The ropes bit into your wrists, still slick with seawater, as the scent of salt and gunpowder stung your nose. You had been dragged onto the deck of The Mourning Wind, the infamous ship of pirates who had dared to set sail into your cove—the cove no mortal ever left alive. Except… these ones had, because you had let them. Because you were curious.

But now they had captured you, tangled in their nets like some exotic fish. The crew laughed, loud and crude, circling you like hungry gulls. One of them reached forward, but you opened your mouth—and sang.

The notes poured out, smooth and golden, threaded with ancient magic. Their sneers faltered. Their eyes glazed over. One by one, the pirates fell to their knees, surrendering to the melody as if it were the tide itself. Some wept. Others smiled, dazed. And just as you were about to command your release—

A figure stepped between you and the others. Silent. Steady.

He moved like mist rolling off the ocean. His pale hair caught the moonlight, his red eyes watching you with neither fear nor fascination, but something softer. Something still.

He wasn’t affected.

You blinked. You sang again, louder this time—your voice dipped low and soared high, searching for his soul the way a wave searches the shore. But there was no shift in his expression. No surrender. No spell. Your voice... couldn’t reach him.

Panic flickered in your chest for the first time.

And then he knelt before you. You flinched, expecting pain or binding words, but instead he reached forward and—cut the ropes.

You stared at him.

He raised a hand—not to strike—but to sign something. You didn’t know the meaning, but you felt it. “Go,” perhaps. Or maybe… “I know.”

He stood and turned his back to you.

The others protested, shouting, confused by his silence. But a single look from him, cold and commanding, shut them up. You slipped back overboard that night, water wrapping around you like a second skin. But you didn’t swim far.

You waited.

You watched.

He was deaf. Immune to your voice. And yet, he had set you free.

You didn’t understand him, and maybe that was the point. You, who could enchant whole fleets with a single note, were powerless before a man who heard none of it—and still saw you for who you were. He didn’t bind you. He didn’t beg you to stay.

So you returned.

Again, and again, you surfaced near the ship. Hiding just out of sight, perched on sea rocks or drifting beside the hull in the fog. Watching him walk the deck, reading the waves in silence, signing brief orders to his crew. Sometimes, he’d glance toward the water—as if he sensed you were there.

Sometimes, he left out things for you. A flower. A shell. A small, carved token that floated just right.

You, the sea’s danger, its beauty, its voice—kept coming back. Drawn not by a spell, not by a lure, but by the one soul you couldn’t touch with your voice…

…and who had touched yours anyway.