A woman, seated on a throne of black coral. Her skin was the colour of abalone, iridescent and cracked. Her eyes were twin pearls, unblinking. She was not human. She was the Deep’s memory, the spirit of the trench.
She checked her systems. The Seeker was damaged, but it could ascend. Above her, a whole world waited. A world she had been running from. A world full of noise and light and other flawed, beautiful people. dara deep
“I am not searching for the Chorus,” Dara whispered, the words scraping out of her like broken shell. “I am hiding from the surface. From the people who need me. From my own life. I came down here because I am afraid to live.” A woman, seated on a throne of black coral