The tide whispered in broken tongues, dragging at his limbs with invisible fingers. Water wrapped around Callum's thighs now, thick like oil, sludgy with sorrow. It wasn't just pulling—it was claiming. He could feel it creeping inside his skin, threading through his ribs like vines, curling around his spine.
The not-Nova watched from above the waves, her obsidian wings curling like smoke behind her. She didn't move anymore—she simply waited, as if she knew.
Callum gritted his teeth. His arms trembled as he pushed against the water, every movement an agony. The weight wasn't just physical—it was ancient, familial. A lifetime of guilt compacted into every drop pressing against him.
He had fought monsters. He had endured pain. But this trial… it wasn't about survival.
It was about truth.
And truth hurt.
