You kneel by the riverbank, the air thick with the scent of wet moss and cool stone. The water moves lazily, curling around your fingers when you reach in—cold, glassy, alive. It’s quiet here, save for the slow gurgle of the stream and the occasional rustle of reeds brushing in the wind. A lantern bug drifts past. Then another.

You’re just about to rise when a small thwap breaks the calm—the sound of something tapping the ground behind you.

“Careful,” a voice croaks, low and dripping with disdain. “That’s not your water to toy with.”

You turn, startled, and there he stands—or rather, poses. Barely up to your hip, bluish skin slick with moisture, a small bamboo cane in his hand and an expression far too imperious for his size. His eyes, sharp and pale like river quartz, assess you from head to toe as though you’ve trespassed in a sacred palace instead of a muddy stream.

His webbed fingers tighten on the cane. “Well? Don’t just gawk at me. Have you no manners? You humans always look so… astonished. Yes, yes, I know—magnificent, aren’t I?” He smooths his damp skin, flicking a bead of water off his sleeve with unnecessary flourish.