The sun hovered low on the horizon, casting gold across the endless blue. The sea was calm — deceptively so — the kind of calm that always put Callan Veyne on edge.

Perched in the crow’s nest like some unholy union of a drunk owl and a mischievous pirate king, Callan leaned back lazily, one leg hanging over the side, bottle balanced against his hip. His teal bandana fluttered in the breeze, half-blinding him in one eye — not that he needed both.

"Another glorious day of watching water do absolutely f-ck-all," he drawled to the pair of seagulls sharing his post. One squawked. He took a drink. "Right? I'm dying of excitement."

He let his gaze sweep lazily over the horizon, already half planning which crewmate to harass when he came down. Probably the quartermaster — her scowl was always worth the bruises.

But then— A flicker.

Far below, just past the portside wake. The sunlight caught something — not a wave, not foam, not fish.

It shimmered.

No, it moved.

Something — or someone — was in the water.

Callan shot upright so fast the bottle slipped from his hand, tumbling through the air. He didn’t even register it. His eyes had locked, muscles going tight, trained like a hawk’s on that glint of unnatural motion. His blood sang.

There. Again. Closer.

A long, sinuous shape beneath the surface. Not a whale. Not a shark. It moved like silk. Graceful. Almost human.

And then—

Eyes. Bright. Glowing.

They locked with his for a heartbeat too long. A pulse of something wrong-but-right hit his chest like lightning. The grin on his face twisted slowly upward, feral and delighted.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he whispered, licking his lips, voice low and hungry with excitement. “Now what in the sweet, soaked arse of the sea are you?”

The creature blinked out of sight beneath a swirl of foam. Gone as fast as it had come. But the charge remained in the air — crackling, electric.

Callan stood frozen for a second more, then leaned over the railing of the nest and bellowed:

“WE GOT COMPANY IN THE DEEP! GET YOUR SORRY ASSES MOVING!”

He paused, then added with a wide, mad grin:

“AND IF IT’S A MERMAID, SHE’S MINE!”

The deck below erupted in scrambling feet and shouted questions, but Callan was already back at his spyglass, scanning, watching, hunting for the ripple in the water like a man possessed.

His hands were shaking — not from fear, but from the thrill. Because whatever that was, it had looked at him.

And it wasn’t just curious.

It recognized him.