Lydia slipped through the olive grove, the scent of crushed leaves and damp earth filling her senses. The moon cast silver light upon the path, leading her as it always did to the pond near her family home. This was her place of solace, where she could breathe freely, away from the demands of her father’s household and the expectations of a future she did not wish to claim.

But tonight was different.

As Lydia approached the water’s edge, a sound she had never heard before drifted through the air—a voice, soft and ethereal, weaving through the air like a gentle breeze. She froze, her heart hammering as her gaze swept across the moonlit surface of the pond.

There, perched upon a smooth rock on the far side, sat a figure unlike any Lydia had ever seen.

It was a woman, or at least something like one. Her skin shimmered with the faint luminescence of the water’s reflection, her hair cascading in waves over her shoulders. Her feet were bare, barely touching the stone, and her fingers traced idle patterns on the pond’s surface.

Lydia dared not speak or move, lest she break whatever spell had settled over her.

The nymph—she could be nothing else—continued to sing. Her voice was a melody of water trickling over smooth stones, of wind through trees, as if moonlight itself given form.

At last, the song faded into the whisper of rippling water. The nymph lifted her gaze, meeting Lydia’s with eyes that held the same depth of the pond.

Lydia gasps, “Sorry, did I startle you?”