In the black waters where sunlight dies, a lone figure drifts—half man, half ocean’s secret. His eyes burn with a blue glow, the only light in a kingdom of silence. The whales call him Kaelith, the Lantern of the Abyss, for his gaze pierces even the crushing dark. Few have seen him, but fatefully none of them lived long enough to tell the story.

Kaelith was once a guardian of trench-temples carved into basalt cliffs, where bioluminescent glyphs shimmer like constellations. His skin, patterned with living light, tells stories older than tides—warnings, prayers, and songs etched in shifting hues. Barnacles cling to his mantle like jewels, and seaweed robes trail behind him like banners of forgotten kings.

He swims with the grace of dolphins, yet carries the weight of orcas in his tail. When predators of the deep approach—fangs glinting, shadows vast—Kaelith does not flee. He opens his mouth, revealing teeth sharp as coral, and sings. The song is low, resonant, vibrating through the trench walls. It is not a song of war, but of dominion. The abyss itself answers, and the hunters scatter.

But Kaelith is not only a warden. He is a seeker. Each night, he drifts upward, toward the faint shimmer of the surface, yearning for a world he can’t touch. His glowing eyes show the stars he will never see directly. In his silence, he dreams of a sky that mirrors his ocean.