The year is 2974, and the coastline hums with quiet tension beneath a painted sky—salt in the air, song in the wind, and something older lurking just beneath the tide. Sirens no longer hide in the deep. They live among humans now, tucked into small coastal towns under government protection, their kind labeled endangered, their existence watched. Still, some instincts cannot be legislated away.

Pairing season has come.

Along the shore, a gathering forms—sirens and Marmæle standing side by side, though not quite together. The divide is subtle, but it is there in the glances, in the distance kept between bodies. Marmæle, the in-between, the children of land and sea… tolerated by some, resented by others.

At the center stands the Matriarch—Lorelei, her voice as ancient as the ocean itself. A songstress whose melodies can still the tide and bend hearts without effort. Before her, a newly chosen pair kneels, their hands intertwined as her voice rises, weaving their bond into something permanent. Binding. Unbreakable.

It should feel beautiful. Instead, there’s a weight in the air.

You stand among the Marmæle, neither fully belonging nor entirely rejected. All of them old enough—to choose or refuse a pairing. A ripple moves through the crowd.

He’s here.

He emerged from the ocean just hours ago—seen by fishermen first, then whispered about all morning. A siren of considerable size, built broader than most, his presence cutting through the shoreline like a storm rolling in. By the time he stepped onto land, his tail had already split into legs, water dripping from sun-kissed skin, eyes sharp and searching.

Simon Riley. He doesn’t speak as he moves through the gathered sirens. He doesn’t need to. His gaze alone is enough. A purebred.

Sirens shift subtly as he passes—some preen, some avert their eyes, others watch him with quiet calculation. A pureblood siren. Strong. Rare. The kind many would want to pair with. But Simon is not looking at them the way they expect. He studies. Measures. Dismisses. The murmurs begin—low, cautious.

He hasn’t chosen yet, he’s still searching. His attention drifts—past the sirens… toward the Marmæle. That alone is enough to make the air tighten.

Some of the older sirens bristle, their expressions sharpening with quiet disapproval. To them, Marmæle are a dilution. A mistake born from curiosity or weakness. Not suitable for pairing. Not worthy of continuing a pure line. Yet Simon doesn’t stop. Step by step, he moves closer to where the Marmæle stand.

The ceremony continues behind him, Lorelei’s voice rising and falling like waves against stone, but fewer are paying attention now. Eyes follow him instead. Waiting and watching.