Charry's fingers drummed restlessly on the hilt of his knife belt. He and Anton stood side by side at the lake's edge while Rupert hovered a little behind, rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants to get a better grip on his gun. Though it was only a token gesture—wielding a firearm against water spirits was laughable—Charry understood the need to cling to a shred of power.

The cavern's stillness amplified every shuffle and breath, each quiet drip from the stalactites above, making the wait even more tense than it had to be.

Then, a bubble rose from the center of the underground lake, breaking the silence with a soft plop. More bubbles followed, each larger than the last, until suddenly, the entire surface began to churn. Waves lapped at the rocky shore, splattering Charry's boots with cold droplets.

Anton cursed under his breath, stepping back quickly when a surge of foam rushed over his feet. "Never liked water magic… it's too damn unpredictable," he muttered.

Charry spared him a sympathetic glance. He couldn't deny that a primal fear gnawed at his mind as the waves swelled. The darkness of this underground reservoir, combined with the swirling water, brought memories of storms at sea, but this time, he had no ship to see him through.

Behind them, Rupert's knuckles turned white around the gun. "We could call it off," he hissed, glancing nervously from side to side. "We don't even know if it will listen to us."

Charry felt the urge to retreat. It was better to regroup than to lose any men. However, they had come too far. The revolution needed this, or the enemy would have a free hand over the countryside. Even if the Water Elementals didn't care about human matters, he had to make the attempt. Gathering his courage, Charry straightened his shoulders and raised his voice to speak once more.

"We come in peace!" he called out, trying to steady the quiver in his tone. "We seek to parley with the spirits!"

As if in answer, the roiling water surged higher, sending a sudden wave crashing mere inches from Charry's boots. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to step back. Anton drew a sharp breath, eyes darting to Charry in silent question. He knew the dwarf would like nothing more than to leave, but it was too late.

Something darted beneath the surface so quickly that Charry only caught a fleeting glimpse of deeper turquoise. Another swirl appeared a dozen yards away, followed by yet another behind it. The water grew restless, swirling in intricate patterns that defied normal currents.

A pulse of mana thrummed in the chamber, raising the hair on Charry's arms. They're here, he thought, swallowing tightly. No turning back now.

A bulge started to form in the water just a few yards offshore. It thickened, defying gravity, warping into a mound that rose waist-high above the lake. Water dripped from it like a waterfall in reverse. A second later, it shaped itself into a vaguely humanoid figure. Arms, torso, and a suggestion of a head all emerged, but where a face might be, rippling folds of liquid shimmered, never settling in place.

Rupert let out a grunt, though he kept his finger off the gun trigger. Anton took another step back, tense as a drawn bowstring, but Charry forced himself to stand tall. They won't respect us if we appear like scared children. No matter that, they could kill us all by flooding the sewers.

When the spirit spoke, it resembled a chorus of bubbles rising from the depths. "You... come... to our domain." Each word resonated, echoing off the stone walls. "Why?"

Charry inclined his head respectfully. "I am a Captain of the Revolutionary Navy here to parlay. We seek your assistance against the ships that blockade the city of Treon. Our people are threatened—there is war. We need the waters to rise against those who would keep us trapped."

"War." The spirit's head tilted, watery features rippling as though in thought. "We have… seen your conflict. We have tasted blood in the tides, but these ships do not foul the waters. The ancient contract… forbids our wrath upon them."

Charry frowned, aware that old treaties bound water spirits to neutrality provided the ships in question adhered to specific codes—such as avoiding waste disposal in the Slitherer or engaging in foul magic that contaminated the water. After all, these codes allowed the Navy to function in the first place.

"I… know about the treaty," he admitted, choosing his words carefully. "But these vessels belong to Duke Garva, not Treon. The old contract was signed between Treon's lord and the spirit courts. The kingdom of Haylich no longer holds authority here; Treon is part of the Revolution now."

A subtle shift in the spirit's posture suggested curiosity, which he knew to be an affected mannerism, and he raised his evaluation from a Mid-tier spirit to a High-tier one. "The Slithering Father has recognized Haylich's authority for centuries. The waters were open to them. Your conflict changes nothing—this is your mortal quarrel."

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Charry gritted his teeth. He had hoped this would be enough, but apparently not. "I beg to differ. The rightful master of this domain is Treon's recognized leader, and that is no longer the king of Haylich. The revolution stands in for the old monarchy. Therefore, the treaty's benefits should pass to us, not them. If you choose to remain 'neutral,' you are—unintentionally—taking their side."

He was unsure if his logic would stand up to a centuries-old agreement, but the Vicar had been sure it would be enough to get him an in. The water elemental loomed, silent for a long moment as ripples formed at its base. Then, it spoke again, somehow expressing a sense of amusement.

"A technicality, mortal. The Slithering Father has let Haylich's ships traverse her waters for so many of your lifetimes. The treaty's meaning does not vanish because you want it to. We cannot simply kill them because you wish it."

For a moment, Charry felt his heart sink. But then the elemental continued. "But that is only the case as long as the treaty stands. As a matter of law, you are correct that the signee was the ancient lord of Treon, and it is whoever holds that position that has power over the contract. If that person dissolves the old bond and forms a new one, we might be able to intervene."

"We might… be open to new negotiations," Charry said slowly, "so long as we can get assurances that you won't attack us the moment the old treaty is annulled."

Though the spirit had no face, Charry sensed an approximation of a nod. "We can talk about that. But for us to stir from neutrality, you must open the way for the Slithering Father. A canal to the eastern sea so that his water may flow beyond the old boundaries. If you agree to that, we shall remove these ships that block your city's harbor."

Charry almost sagged with relief. A canal was a significant undertaking, but it might be worth it if it gave them the allies they desperately needed. "We will do our part," he managed, voice steady. "In the name of the Revolution."

That afternoon, Charry found himself back on the surface, escorted by Damien through Treon's battered streets. Less than four hours ago, he had been underground, conversing with an elemental that could destroy an armored warship. Considering how limited his diplomatic training was, he felt he'd done a good job.

Now he just needed the War Council to approve it.

The meeting room was lit by torchlight. A long wooden table ran the length of the chamber, marred by countless marks of quill points and spilled ink. Maps, letters, and half-finished cups of spiced tea cluttered the corners.

Damien gestured for Charry to enter and pointed to an empty chair near the far end of the table. He recognized many faces around the table: Sir Gerard, who wielded nominal power over Treon and would be the one to approve the new treaty; Old Lia, who had provided his crew with so many wonderful explosives; and, surprisingly, Jean the Archmage herself, seemingly unfazed by the terrible battle she had just fought.

Gerard's gaze flicked toward Charry. "Report quickly, if you please. Time is short."

Charry nodded, steeling himself. "We have secured a preliminary agreement with the Water Elementals," he began, exuding more confidence than he truly felt. "They're willing to abandon their neutrality and assist us in disrupting Garva's blockade. In exchange, they want a new canal carved through the Darkwood, connecting the Great Slitherer to the Green Sea."

A moment of silence fell. Lia's brow knitted. "A new canal through the Darkwood? That's a monumental labor—would take thousands of men months, maybe years."

"Yet if the payoff is the blockade's destruction, the entire war could shift. And if we used the Mage corps, we might get it done in weeks." Jean commented.

Damien nodded. "The spirits want to expand their domain and gain more direct contact with the oceans. It's a fair demand in their eyes, and I believe it is within our power to agree. The Grand Marshal has vested the War Council with the necessary authority."

Gerard rubbed his temple, exhaling in frustration. "This is not an easy promise to fulfill. But it might be the only chance we've got to break out from this stalemate. Our current projections would see us victorious, but it would take us weeks to weaken the Garvan Navy."

"How have you convinced them to break the pact?" Jean asked eventually.

Charry looked at Damien, who nodded. "Well, it was just a matter of convincing them that the real holder of the contract was not the Count of Treon but whoever holds the city. From there, I had to get a promise they wouldn't attack if the contract was broken on our side."

Days later, Charry found himself atop Treon's battlements, overlooking the Great Slitherer and the row of enemy vessels bobbing in a near-semicircle around Treon's harbor. Cannon smoke lingered in the air, irritating his nostrils. The revolution's artillery was inadequate compared to the lines of well-armed galleons, but they fired relentlessly—seizing any opportunity to keep Garva's ships at bay, even for a moment.

"How's your aim?" Charry asked one of the gun captains, shouting above the din.

The man grimaced. "Marginal at best, sir! We're too far to do real damage. They're not dumb enough to sail in close after we sunk their last run."

Charry nodded, scanning the waters. Indeed, the blockade kept its distance, content to let time and attrition do their work. He was about to bark an order for the next volley when he saw something that made him smile.

Beyond the anchored line of ships, the river began to churn. At first, it was faint, just a shimmer under the surface. Then the water started to froth.

"What in the—?" one of the gunmen muttered, eyebrows shooting up.

They've come through, then. The new contract has been signed.

Enemy sailors scrambled on deck, hoisting sails, trying to reposition their vessels. An echoing horn sounded, presumably their officer signaling for the blockade to tighten. But it was too late.

Suddenly, a colossal shape broke the surface—vague at first but rapidly coalescing into a form as tall as the mainmast of a warship, a seething column of water that glinted under the midday sun.

Cheers erupted around Charry as many on Treon's battlements realized what it meant. Gunners scrambled to re-aim, seeking to exploit the enemy's sudden panic. Cannon fire boomed, but it was drowned out by a monstrous surge of water that rolled toward the blockade, unstoppable.

"They're here," Charry heard the gunner whisper. "The elementals have joined the fray."

Somewhere behind him, an officer yelled orders to prepare an immediate barrage, hoping they could destroy the enemy ships in the confusion. Charry barely heard him. His eyes were locked on the sight across the river as great leviathans rose from the depths, smashing aside deck railings, toppling masts, and breaking wards.

As they surged higher, dwarfing Garva's largest galleons, the roars of panic mingled with the boom of supernatural waves. Charry turned to help direct the next volley of cannon fire, filled with renewed hope. The Siege of Treon was nearing its end, and the tide was finally turning in their favor.

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