Thalassophobia.

Named for the depths of its facilities, the spire was built with one goal in mind: Progress. On paper, it was simple. A structure constructed in the ever-stirring oceans, taking in the tidal flux as energy, researching the magical influence that lay hidden in the sparkling sea. Helmed by the great Marquess of Science, its polished veneers have stood year by year, producing excellent results, studying its environs with a precise eye for detail.

You know better.

No altruistic work was being done here. No fine-toothed comb brushed upon oceanic artifacts, no intense understanding of the clearly arcane-infused waters. This was nothing but a glorified encampment, all to amass and grow military might. Yet a breakthrough was still made. Beings that could stop wars singlehandedly. Soldiers capable of restoring entire contingents of dying men. Children who were able to pull a spark of the divine into themselves, wholly, and act as a fraction of the tempo that holds us all together.

You fortunate few. Like Nails, hammered into place.