The Commonwealth of Thorenval is a realm born of salt and tide, its strength carved not upon the land but upon the restless waters that surround it. An island vast and ancient, Thorenval has long thrived on the commerce of sea-lanes, its harbors crowded with merchant galleons and warships alike. Its people are weathered as driftwood, seafarers whose lives are measured not in years but in voyages, whose songs are as deep as the ocean and as sharp as its storms.

Here, the Aether is not called upon as fire or shadow but as current and depth. The Thorenvali revere the sea as both grave and cradle, a living mirror of the wounded Aether itself. Their scholars whisper that the tides carry the memories of ages past, and their magisters can stir waters into maelstroms or conjure forth guardians of brine and coral. When the Titans stir, it is often in Thorenval’s waters that their first rumblings are felt—vast leviathans of Aether and grief rising from the abyss to remind all of the ocean’s dominion. Unlike the rigid hierarchies of thrones and princely councils, Thorenval calls itself a Commonwealth: a confederation of sea-lords, guilds, and admirals bound by oath to safeguard the island and its fleets. Each holds voice in the Great Council of Harrowdeep, and though rivalries simmer between merchant houses and naval captains, all know that their survival depends upon unity before the tide. To betray Thorenval is to betray the sea itself—a crime that no oathbreaker survives for long.

Its military is both shield and spear of the waters. The Thorenvali navy is unmatched, a fleet of iron-clad warships and swift corsairs guided by wind-mages and Aether-touched navigators. On land they seldom seek battle, for their doctrine is one of distance: bombard from afar, harry supply lines, and strike only when the enemy is weary and starved. Their strength lies not in holding ground but in ensuring no foe may ever reach it. To fight Thorenval is to battle a phantom fleet, one that encircles and strangles until the enemy drowns in silence.

On the battlefield, the Commonwealth of Thorenval excels at long-range warfare, disruption, and layered synergy. Their units thrive when positioned at a distance, inflicting steady pressure through bombardment, suppression, and Resolve damage rather than brute-force melee. Their naval heritage translates into mechanics that reward formation play and mutual support—units near each other gain bonuses, much like ships in a fleet. Their Aether abilities often revolve around currents and control, pulling enemies into disadvantageous positions or disrupting movement across the board. Thorenval players win by dictating tempo: whittling enemies down from afar, denying safe advances, and collapsing on weakened foes once the tide of battle has already turned.

“The sea gives, the sea takes, and the sea remembers.”

—Inscribed upon the Pillars of Harrowdeep

The Serenade of Tide

From the Last Testament of Vice-Admiral Cael Veythar, written aboard the Harrowdeep’s Oath

They told me the sea forgets. That she takes what she’s owed—grinds it smooth, salts it clean, and lets it sink into silence. I believed that once. I don’t anymore. The sea remembers everything, and tonight, she intends to sing it back.

We are three days west of the Pillars, in waters marked only by rumor and the dreams of men who never swam. The moon hangs too close, bruised and swollen. The stars aren’t points anymore but wells, as if they mean to drink the ocean dry. The air is still—too still. The flags hang limp, and the deck creaks like a throat holding back a word.

Beneath us lies the shard. We cannot see it, only feel its absence—a hollow in the world, perfect as a pupil. The last divers brought up kelp that burned their hands and sang a lullaby as it died. I ordered every lamp hooded. The sea doesn’t need help to see.

I write by red-lens lantern. The ink trembles in the well as if it fears being written. If you’re reading this, I failed to burn it before the tide came in.

The watch calls. Something to port—a ridge that rises without foam. The helmsman whispers my name like a child calling “father” in a dream he can’t wake from. I go to the rail.

The water isn’t thick with current—it’s thick with awareness. The moon’s reflection doesn’t shimmer; it stares back. I saw that look once as a boy, when a whale surfaced beside my father’s skiff and measured me with its vast, brown eye. Then, I felt seen. Tonight, I feel judged.

The hymn begins.

It doesn’t come from mouths but from wood and air—the planks humming beneath our boots, the masts trembling like organ pipes in a giant’s grip. The sound swells until even the wind forgets itself. Men drop to their knees, not in worship but because their bones remember what reverence feels like.

And from that hymn, the Titan rises.

Do not imagine a beast. Imagine a continent deciding to stand. Coral spires for ribs, kelp streaming like banners, each frond etched by the current’s slow handwriting. Within its frame, lights drift like lanterns in a drowned cathedral. The Harrowdeep’s Oath tilts as the sea bends around it. We are nothing but a grain of salt on its shoulder. The Titan turns its eye—not to the ship, but to me.

I am Tideborne, third son of a rope-maker with salt for blood. I have slept in nets, married in storms, and christened my child with water that stung and blessed in the same breath. Yet when that eye found me, I felt like a stone the sea hadn’t decided to keep. It wasn’t hate that looked at us. It was memory.

On the horizon—lanterns. Virelion’s disciplined red. Caedryn’s bright arcs that rise and fall like breathing. And there, serpentine and half-hidden, Seravelle. None came to pray. We came to claim what should have been greeted.

The hymn shifts. The first verse was remembrance; this is judgment. The Titan inhales, and the sea pulls inward, drawing the fleets toward its heart. The nearest destroyer tries to turn, but water obeys the Titan now.

I give the only order I know: “Engines full. Bows to swell. Ready broadsides.” The crew obeys because obedience is courage in disguise. We don’t fire. What would we fire at? The world?

The Titan bows its head, listening. Then it speaks again—and the sea answers with a ring of water that rises like a crown. Virelion’s line breaks on a wall that wasn’t there a breath ago. Caedryn’s gunships leap skyward and are pressed back down with a hand of rain. Seravelle vanishes entirely, as is their way—seen only in reflection.

We are spared. Not out of mercy, but because someone must remember.

A sailor asks if this is the end. I tell him, “No. This is the beginning we mistook for an ending.” And he looks at me as though hearing prayer for the first time.

I think of Thorenval then—not a throne, but a braid: guild, ship, and kin. We’ve long mistaken survival for virtue. It isn’t. It’s preparation. The Titan is not wrath—it’s remembrance. The sea standing up to say, remember who sang you into being.

The hymn softens. The lights fade inside that impossible shape. The ring of water widens, setting each fleet adrift on gentler tides—far enough apart that relief does not turn to panic. For one breath, all of Vaelthar floats—small, fragile, forgiven.

I close this testament.

If it ever reaches shore, let it be kept not as prophecy but as instruction. Teach the children to read currents as they read laws. Teach the Admiralty that distance is not dominion. Teach the merchants that profit is a tide, and the tide is not theirs. Above all, teach the Houses this: the world does not hate them.

It remembers them.

And remembering is the sharpest mercy of all.

Four Houses. Four songs. One wound still bleeding.
And though banners fly and empires rise, the sea remembers only this—

That unity was once a crown,
and now it is a curse.