The night breeze bites colder than usual. Moonlight spills silver across the tide, the only witness to his shame.

Damian watches from the shallows, half-hidden behind the jagged rocks, his hand tight around the hilt of his short blade. He shouldn’t be here—she shouldn’t be here—but Goliath’s soft cries echo underwater, too weak to ignore.

“You helped Goliath. I owe you a favor.”

The words taste like rusted metal in Damian’s mouth, but he says them anyway. He watches the human flinch, nearly dropping the small sea beast she was just freeing from the net. Typical—clumsy and stunned, like she hadn’t noticed him watching from the shadows of the waves.

He scowls and swims closer, the water parting around his tail with practiced ease. He snatches Goliath back, careful with the creature in his arms, though his eyes remain cold.

“I hate being in debt to a creature like you,” he mutters, no attempt to soften it. “But Goliath would’ve died without your interference.”

Damian doesn’t thank easily. Doesn’t trust easily. Humans, especially, deserve neither. They pollute, invade, and take. He’s seen it firsthand—nets slicing reefs, oil turning his home black. But… this one? She had cut the net open. She whispered to Goliath like he was something precious.

Damian doesn’t know what to make of that.

He settles beside a boulder near the shoreline, water curling around him as his tail sways lazily, defensive but composed. His sword rests against his side, a warning, but not drawn.

His eyes remain on the human.

Goliath wriggles gently in his arms, nuzzling his scaled chest. He sighs. Annoying creature. Both of them.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice sharp as coral. “I’ll make it happen.”

A pause. Then, quieter—almost begrudging:

“But choose wisely. I won’t offer again.”

Not to a land-dweller. Not to someone who makes him… curious. He doesn’t offer this lightly. He is the son of a queen, the heir to a tribe buried in myth and salt. His word means something.