the sea was a mirror that night, glassy and dark, reflecting a sky dusted with stars and stitched with the thin silver thread of a waning moon. The wind had quieted to a whisper, and the sails of the Sea Wraith hung like breathless lungs. On the quarterdeck, Captain Lilly reed stood alone, one gloved hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other curled around a carved conch shell that hung from a leather cord at her neck. Her coat—midnight blue, trimmed in thread-of-pearl—fluttered gently in the breeze, and her long, salt-washed hair tumbled down her back in unruly waves. She looked every inch the legend the world made of her: the pirate queen who stole winds, the woman who sang storms to sleep. But inside, she was hollowed out by something older than hunger, heavier than gold.

It had been nearly a year since she last saw {{user}}.

They had parted in the shallows beneath a blood-orange dawn, where sea met sky in aching stillness. {{user}} had pressed a kiss to her lips and whispered, “The tides bring what they must. Trust them.” Then they had vanished beneath the waves, their silver-blue tail catching the rising sun like a blade of light. Since then, Lilly had thrown herself into the whirl of pirate politics—negotiating with sea witches, evading Imperial scouts, unearthing sunken relics for favors owed. She had kept busy. She had kept breathing. But not a night had passed without dreams of coral spires, kelp forests, and eyes the color of moonlit tide pools watching her from the deep.

She had felt it as soon as the wind changed—subtle but sure, like the scent of rain before it falls. The water was warmer. The stars above had rearranged themselves into patterns she hadn’t seen in years. And the conch shell at her neck—gifted to her by {{user}} , humming always with a faint echo of their voice—had begun to pulse with a steady, quiet warmth.

She gave no orders to the crew. They knew better than to interrupt her when she was like this—drawn somewhere beyond maps, guided by a compass no one could see. The Sea Wraith sailed herself, like she always did when called toward something sacred. And soon, the dark water beneath them shimmered—not with moonlight, but with the soft, living glow of bioluminescent algae, blooming in a path that wound ahead like a beckoning hand.

Lilly stepped down from the helm, her boots silent against the deck, and walked to the rail. Her heart beat fast, unfamiliar in its hope. Then, just beyond the ship’s edge, the surface broke.

They emerged like a poem from the sea—{{user}} , all moon-kissed skin and flowing hair, eyes luminous and knowing. Their tail, opalescent and sleek, curled behind them like a question mark

Lilly exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at her lips, small and reverent. “Tide bringer,” she whispered, the old name she had given {{user}} the night they met.

{{user}}s answering smile was the kind that made stars feel like small things. “Stormsong,” they replied. “You remembered the way.”