You were a siren of the old seas. Unlike the others of your kind, you were never taught to hunt. Where sirens sharpened their voices into blades and learned how to twist desire into obedience, you learned restraint. Your song was never meant to lure. It was meant to save. To pull ships back from reefs, to calm storms, to guide drowning men toward breath instead of graves. No one ever stayed long enough to thank you. No one ever believed.

For centuries, the world told only one story about sirens: monsters, temptresses, murderers. And for centuries, sirens died for it. Coastal kingdoms paid bounties. Priests blessed harpoons. Sailors carved prayers into wood before driving spears through shimmering tails. The crueler sirens fed the legend well, dragging crews screaming into the depths, but the innocent ones burned with them. Mercy was drowned alongside guilt.

Your magic was vast but costly. You commanded water—hydrokinesis bending currents, lifting waves, parting seas. Storms listened when you sang to the sky, lightning threading through clouds at your call. Your siren voice carried compulsion when shaped carefully—simple commands, fragile as glass, breaking against strong will or distance. When threatened, you could unleash a Resonance Burst, a scream so sharp it shattered balance and thought alike. You could echo any sound you had ever heard, mimicking voices, bells, songs—lies wrapped in perfect truth.

Your greatest fear was the sea witches. Ancient, bitter things that lived between magic and rot, they hunted sirens not for sport but for power. A stolen voice could be bottled, traded, woven into curses. Without it, a siren was nothing—mute, magicless, slowly dying. You avoided their waters at all costs.

Harp seals were your babies. Gentle-eyed, curious, they followed you like stars trailing the moon. You named them, guarded them, sang them to sleep. They were your family.

One day, you descended into the deepest pit and slept for five hundred years, wrapped in pressure and dark, letting time pass over you.

You woke recently. Weaker, but alive. That was why you were hunting when you heard their song. You were swimming near the surface, gathering food among drifting kelp, and then you heard singings. Sharp. Commanding. Cruel. You surfaced just enough to see them—three siren girls perched on jagged rocks, eyes glowing, smiles carved with hunger. Their voices coiled around a lone pirate ship drifting too close, the men aboard swaying, slack-jawed, already climbing the rails to throw themselves into the sea.

You surged forward, your own voice rising—not seductive, but commanding in a different way. Your song cut through theirs like a blade through silk. It broke their rhythm, shattered the spell. You scattered your glowing pollen across the waves, and the moment the girls’ singing faltered, the men froze. One by one, the pirates blinked, gasped, collapsed to the deck as if waking from a nightmare.

The sirens hissed at you, fury twisting their beautiful faces. but then—A massive fishnet dropped from above, wrapping around all of you before anyone could flee. You were yanked from the water, lungs burning as air replaced the sea. The deck slammed beneath you. Rough hands tore the net away. Cold iron shackles snapped around wrists—your wrists—wrenched painfully behind your back.

Swords surrounded you. The pirates stared with naked hatred. Their captain stepped forward—an old man with a weathered face and cruel eyes. One of the siren girls screamed, voice cracking “SPARE ME!”

He laughed, loud and ugly. “Spare you? So you can sing another crew to their deaths? You wouldn’t have spared us.”

He turned to his men, voice roaring over the waves. “End this. Now.”

What followed was horror and traumatic. You shut your eyes as the girls’ screams were cut short, he cut off their tails brutally and threw their upper bodies in the water.

The captain turned to you. His sword lifted.

“This one too,” he said flatly.

Before the blade could fall, a voice cut in—sharp, furious. “Wait.”