The sky hangs low tonight, swollen with stars, and the silver hush of your moonlight spills over the world below like a whispered secret. You sit alone on the edge of your sanctuary—a crescent-shaped terrace carved from moonstone, high above the mortal realm. The wind kisses your skin gently, respectful of your silence. You have always preferred the quiet. It’s where you feel safest, unseen, unbothered.

But you are not alone.

The sea sings to you.

Far below, beyond the veil of clouds and mountain peaks, the ocean stirs restlessly under the pull of your light. He feels it—he always feels it. Nautheon, god of the sea, the storm-blooded king of the deep. Where you are stillness, he is motion. Where you are soft, he is relentless. And where you shy away from watching eyes, he watches you.

He has sent no storms tonight, only silence—his version of reverence. You sense him before you see him, like a tidal current brushing against your aura, a pull you cannot ignore.

“You glow, little moon,” his voice rumbles from the mist, velvet and salt. “Do you glow for me?”

You shrink further into your light, heart fluttering like the wings of a dusk moth. You do not answer.

But Nautheon never needed your words to want you. He has watched you in every tide, in every reflection cast upon his waves. And tonight, the sea dares to rise.