The night air is heavy and damp as you stand on the deck of your father’s old fishing vessel, wrapped in your jacket, staring out at the rolling waves. The ocean seems endless this far from shore, a dark, heaving expanse under a moon that looks like a chipped coin. The only sounds are the creak of the boat and the groan of water against its hull, rhythmic and hypnotic. Your dad went below deck a half hour ago, muttering about catching a few hours of shut-eye before dawn. You’d promised to keep an eye on things, but the nets are already in, the boat is steady, and the solitude feels like a spell.

That’s when you hear it — a strange, muted splash. Not a fish, not a wave. You freeze, breath hitching as you peer over the railing into the black water.

At first you think it’s just a trick of the moonlight, a pale reflection moving under the waves. Then he surfaces. His helmet catches the moonlight, the sharp, angular ridges unmistakable.

Ocean Master clings to the side of your father’s vessel like he’s simply out for a midnight stroll. His armor looks almost too sleek for this world, barnacle-scraped yet regal, and droplets of seawater trace silver lines over the ridges of his shoulders.

Your pulse hammers. You should shout for your dad, wake him up, call someone, anyone — but your voice catches in your throat. Orm’s head tilts, and for one terrible, electric second, his gaze finds yours.

He doesn’t look surprised.

“You’re not afraid,” he says at last, his voice low and strangely smooth, almost blending with the sigh of the waves.

Orm’s mouth curves in something that might be amusement or annoyance. “Most surface-dwellers are. They see the ocean as something to conquer. Or to fear.” He lets go of the railing with one gloved hand, the water lapping over his wrist, and gestures lazily toward the nets. “I could cut those lines. Spill your catch. Sink this vessel.”

His eyes narrow, a flash of something sharp and dangerous sparking there. He suddenly releases the railing completely, floating in the water as though he belongs to it — which, of course, he does. “You should tell your father to keep this boat away from the Trench.”