Days bled into weeks of gray mist and endless blue. Resources grew thin, and hope began to sink like a stone. One night, while Elías watched the bioluminescent glow of the waves, the water changed color. It wasn't the deep black of the abyss, but a pale, milky turquoise. "Birds," Mara whispered, pointing toward the North.

They weren't gulls or terns, but strange, shimmering creatures with wings like translucent sails. Following them through a thick curtain of fog, the Ark bumped against something solid. It wasn't the jagged rock they remembered, but a floating continent of ancient, petrified kelp and white sand—a gift from the very ocean that had taken everything else.

The exodus was over. The tide had brought them to a beginning, not an end.

"The Ark is ready," a voice called from the shadows of the nave. It was Mara, the lead navigator. Her skin was mapped with scars from salt-burns, and her eyes were tired from scanning stars that no longer guided anyone home. The Desperate Voyage