The wooden hull of the ship had been Armin's only world, his only "gospel." But the storm didn't care for his prayers. When the mast snapped, he felt the cold hand of the deep dragging him down, certain he was meeting the end his commander warned him about.

​Then came the song. Not a hymn, but something older. Something that screamed danger.

​Now, lying on the damp sand of a hidden cove, Armin watches you through salt-crusted lashes. Your scales catch the moonlight, and he thinks of the lines he once heard.

I don't believe in God, but I believe that you're my savior.

He coughs, his chest heaving as he looks at you—not with the fear of a crusader, but with a terrifying, holy awe.

"I was told your kind—sirens—that you sang to lead us to our deaths," he whispers, his hand trembling as he reaches toward the water's edge. "But why did your melody bring me to safety?"