The breakwater was a battlefield.
Iftaya stood at the eastern end. Her chain wrapped around her arm. The links glinted in the pale light. The metal was cold and dark. Each link was the size of her thumb.
Aresa was at the western end. Her hands were raised. Her eyes were closed. Her telekinesis held a section of crumbling stone in place. The effort was visible in the tremor of her shoulders. The sweat on her forehead despite the cold. The way her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
Between them, the twins worked frantically. They carved the modified runes into the already-reinforced stone. Their chisels rang against the rock. A sharp, percussive rhythm that echoed across the harbor. Their hands were raw. Their fingers bled through the bandages. They did not stop. They could not stop. The runes were the only thing standing between the town and the thing beneath the waves.
Lysander stood at the center of the breakwater. His eyes fixed on the water.
