Eventually, inevitably, the water overcomes the torches on the walls, extinguishing each flame. The water below Dyeawan goes dark. That water is now threatening her neck, filling the inside of the upended rowboat as it has filled the chamber around it. Dyeawan’s breathing becomes as shallow as the depths in which she’s anchored. Until now she wasn’t truly afraid of dying or failing, and now both feel like the tips of very sharp swords pressed to her temples.

She closes her eyes, preferring the darkness behind her eyelids to that of the drowned chamber. When she opens them again, Dyeawan discovers a new light spreading through the water surrounding her. It’s not the fiery reflection of torchlight, or any kind of flame Dyeawan has seen. Glimpses of bright and unnatural blue begin blinking in and out all around her. Curious, Dyeawan stretches her arms and dips her head below the surface of the water, eyes open and ignoring the salty sting.

It’s fish. They’re swimming into the chamber through the grates. That isn’t particularly odd or alarming, but Dyeawan quickly notices they are all the same kind of fish, dozens and dozens of them, and no other type of sea life is finding its way in.

She’s also never seen fish like these before. They’re almost more like sea snakes with fins as thin and willowy as wisps of smoke stretching their length. They appear almost black, but every few seconds their bodies come alight, crackling blue like tiny lightning strikes underwater. Their luminous forms flicker and pop with some palpable energy, then the light once again goes dark.

One of the creatures swims across the sole of her foot, close enough to brush the unnaturally soft skin there. The first sensation experienced by Dyeawan is surprise, followed by two bouts of brief yet intense pain. The first bout surges through her entire body. The second bout is focused solely on her hands grasping the rowboat’s oar rings, both of which let off a volley of sparks even beneath the water and cause her hands to lose their grip.

Dyeawan’s head is thrust beneath the surface. Her stung hands scramble to regain their grip on the rings. She grasps their rough edges, ignoring the pain, and pulls her head above the water, although now her chin is barely able to clear the surface that’s almost reached the bottom of the rowboat’s hull. Almost as dire, whatever coursed through her and touched off the oar rings has left them loose and threatening to pull free of their wood and steel moorings.