In Saltwich, even the children bear the mark. Their heads are smooth and bare, their skin damp and grey-hued, their eyes too wide and too still. They wander between the docks and crooked homes like wraiths in the fog, speaking little, never laughing. No one plays. No one sings. The sea has already claimed them.

Born to a line long changed by the N’Gorroth, the youth of Saltwich carry their legacy without protest. There is no rebellion, no innocence. They know their place. On moonless nights, they follow their elders to the shoreline, hands slick with seawater, mouths murmuring things no outsider could understand.

These children are not victims. They are vessels. Raised to serve, shaped to listen, they wait for the call that will one day rise from beneath the tides. Some say they speak to things that others cannot see. Some say they dream of cities beneath the waves. In Saltwich, even a child’s silence is never empty.