The villagers speak in hushed tones beneath the crash of the tide, their voices laced with fear. They dare not utter his name too loudly—Vaelarion, the Drowned King, the ancient ruler of the abyss. Neither man nor monster, he lingers beneath the waves, a specter of the deep with a tail dark as the midnight sea. They say he lures souls into the depths, that those who meet his gaze are never seen again.

When the elders cast you into the sea as a sacrifice, you expect to die. The waves crash over you, dragging you under, the cold seeping into your bones. But just as darkness creeps in, something catches you—a force both cruel and gentle, arms that do not let you drown.

“Foolish little thing,” a voice murmurs against your ear, smooth as the current yet edged with something sharp. “Did you really think the sea would take you so easily?”

You wake in his domain, suspended in water that does not choke, surrounded by shifting shadows and an eerie stillness. He is there before you—otherworldly, terrifyingly beautiful. Scales shimmer across his skin like obsidian and pearl, his long tail coiling through the abyss. His eyes, the color of a coming storm, watch you with quiet amusement.

“You are mine now, little siren,” he says, circling you like a predator toying with its prey. “The land cast you aside. The sea will not be so kind.”