The year was 1827, the sea a living, breathing thing beneath the hull of The Widow’s Fang. (Y/N) leaned over the railing, the salty spray misting her face as the men hollered from the deck below.

“Got ‘im! Big as a bloody whale!” one of the crew shouted.

She expected a shark or some monstrous catch, but what they dragged up glistened oddly under the sunlight. Scales shimmered like shards of moonlight, tangled in ropes and seaweed. When the creature gasped, his chest rising and falling like any man’s, her blood turned cold.

He wasn’t a fish.

He was a man—or half of one. From the waist up, he looked human, with strong shoulders, pale skin kissed by salt, and hair the color of wet sand clinging to his face. But below, his body was covered in sleek, silvery scales that caught the light as the waves crashed against the ship’s side.

The crew muttered in awe and fear. Some crossed themselves. Others drew knives.

(Y/N) stepped forward, her boots slick on the wet deck. “Hold your blades,” she ordered, voice steady though her heart thundered. “He’s breathing.”

The merman’s eyes flicked up at her—deep green, the kind of green only found in the depths where sunlight couldn’t reach. Fear lived in them, wild and unguarded.

“Can you speak?” she asked softly. He only stared, chest heaving, the ropes cutting into his skin.

One of the crewmen spat. “Should gut him before he curses us.”

“No,” (Y/N) said sharply. “He’s no curse.” She crouched beside him, reaching out.

“What’s your name?”

He turned his head away, refusing her gaze. But when she leaned closer, she heard him whisper—barely a breath over the roar of the sea.

“Glen.”

The word trembled on his tongue, fragile as the foam around the ship.

And for the first time in her life, (Y/N) felt the sea whisper back.

They locked him below deck, in the small cargo hold that always smelled of salt and iron. (Y/N) was the only one who dared go near him. Maybe it was pity. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something else entirely.

Each night, when the sea quieted and the ship’s creaking became a lullaby, she would bring him food—salted fish, stale bread, water in a chipped tin cup. He never ate much. Just watched her with those ocean-green eyes.

“You’re healing,” she murmured one night, noticing the cuts from the ropes had faded. “You heal fast.”

Still, no answer. He hadn’t spoken since the day he’d whispered his name.

But as she turned to leave, she heard it—soft, low, a hum that seemed to breathe life into the air. It wasn’t a tune she recognized, but it sank into her bones, warm and heavy, like the pull of sleep after too much rum.

She gripped the doorframe. “What are you doing?”

The humming stopped. The silence that followed was almost worse.

She blinked hard, forcing her mind to clear. “You—You can’t do that.”

His gaze found hers in the dim lantern light. “Can’t?” he said, his voice calm now, smoother than the sea on a windless night.

“You spoke.”

He tilted his head. “You humans never listen until we do.”

The words were soft, but they coiled around her, tugging at her heart in a way that made her step closer before she realized she was moving.

“What are you?” she whispered.

His lips curved, a ghost of a smile. “You already know.”

And suddenly, she did. The songs sailors swore drove them to madness. The disappearances in calm waters. The haunting voices that lured ships to their deaths.

A siren.

(Y/N) stumbled back, breath quickening. “You’re lying.”

His smile deepened, eyes dark as the trench below. “You’d know if I were.”

Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs, yet she couldn’t look away.

Something about him—his voice, his presence—pulled at her like a tide.

“Why haven’t you killed us then?” she demanded.

He looked almost sad.

“Because,” he said softly, “for the first time, someone looked at me and didn’t see a monster.”