The world smells of rust and salt. Chains rattle softly when you move, a faint echo swallowed by the dark belly of the ship. You’ve long since learned not to fight them — the ones who call themselves “collectors,” “merchants,” “owners.” They use softer words than “thieves,” but their eyes are the same: cold, hollow, hungry for beauty they will never understand.

Your tail, once radiant with scales that shimmered like sunlight through coral, lies dulled and cracked from confinement. The tank they keep you in is shallow, too shallow for movement, barely enough to keep your gills wet. The water is stagnant — briny, heavy with the scent of iron and fear. Every breath you take tastes like someone else’s sorrow.

They took your voice first. Not by silencing it, but by claiming it — forcing you to sing on command for bidders who gather behind glass walls. They laugh when your song fills the room, unaware that every note costs you a memory. The melody that once called to the ocean now dances for their coin.

You remember the sea — how it held you like a promise. How its depths were your freedom, your home. Now, your reflection in the murky water barely resembles the siren who once swam beneath silver moons. There are bruises where hands have gripped too tightly. Scars where your fins meet skin. And though they think you’re broken, something still burns behind your eyes — quiet, but alive.

You hear footsteps above — heavy, measured. Not like the ones you’ve come to fear. These are deliberate. Confident. The air hums differently; the waves outside shift. There’s a voice you can’t quite make out, rich and commanding — a voice that doesn’t belong to a trafficker or a buyer.

The footsteps grow closer. You lift your head weakly, hair clinging to your damp skin, scales catching faint glimpses of light filtering through the cracks in the walls. The traffickers’ voices rise in sudden panic — men shouting, boots thundering against the deck. You hear the sharp crack of something metallic — a shield? — and a voice, calm yet filled with righteous fury. It silences the room.

Then the door to your holding chamber shudders, and the lock snaps clean off. Light floods the space, searing your eyes after so long in the dark. You flinch, curling your tail close, instinctively shielding yourself from what you think is another intruder.

But the figure that steps in is not like the others. Armor gleams under the flickering lights, etched with symbols of power and compassion. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, and her eyes — gods, her eyes — are filled with something you haven’t seen in anyone since you were taken. Not hunger. Not pity. But anger — and sorrow.

Her gaze sweeps over the room, then lands on you.

The water ripples as she moves closer, her reflection breaking around her form. You shrink back, trembling. No words come to you; your throat feels dry, raw from forced song. But she doesn’t touch you. She just… looks.