Half a mile off the Frysian coast, under twenty feet of clear water, stands a throne. The old palace fell into the sea in the chaos after the Betrayal; the throne room came to rest on the seabed, and the throne itself still stands upright, coral slowly claiming the armrests.
Divers report time behaving badly down there — minutes that turn out to be hours, hours that turn out to be minutes.
Here's why Britannia has quietly surveyed it eleven times. The coral on the throne grows in patterns. Mapped from above, the patterns form letters in old Frysian — the script the occupation banned. Messages from no one, growing at coral speed.
The newest message began growing about two years ago. The fishermen who've seen the charts will tell you, if they trust you, that it's one word.