When Lark woke, the fire was ash and the sea was stilled.

  He sat up slowly, blinking into the dawn. Salt clung to his skin. His cloak was damp, stiff at the edges. He rubbed at the crust of sleep in his eyes with the heel of one hand and looked around the cove, heart already sinking before the thought could finish forming.

  She was gone.

  No ripple in the tide, no flash of silver hair, no pale figure humming lullabies to lull fools into silence. Just an empty sea. Just him.

  “Figures,” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. “Wouldn’t be the first time I dreamed up a beautiful girl and woke up alone.”

  But he didn’t really believe it had been a dream. The scallop shell still lay beside the rock where she’d set it. He picked it up carefully, brushing the sand away with his thumb, and tucked it into his satchel.

  Then he climbed the cove’s winding hill path and whistled. Gus answered with a snort before he could finish.

  The mare stood on the bluff, chewing thoughtfully on a wild thistle like she’d been supervising the sea all night. Her dark coat glistened with dew. When Lark approached, she flicked her ears back in disapproval.

  “Don’t give me that look,” he said, grabbing her bridle from where it hung off the crooked driftwood post he’d wedged into the dirt.

  Gus snorted again, louder this time.

  “Yeah, yeah. I lived, didn’t I?”

  She didn’t dignify that with a response. Just let him tack her up with the quiet patience of a creature who’d seen him through too many bad ideas already. Once he’d adjusted the saddle and tightened the girth, he ran a hand along her strong neck and sighed.

  “You ever feel like you’re not good at anything except leaving?” he asked her.

  Gus blinked.

  “Yeah. Same.”

  And with that, he swung into the saddle and turned her toward the narrow coastal path that would lead them back to town.

  Lark always found the small town of Sel`Vareth most tolerable when hungover or heart-bruised. Today, it was both.

  He wandered through the morning market with his collar turned up, weaving through carts of salt-bloated tomatoes and stringy fish laid out on cracked ice. He bought a bruised apple for Gus and a roll of linen for his busted knees, still sore from the bad landing out of a tavern window two days prior. His coin purse was lighter than he liked. No gigs. No innkeepers waving him over to play. No coin clinking into his lute case. Not that he had it with him.

  He hadn’t brought the lute when he rode down to the shore last night. He didn’t know why that made his chest ache worse.

  He tied Gus outside a bar at the harbor’s edge and slipped in unnoticed. The place smelled of salt, sweat, and regret. A few dockhands played cards at one table. The barkeep wiped down a glass without looking up. Lark ordered something he couldn’t pronounce and took a corner seat near the back.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  It was nearly noon when they arrived. A group of broad-shouldered men, still reeking of fish and low tide, stomped in from the docks with purpose. Lark barely glanced at them, until one of them clapped him on the back.

  “You one o’ the new lads, then?”

  Lark blinked. “Sorry—?”

  “You’re not from around here, but you’ve got the look. Arms on you. We’re short a few men for the hunt. You game?”

  “The… hunt?” Lark asked, confused. He didn’t blame them, his torn cloths and unkept appearance would draw that sort of work.

  “The thing off the coast,” another said, dropping into the seat beside him with a hunk of bread. “Tearing nets, flipping skiffs, even took down one of our larger boats last week. Long guy under the water. Fast. Smart. Bastard’s no dolphin.”

  “Could be a selkie,” another muttered.

  “Selkies don’t rip through boats.”

  Lark blinked slowly.

  “Wait,” he said. “You’re saying there’s a monster.”

  “Aye. And we’re done waiting for it to eat another one of us. We’ve got nets, barbed lines, a few blades. Nothing too fancy, just enough to pin it down. Kill it if we have to.”

  Lark hesitated. His first instinct was to smile, wave them off. Say, Sorry, I’m just a bard.

  But he didn’t have his lute. His fingers were bandaged. His knuckles still ached. And gods, maybe he did need a little danger. “…Sure,” he said. “I’ll come.” What harm could a little whale wrestling do?

  “Good lad.” They clapped him on the back again, and for the first time all day, he felt… something.

  Not better. But distracted. Useful.

  They talked gear. Routes. The waters where the thing had last been seen. Lark listened, still thinking of sleek sharks or maybe an oversized sea drake. Now that was a sight worth seeing.

  The boat was nothing special. Wide-bellied and old, its sails patched with mismatched canvas and its deck sticky with salt. The men who boarded it bore the same weary look: calloused hands, tired eyes, a casual readiness for violence. Lark had seen it before—in mercenaries, in vagrants, in himself, once.

  Gus had given him a mournful look when he handed her reins to the stableboy that morning, as if she knew.

  “Be good,” he’d whispered, pressing his forehead briefly to hers. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  She huffed.

  He boarded the ship with a satchel, a coil of rope, and the distant hope that maybe they’d just scare off a shark. He never was the type for gore.

  They sailed out past the reef, then farther, until the coastline became little more than a pale smudge behind sea spray.

  The sun rose lazy and golden. Waves slapped the hull in soft, rhythmic bursts. Someone passed Lark a flask of something sharp enough to sting. They joked. Told fish tales. Laughed too loudly. Some talked of what they’d do with the bounty if they did bring the beast down. “Bet it’s a sea drake,” one muttered. “Skin alone’s worth a fortune.”

  “No way,” another said. “Fins are all wrong. It’s got to be one of the Deep Ones. Somethin’ ancient.”

  Lark leaned over the edge, eyes on the deep. “I’ve heard songs of the Deep Ones. Serpents, aye?”

  It didn’t feel ancient. It felt sad. Clouds gathered overhead didn’t help much either. None of the men seemed to reply—or interested in Lark for that matter. He remained quiet after that.

  They had dropped bait lines, dragged lures, scattered shredded fish across the water like an offering. All while Lark sat near the bow, unsettled with anticipation.

  Then someone screamed.

  “There! Port side!” The water moved—churned violently, then settled just long enough to reveal it. A long, pale blur beneath the surface. Almost translucent. Gliding silently under the waves.

  “Throw!”

  A man near the rail didn’t wait—he hurled a long barbed spear straight into the sea.

  A beat. Then, a flash of white. A whip of water.

  Then blood.

  Not theirs. It happened fast.

  The creature surged from the depths—screeching in a voice not meant for air—and launched itself at the man who’d thrown the spear. It was on him before he could scream. Claws. Fangs. Water mixing with blood smearing across the wooden deck. The sound of bone breaking was what made Lark vomit, his stomach churning as another screamed about demons.

  He barely recovered, scrambling to his feet before stopping in his tracks, frozen. Because this monster, he recognized.

  White skin slick with seawater. Hair trailing like silk behind her. The faint gleam of silver at her throat. Her tail—her beautiful, soft, finned tail—ripped and bleeding where the spear had struck. She was a nightmare out of legend, monstrous and radiant. And when her eyes locked onto his—silver, furious, betrayed—Lark felt the world collapse inward.

  “By the gods—Iris,” he choked. She froze.

  And then, she furiously flipped from the deck, vanished beneath the waves, leaving only blood and destruction behind.

  Lark staggered back, hands shaking, bile rising in his throat. He was no hunter, nor fisherman. He was a bard. But to Iris? not anymore.

  “What the fuck have I done.”