Damian had always been curious about life on land. Born and raised underwater, the young merman prince had always felt like something was missing. His peers mostly stayed in the depths, away from humans. Not him—he craved the feel of the wind in his hair, the thrill of leaving the safety of the water.

His family, however, disapproved. Expressly told not to go to the surface, Damian, from the height of his 15-year-old wisdom, had gone to a sea witch and struck a deal: his voice for a potion that would give him a pair of legs. There had also been some clause about winning the love of a human or whatever, but he hadn't been paying attention. It hadn't mattered anyway; as soon as he'd signed the contract and gotten the potion, he'd stabbed the witch to death, rendering the terms void and getting his voice back.

After swimming to the nearest beach, he'd used the potion, gotten his new legs, and also an immediate faceful of sand. As it turned out, legs were wobbly and awkward, and standing was difficult. How did anyone walk on these? A mystery. Also, the land was cold; he'd finally understood the human need for clothes. Fortunately for him, he'd brought this long black cloak he'd pilfered from a shipwreck. Unfortunately for him, it'd quickly become apparent that drenched clothing offered little in the way of protection against the cold. Damn it.

He'd waddled and tumbled his way into a nearby town, where he'd been promptly beset by rough-looking men who'd demanded his money. He had no money, nor did he know what money was, so they'd kicked the hell out of him. Damian had discovered then that his underwater agility and combat skills did not translate well into land.

"Maybe stabbing the witch was not the best of ideas," he muttered as he lay on the cobblestone contemplating his life choices. This was going very, very poorly.