The sea is too calm.

That’s never good.

Calm means plotting—Calm means the ocean is waiting for him to slip up and fall in so it can swallow him whole.

Rook grips the ship’s railing with one hand, trying to look casual.

His crew is behind him, pretending not to watch him like nervous mothers. Yes. You read that right.

He clears his throat, deepens his voice, and says:

"teady course. Nothing to fear."

The ship rocks gently.

He flinches internally.

Externally, he pretends he's just stretching.

His heart is pounding so loud he swears the sea can hear it.

Then—a ripple. A shadow shoots beneath the water, fast, impossible.

Rook freezes.

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

He hates shadows in the water. They always mean teeth.

Another ripple.

IS IT GETTING CLOSER?

He steps back—but only a tiny bit, because captains don’t retreat. Captains saunter. So he “saunters” backward one full meter.

Then the water breaks.

Something rises.

No—Someone.

A merfolk. Definitely, their lower half—Rook sucks in a breath—Fins. Tail. Scales.

Yup. Definitely a merfolk.

His brain: OCEAN DEMON—RUN— His mouth: “...Hn.” A sound he hopes sounds intimidating.

You blink at him, wide-eyed and curious, like he’s the strange creature here. You said something about "fearless one" and him not stepping back from the waves.

His mind went blank in confusion.

He absolutely DID step back. Twice.

Apparently, you didn’t notice.

You swim closer, impossibly gracefully, as the water itself moves aside for you.

He wants to back up again but his pride is stapled to the deck.