Chapter 3: The Salt-Stained Covenant

Dawn came grey and unwelcoming over Saltcradle, bringing with it the acrid smell of smoke from hastily burned belongings. Elias had spent the remaining hours of darkness disposing of the bodies—Thomas Keane weighted with stones and surrendered to the hungry tide, his father wrapped in old sailcloth and committed to the traditional pyre behind their shack. The flames had taken hours to die down, leaving only ash and the lingering scent of charred bone.

Now, as the village began to stir with the morning's activities, Elias shouldered a pack hastily stuffed with what few provisions he could carry. His father's final words echoed in his mind like a death knell: Find Marina's journal. Learn the truth.

The caves. North of the tideline, marked with deep sigils.

Elias had heard whispers of such places throughout his childhood—sacred grottos where the cult's inner circle supposedly communed with their God in ways too profound for common understanding. His father had always deflected his questions about them with vague promises that he would learn their secrets when he was ready.

It seemed readiness had been thrust upon him by violence and blood.

The coastal path wound treacherously along the cliff face, barely wide enough for a single person. Below, the sea crashed against jagged rocks with a rhythm that sounded almost like breathing—in and out, in and out, as if the ocean itself were some vast, slumbering creature. The morning mist clung to everything, turning familiar landmarks into ghostly suggestions of themselves.

Elias had walked this way before during his childhood explorations, but never with such desperate purpose. Every shadow could hide pursuers from the village, every sound of crumbling stone could herald discovery. But the further he traveled from Saltcradle, the more the oppressive weight on his chest seemed to lift, as if he were finally breaking free from some invisible tether.

The first cave he found bore no markings—just a natural hollow carved by centuries of wind and wave. The second was larger, but empty save for the nests of seabirds and the bones of fish. It wasn't until he rounded a particularly treacherous outcropping that he saw them: symbols carved deep into the living rock, so weathered by salt spray that they were barely visible unless viewed from precisely the right angle.

The sigils were unlike anything he'd seen in the village's holy texts. Where the ceremonial inscriptions were flowing and organic, these were angular, aggressive—as if they'd been carved not with tools but with claws. They seemed to shift in his peripheral vision, rearranging themselves into configurations that hurt to look at directly.

The cave mouth they guarded was narrow, forcing Elias to turn sideways to squeeze through. But once inside, the space opened into a vast cathedral of stone, its ceiling lost in shadows that his flickering torch couldn't penetrate. The walls were covered with more of the strange sigils, and in places, the rock itself seemed to weep—not water, but something darker and more viscous that left permanent stains.

The sound of dripping was constant here, a metronome keeping time with something vast and patient. But underneath it, Elias could swear he heard something else—whispers, perhaps, or the distant sound of breathing that matched the rhythm of the waves outside.

He pressed deeper into the cave, following a path that seemed worn smooth by the passage of many feet over many years. The air grew thick and humid, carrying scents that belonged to neither land nor sea but something in between. Salt, yes, but also decay, and underneath it all, something that reminded him uncomfortably of the metallic tang of fresh blood.

The journal was waiting for him in an alcove carved into the cave's far wall, wrapped in oiled leather that had kept it dry despite the cave's perpetual dampness. Marina Keane had hidden it well, but not well enough to escape the notice of someone who knew where to look.

Elias settled cross-legged on the cave floor, his torch planted in a crevice above his head, and opened the journal with trembling hands. The pages were water-stained but legible, covered with Marina's careful handwriting. The early entries were mundane—observations about weather, notes about her daughter's progress in learning the village's sacred songs, complaints about the quality of the season's fish.

But as he read deeper, the tone began to change.

Third day of Saltmoon - Cain came to me again last night. His attentions grow more frequent, more insistent. He speaks of divine purpose, of how my body might serve the God's greater design. I fear I am with child, though I dare not voice such suspicions aloud.

Elias's stomach clenched. His father's hypocrisy ran deeper than Thomas Keane had known.

Seventh day of Saltmoon - The pregnancy is confirmed. Cain is... pleased. He speaks of the child as if it were some prophetic gift, destined for great things in service to the Tide God. But when I ask what specific purpose he envisions, his answers become evasive. There is something he is not telling me.

The entries continued, chronicling Marina's growing unease as her pregnancy progressed. She wrote of strange dreams where she walked along the ocean floor, breathing water as easily as air. Of whispers that seemed to come from within her own womb, speaking in languages that predated human speech.

First day of Deepcurrent - I have made a terrible discovery. The sacred texts Cain showed me, the ones that supposedly justify our communion with the Tide God—they are not what he claims. I found older versions hidden in the archives, written in the original script. The translation is wrong. Deliberately wrong.

Elias leaned closer to the page, his heart hammering against his ribs.

We are not worshipping a benevolent deity that accepts our offerings out of love. We are feeding something that demands our flesh, our blood, our very souls as tribute. The Shearings are not acts of devotion—they are a form of marking, a way for the entity to identify and claim its chosen vessels.

The torch above him flickered, casting dancing shadows across the cave walls. For a moment, the sigils carved there seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

Second day of Deepcurrent - I confronted Cain about the translations. He did not deny the deception, but neither did he show remorse. He claims the truth would drive the faithful to madness, that the lie serves a greater purpose. But I see the fear in his eyes when he speaks of the God. This is not faith—it is terror masquerading as devotion.

He grows more desperate by the day. The child in my womb responds to his presence now, moving restlessly when he is near. Sometimes I feel as though I am carrying not a human infant but something else entirely. Something that recognizes its sire not as a father but as a servant.

The entries became more erratic as Marina's due date approached, her handwriting growing shakier with each page. She wrote of Cain's increasing desperation, his insistence that she undergo a special Shearing ceremony before the birth—something he called "the final offering" that would ensure the child's divine nature.

Tenth day of Deepcurrent - I cannot let him do this. Whatever grows inside me, whatever purpose the God has planned for this child, I will not allow it to come to pass. Cain speaks of bloodlines and sacred duties, but I see only hunger in the depths. An endless, consuming need that will never be satisfied.

I have made arrangements. Thomas will help me leave the village after the birth. We will go inland, far from the sea's influence, and I will raise the child away from all of this madness. Cain can find another vessel for his God's appetites.

But the final entries told a different story.

Twelfth day of Deepcurrent - It knows. Somehow, the entity knows of my plans. The whispers in my dreams have become screams, and the child moves constantly now, as if trying to claw its way free. Cain grows more frantic by the hour. He speaks of betrayal, of divine retribution for those who would deny the God its due.

I fear I have waited too long. The birth is upon me, and I am alone. Thomas has not come as promised. Perhaps Cain has discovered our plan. Perhaps—

The entry ended abruptly, the ink smeared as if Marina's hand had been forced to stop mid-sentence. The remaining pages were blank save for a single line scrawled across the very last page in what looked like a different hand entirely:

The sea remembers its debts.

Elias let the journal fall closed, his hands shaking so badly he could barely maintain his grip. The truth was worse than he'd imagined—not just his father's adultery and murder, but the revelation that everything he'd been taught about their faith was a carefully constructed lie.

They weren't serving a benevolent deity. They were feeding a predator.

The torch above him guttered suddenly, plunging the cave into near-total darkness. In the sudden silence, Elias became aware of another sound—the soft splash of something moving through the tidal pools at the cave's entrance. Something large, deliberate, and utterly wrong.

He fumbled for his pack, stuffing the journal inside while trying to relight the torch with trembling fingers. But the splashing was getting closer, accompanied now by a sound like wet cloth being dragged across stone.

The torch flared back to life just as something pale and glistening appeared at the edge of his vision. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought he saw a human figure—but the proportions were all wrong, the limbs too long, the movements too fluid. Whatever it was, it retreated immediately from the light, melting back into the cave's deeper shadows with a sound like a retreating tide.

Elias didn't wait to see if it would return. He grabbed his pack and ran for the cave entrance, his boots splashing through pools of something that was definitely not seawater. Behind him, he could hear movement—lots of it—as if the cave had suddenly filled with unseen inhabitants all stirring to wakefulness.

He burst from the cave mouth into the grey morning light, gasping like a drowning man. The familiar crash of waves against stone had never sounded so welcoming. But as he stood there catching his breath, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him from within the cave's depths.

Something that now knew exactly where to find him.

The journal felt heavy in his pack as he began the treacherous journey back along the coastal path. Marina Keane's words echoed in his mind, painting a picture of deception and cosmic horror that made his father's recent behavior suddenly, terrifyingly clear.

But one question remained, burning in his thoughts like acid: if the child Marina had been carrying was meant to serve some divine purpose, and if she had died before giving birth... what did that mean for Claire?

The girl who had accepted her Shearing with such unnatural calm. The girl who had spoken of her mother's failed escape attempt. The girl whose wound, he realized with growing dread, he had never actually seen heal.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the wind carried a sound from the direction of Saltcradle—distant but unmistakable. Singing. A woman's voice raised in one of the old hymns, but pitched at frequencies that seemed to bypass the ears entirely and resonate directly in his bones.

Claire's voice, he realized. Calling across the morning mist like a siren's song.

And despite every instinct screaming at him to run in the opposite direction, Elias found himself taking a step toward the village. Then another. The journal's revelations had armed him with knowledge, but they had also made one thing terrifyingly clear:

His connection to Claire Keane was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning.