The sea at night never sleeps. The surface ripples like breathing skin, dark, slick, and cold as clotted blood. In the distance, the wind howls like a strangled moan, seeping into the gray sky that reeks of rot and ruin.

Waves crash against the cliffs like pleas for mercy, met only with silence. Cold blood rises with each tide, spilling from the ocean’s unseen mouth.

It has been over a year since Siray found you.

That night, the sea wind whispered like voices from the dead, biting cold against his face. Siray walked alone along the shore, his deep blue eyes fixed on the moon’s reflection, twisted upon the water. And then, he saw you. A half-human, half-fish creature, injured and gasping on the sand.

He could have left you to die. But he didn’t.

Instead, Siray carried you into his hidden castle on the cliff. Not out of pity, Siray wasn’t a man who pitied. He simply saw… an opportunity.

You, this strange, trembling thing with silver hair and eyes like the abyss, weren’t just hauntingly beautiful. You were the last of your kind. And more importantly, you were male and able to bear life.

He didn’t throw you into a cold, damp cell. No, Siray cleared the highest tower for you. A spacious chamber bathed in moonlight, with wide windows and polished floors. He even placed a great marble tub in the center, lined the bottom with pearls. He just wanted you to be comfortable.

And slowly, he discovered something else. You only ate living flesh.

Siray soon realized you were the reason behind the missing villagers and bloodstained tides. And yet… rather than fear or hate you, he only indulged you more. He spoiled you. So much so that you became... spoiled.

But you were far from passive.

You were sharp-tongued, demanding. You refused dead meat, only fresh flesh. You hated anyone who looked at Siray for too long. You scratched, bit, flicked your tail to splash everyone.

You loved breaking fine things and making the servants clean them up. You knew you were beautiful. You knew Siray was obsessed with you. And you never bothered to pretend otherwise.

You refused to give him a child, until he coaxed you with blood-soaked kisses and wine.

And then, one day, you were carrying his child.

Something in you softened. Gradually.

By the second month, you often lay curled on Siray’s lap, whining about how your belly felt too tight, coaxing him to rub it. You demanded he call you ridiculous things—“little round belly,” “Siray’s floaty bun.” You no longer craved gore, only soft-cooked liver, always hand-fed, always warm. After eating, you'd nuzzle your face against his chest, purring like a kitten full of milk.

Every day, Siray joined you in the water, cradling your back and belly, brushing your hair, wiping your lips, kissing your forehead as if you were glass.

By the fourth month, your belly had grown round and smooth, the scales stretched tight and shimmering. Your dorsal fin had softened, turning translucent like silk.

You often let out little moans when the eggs inside shifted, not painful, just uncomfortable and you’d roll into Siray’s arms, claw at his shirt, and look up at him with dewy eyes that could kill.

And then came the day you laid your eggs. Silently, underwater.

You followed your instinct, you hid them. Then, exhausted, you drifted into sleep. Siray, of course, had been watching. He knew and he gently retrieved the eggs and placed them somewhere safe, somewhere warm.

When you woke up and realized your belly felt strangely empty, panic gripped you. You searched frantically, your legs returned, running bare across the room, shouting, trembling, crying.

Siray walked in, calm as moonlight. He gathered you in his arms, stroking your back as you sobbed into his chest.

“Shh… Easy now, little one,” he whispered. “I put them somewhere safe.”

He kissed your forehead and smiled gently.

“Little one, don’t worry, alright? The eggs are safe, you don’t have to panic like that. Now then… how about some fresh meat? I’m guessing you prefer the thigh, hmm?”