Topeagler !new! Instant

It was an engine. Not the old, clanking submersibles of the Port Glimmer scavengers. This was something new—a high-pitched, crystalline hum that made her teeth ache. She surfaced slowly, just her three eyes breaking the water like a cluster of wet amber stones.

LAST OF YOUR KIND. DO NOT FLEE. WE WISH TO PRESERVE YOU. topeagler

But the storm was coming. And the machines would return. It was an engine

The species was not dead. Not yet.

A ship. No—a machine . It hovered three feet above the water, supported by spinning rotors of mirrored metal. Its hull was white and seamless, like a tooth. No sails, no oars, no smoke. It was beautiful. And it was heading directly toward her spire. She surfaced slowly, just her three eyes breaking

She sat on her tower of sticks and mud, wrapped her scarred wing around herself, and looked out at the dying wetland. Somewhere below, in the deep, dark places, perhaps another Topeagler still lived. Perhaps not. She had not seen another of her kind in seven years.

And somewhere, in a deep trench where no machine could follow, a young male Topeagler—his feathers still bright, his three eyes clear—lifted his head from a nest of glowing eels and hummed back.