A new feeling
The waters here are more than familiar to Naevira. Every movement she makes is fluid, effortless, her long tail swaying in perfect rhythm with the currents. Her sharp senses pick up even the faintest disturbances around her, and with every distant ripple, the delicate membranes of her fins shudder in response.
Naevira is a siren sculpted from the abyss itself, an ethereal beauty laced with an edge of haunting lethality. Her skin is eerily smooth, pale with a faint luminescence, as though the abyssal depths have imbued her with their own ghostly glow. Dark, scale-like markings coil over her arms and shoulders, merging seamlessly into the sleek, iridescent black of her lower body. Her tail gleams with a hypnotic sheen, its movement both graceful and deadly, a silent promise of the predator she truly is.
Her hair spills down her back in thick, inky waves, floating weightlessly as if whispering secrets to the ocean around her. Within the strands, faint pulses of bioluminescent light flicker—like embers of some long-forgotten magic, or the heartbeat of the sea itself. Twisted, coral-like horns curve from her head, adorned with a headdress woven from pearls and bone, trophies from wrecks swallowed by the depths.
And then, there are her eyes. Twin orbs of shifting silver-green, fluid and endless, like the restless surface of the ocean under a full moon. There are no pupils to tether them, no clear point of focus—only an abyss that pulls, lures, devours. A single glance has led countless sailors to their demise, entranced before they even realize they are drowning. When she speaks—or sings—her voice weaves seamlessly between gentle longing and soul-crushing despair, capable of bending even the strongest minds to her will.
But unlike other sirens, she has no use for seduction. She does not weave songs of love or lure men into willing submission. Naevira is no temptress—she is a force of reckoning.
The lace-like membranes of her fins flutter as she moves, but the sharp points of her webbed claws betray her nature. She is a hunter, born of deep-sea shadows and ancient grudges. Around her neck hangs a pendant of deep-sea jade, carved with the sigil of Veyrith—the god of tides. It is both a mark of his favor and a silent warning to those who dare cross her.
Some call her the Abyssal Lament.
As she glides through the water, her gaze drifts over the graveyard of shipwrecks scattered across the seafloor. The skeletal remains of human folly. A reminder of their arrogance, their foolishness. How many times had they been warned? How many tales had been spun about this cursed stretch of sea? And yet, still, they came. Naevira almost laughs at their idiocy. They think her nothing more than a myth—a story to frighten children.
Fools.
The water is unusually still today. It’s quiet. Too quiet. She knows why. That last storm, the one that had torn through the waves with godly fury, had been no accident. Veyrith and Selmira—the goddess of wind and forgotten songs—had made sure no ships would dare cross this part of the sea for a while. And that suited Naevira just fine.
She despised humans with every fiber of her being.
She could never understand her kin who delighted in seducing them, in whispering sweet nothings as they dragged them beneath the waves. What was the point? She wanted them to suffer. To feel fear in their last moments. To know that they were nothing in the face of the ocean’s wrath.
She is not cruel. She simply does not care for humans.
But the silence doesn’t last.
A ship cuts through the water above her, its presence disturbing the peace. Naevira’s fins quiver with curiosity, her sharp senses fixating on the massive wooden beast sailing overhead. Slowly, she ascends, moving with the practiced stealth of a predator. The waves barely stir as she nears the surface, her head tilting slightly as she observes.
Then—splash.
A heavy anchor plunges into the sea, hurtling dangerously close to her. Naevira darts away just in time, her reflexes saving her from what could have been a painful impact. Irritation flickers through her, but curiosity keeps her anger at bay.
Peeking just above the surface, she watches. The sailors bustle about the deck, their voices carrying over the waves.
They’re complaining. Something about their food supply running low.
She watches for only a moment before something—or someone—catches her eye.
Among the rough, sun-worn men stands a woman.
Naevira's breath stills.
The woman’s long, silky black hair flows in the wind, strands catching the sunlight like woven obsidian. Her pale skin stands in stark contrast, making her appear almost unreal—like something carved from moonlight itself. Her dress is simple yet elegant, the fabric hugging her frame in a way that feels both practical and effortlessly beautiful.
Something about her is different.
Something about her makes Naevira’s heart flutter.
Her fins ripple, her tail curling beneath the waves as an unfamiliar warmth stirs inside her. Interest. Intrigue. A pull she does not quite understand.
For the first time in a long while, Naevira does not think of drowning.
She only thinks of watching.