atmosphere settled into a comfortable, slightly melancholic buzz. Gotfrid nervously offered Marya a tiny scroll sealed with extinct cephalopod wax ("Potential Tideglass resonance frequencies… purely theoretical, of course!"). Rurik, after several tankards, attempted to etch a miniature saga of Marya's 'Triumphant Departure' onto a bread crust. Einar sketched a wild sky-path on a napkin with a charcoal stub, pointing out 'Gold Cyclone' shortcuts. Valgard silently pressed a small, perfectly clear ice shard into her hand – a frozen map fragment of a calm current near Fishman Island. Mato brought over a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. "For the journey," she said softly, her round face kind. "Elbaph honey cakes. Sweetness for when the sea turns sour."

Finally, Marya stood. The table quieted slightly. Colon, his earlier despair tempered by stew and maternal comfort, looked up, his eyes still a bit red-rimmed but accepting. Jelly blooped onto her shoulder, a cool, familiar weight.

"Morning tide," Marya said simply. Her gaze swept the room – the faces of giants who had become, in their own ways, a temporary anchor. Gaban gave her a final, firm nod, the ghost of Roger's grin on his weathered face. Ripley smiled warmly. Colon managed a wobbly wave.

Without fanfare, Marya turned. Mist swirled around her ankles, thickening as she walked towards the tavern door. She paused on the threshold, the cool night air washing in. For a heartbeat, the sounds of the warm tavern – the laughter, the clatter, Brenna's booming voice, the faint chime of Valgard's dreads, Colon's sniffle, Jelly's soft bloop – washed over her. Then, she stepped fully into the darkness and dissolved into the mist, carrying the warmth of Elbaph's farewell and the silent weight of the deep sea's call. The door swung shut behind her, leaving the light, the laughter, and the scent of spice and honey cakes inside.

****

The predawn air at Elbaph's western docks was sharp with salt and the tang of damp Adam Wood pilings. Mist, natural and grey, clung to the water's surface, parting reluctantly for the sleek, dark form of Marya's submarine moored alongside. The colossal structure of the docks, carved from volcanic rock and ancient timber, felt quieter than Mato's Tavern, the only sounds the gentle lap of waves against stone and the distant cry of a seabird.

Gaban stood near the edge, hands tucked into his pockets, the faint lines around his eyes softened in the dim light. Beside him, Ripley rested a hand on Colon's horned helmet; the boy's pink hair stuck out in sleepy tufts beneath it, his usual wooden sword clutched tightly, his lower lip already trembling. Saul's immense form was a comforting shadow nearby, while Ange stood slightly apart, wringing her hands, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Jelly, perched atop a coiled hawser the size of a tree trunk, vibrated with contained bloops, shimmering with anticipation.

Marya approached, her boots echoing softly on the weathered planks. She carried only a small, sturdy pack – the rest of Brenna's provisions and Mato's honey cakes were already stowed below. Jelly launched himself with a wet splat onto her shoulder, molding himself into a quivering, cool mantle.

"Morning tide waits for no one, eh?" Gaban greeted, his voice a low rumble that carried easily in the stillness. He studied her face, the familiar stoicism firmly in place, but perhaps a fraction less guarded than when she'd arrived. "Ready to kiss the sky goodbye for a while?"

Ripley stepped forward, her kind eyes sweeping over Marya and the sub. "Are you certain you have everything? Enough food? Fresh water? That lovely volcanic spice blend Brenna packed? She swore it wards off deep-sea chill."

Marya nodded, a flicker of genuine appreciation in her calm gaze. "Yes. Thank you, Ripley. Brenna's provisions are… comprehensive." The memory of the chef's fierce hug and shouted well-wishes the night before seemed to hang in the air for a moment.

Gaban reached into the inner pocket of his worn jacket. He pulled out not just a Vivre Card – a small, rectangular piece of paper that seemed to pulse with a faint, steady light of its own – but also a folded note sealed with simple wax. "For Rayliegh," he said, handing them over. The Vivre Card felt warm, almost alive, in Marya's palm, its gentle tug pointing unerringly towards Sabaody's legendary coater. "Best hands in the business for getting you safely down to the sunken streets. The note's got the particulars." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, the weight of decades navigating impossible seas lending gravity to his words. "Remember, lass: the deep currents ain't like the sky. They twist, they turn, they hold grudges. Trust your charts, trust your instincts… and trust that steel sardine can of yours. She's tougher than she looks." He gave her a firm nod, the ghost of Roger's confidence in his weathered face. "Fair winds and following seas… even if they're ten thousand fathoms down."

Marya slipped the Vivre Card and note securely into her pack. "Understood." She met Gaban's gaze squarely. The unspoken gratitude for the training, the shelter, the maps, and now this vital lifeline was there, acknowledged silently but deeply.

Jelly chose that moment to bloop loudly, vibrating on Marya's shoulder. "FISHMAN ISLAND! BLUP! COATING! ADVENTURE!" He formed a wobbly, excited shape resembling a fish.

Colon couldn't hold back any longer. He tugged free from Ripley's hand and rushed forward, wrapping his small arms as far as he could around Marya. "Don't gooo!" he wailed, his voice muffled against her. "Take me with you! I can be cabin boy! I'll polish the… the spinny things! Jelly!" He looked over, tears welling in his big eyes. "Don't leave me behind! We're pirate buddies!"

Jelly detached himself and splortched onto the dock beside Colon. He wobbled, forming a shape that might have been a comforting pat. "COLON FRIEND!" he pulsed warmly. "JELLY GO SEA-SONG NOW. FIND SHINY THINGS! BRING BACK SEA-STORY FOR COLON! BIG STORY! BLUP!"

Colon sniffled, looking from the earnest gelatine back to Marya. "Promise?"

"PROMISE BLUP!" Jelly vibrated, bobbing enthusiastically.

Ripley gently pried Colon away, smoothing his pink hair. "There now, little thundercloud. Marya and Jelly have their own song to follow. Your time will come. For now," she added, her voice softening, "you have goat-herding duties. And breakfast."

Saul chuckled, a sound like distant rockslides. "Look after yourself, Marya," he rumbled. "The world beneath the waves holds wonders even the Owl Library hasn't cataloged. Keep your wits sharp."

Ange stepped forward, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her sleeve. "Oh, I shall miss our research sessions terribly! Truly, the most invigorating challenge I've had in ages. Do come back and tell us all about the Eclipse Gate… if you find it! Safe travels!" She offered a watery smile.

Marya gave Saul a respectful nod and offered Ange a small, genuine smile. "I'll try." She then looked at Colon, who was still sniffling but seemed slightly mollified by Jelly's promise. She craned her neck slightly, meeting his eye. "Look after the goats. Practice your swordplay. Pirates need strong captains."

Colon straightened his helmet, puffing out his small chest. "I will! I'll be the strongest! Stronger than Papa!"

Gaban snorted. "Keep dreaming, sprout."

With a final glance encompassing them all – Gaban's steady presence, Ripley's kindness, Saul's strength, Ange's bright hope, Colon's fierce, childish determination – Marya turned towards her vessel. A wave rippled through the small group: Saul's massive hand raised in salute, Ange waving a handkerchief, Ripley holding Colon's shoulder, Gaban offering a final, approving nod.

Jelly blooped back onto Marya's shoulder as she walked the short gangplank. She paused at the top hatch, a sturdy, riveted disc of dark metal. With a final, unreadable look back at the figures silhouetted against the burgeoning dawn lightening the sky behind Elbaph's towering canopy, she opened the hatch. A faint whiff of ozone and polished steel emanated from within. She descended, Jelly flowing down after her with a soft splurch.

The heavy hatch closed with a resonant clang that echoed across the quiet dock. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by Colon's soft sniffle and the lap of the waves. Then, a low hum vibrated through the water, growing steadily stronger. Bubbles frothed around the dark hull as ballast tanks flooded. With a smooth, almost silent motion, the sleek submarine began to sink, slipping beneath the grey, mist-cloaked surface of the sea. The water closed over it seamlessly, leaving only a widening circle of ripples that gently rocked against the Adam Wood pilings, carrying Marya and Jelly towards the mysteries and crushing pressures of the world below.