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Beneath the surface of the sea, where sunlight lances down in trembling shafts like liquid gold, the water shifts and sighs, quiet and immense. The world down there is still, save for the rhythmic pulse of the tide above and the hush of currents curling around ancient rock formations and swaying kelp forests. Shafts of light refract through the water, painting the deep blue in ribbons of molten turquoise and sapphire, flickering with each gentle undulation of the waves above.
The sea ripples like silk pulled taut, its surface far above shimmering with mirrored sky. But deeper still, where the ocean hushes the world to a lullaby, there moved a figure.
He swam as if he were born from the water itself, the way one might imagine a star falling upward. His body cut clean through the water, graceful and slow, unhurried. Cerulean scales coat the long arc of his tail, each one catching the filtered light and scattering it into hundreds of glimmering fractals like broken mirrors. Every movement sent a cascade of tiny bubbles trailing behind him, rising like silver blossoms to vanish at the ceiling of the world.
His hair flowed behind him like a cloud of ink in water, a dark red so rich it seems to glow where the light kisses it. Strands drift in the current like seaweed teased by a tide. His skin; sun-kissed and pale, shone beneath the water’s shimmer, as if sunlight had soaked into flesh. There’s a softness to his face, otherworldly and serene, his eyes half-lidded in some dreamlike trance as he turned a slow spiral through a column of golden sunlight.
Tiny fish darted between his arms and fingers like curious whispers. He didn't flinch. He floated, suspended, a sacred kind of stillness in motion. The sea loves him. It cradles him like a secret. In the vast, undisturbed cathedral of the deep, he is its song.
Above, the surface ripples. Below, light danced on his scales like a prayer.
Scott swam like a streak of living light; each powerful stroke of his shimmering tail sent surges of water curling behind him in slow, spiralling wakes. His scales blazed beneath the sun's reach, catching every thread of golden light that pierced the ocean’s skin. They glowed like glass kissed by fire, radiant and liquid, shifting from brilliant blue to shimmering teal as the angle changed. His body flowed through the sea with the elegance of a ribbon in wind: fluid, effortless, natural.
Tiny bubbles fled from his path as he surged upward, breaking through a drifting cloud of plankton that scattered like dust in a sunbeam. The water around him thickened with the salt-sweet scent of the deep, the pressure building until—
He breached.
A burst of droplets exploded around him, flung skyward in glittering arcs. The ocean surface erupted, fractured into a halo of spray that caught the light like a crown of diamonds. Scott’s hair whipped around his face in wet, tangled locks of red silk, and he shook his head sharply, laughter ghosting at the corners of his lips as water flung from his scalp in a burst. Droplets clung stubbornly to his lashes, his skin beaded in a glistening sheen. For a moment he hovered, floating upright in the water, chest rising with a satisfied inhale.
A sigh slipped past his lips, content, grounded. The sunlight warmed his face, the sea clung lovingly to his skin, and the wind whispered softly across the tide.
Then his eyes shifted, catching the creaking groan of wood.
The dock sat sturdy and sun-worn, stretching out from the shoreline like a bridge to nowhere. And there; perched with legs swinging lazily over the edge, was Martyn.
He was dressed in a loose tank top, arms sun-bronzed and spattered with salt spray, a familiar grin playing on his face as he leaned back on his hands. His toes dipped into the water, curling at the cold kiss of it.
Scott swam toward him, each flick of his tail sending ripples lapping gently against the dock supports. The sunlight caught again on his scales, and Martyn squinted, one hand lifted to shield his eyes as if looking at something divine.
"You're glowing again," Martyn called down, voice warm and teasing.
"That’s the sun’s fault, not mine," Scott replied with a chuckle, reaching up to grip the edge of the dock with strong hands.
Martyn leaned forward, their faces close now, the wood creaking beneath his shift of weight. "Still counts. I think you're trying to outshine the whole damn ocean."
Scott tilted his head with a smile, water dripping from his jaw, his hair clinging to the sides of his neck in long, wet strands. "Maybe. But the ocean’s not half as charming."
Martyn laughed, eyes crinkling. “Flattery. Dangerous waters, fish-boy.”
Scott grinned, tail flicking below. “Good thing I swim well in dangerous waters.”
The dock was warm beneath Scott’s forearms, sun-bleached and smoothed by years of sea-salt and tide. He leaned into it, arms folded gently over the weatherworn wood, droplets cascading from his wrists and shoulders, leaving dark little circles that dried quickly in the heat. The ocean still clung to him; beads of water running rivulets down his spine, catching on his glowing cerulean scales that trailed up from his waist like molten jewels. His hair, still wet, draped around his face glinting with salt crystals.
Martyn sat above, smug as always, that crooked grin curling at the corner of his mouth. His legs swung lazily where they hung over the edge, toes brushing Scott’s tail every now and then, almost absentmindedly. He was all sun-touched skin and cocky posture, leaning back on his hands, one brow raised like he was waiting for a joke to land.
Scott, without saying a word, pushed himself up just a bit further, his face rising close, ocean water dripping from his chin to the planks below. There was a pause; just a beat, where the world seemed to still: gulls circling above, the hush of waves against the rocks, the warm breeze rustling through dry grasses behind them.
Then Scott leaned in and pressed a kiss to Martyn’s lips.
It was gentle, like seafoam catching on the tide, yet threaded with the kind of quiet affection only time and familiarity could forge. His lips were cool with seawater, soft and lingering, the briny taste of the ocean still clinging to him. Martyn blinked, surprised at first, but a huff of laughter bubbled from his chest: a snort that broke the moment like a tide breaking over stone.
"You know we’re still in opposing factions, right?" he muttered against Scott’s mouth, amusement warming his voice.
Scott pulled back just far enough to roll his eyes, expression dripping with fond exasperation. "Oh, please," he murmured, reaching down into a netted pouch that clung to his waist, hidden among his scales. "If you’re really still playing that game—"
He pulled out a handful of shimmering pearls, their surfaces slick and iridescent, soft as moonlight. He dropped them onto the dock between them with a soft clatter-thud, each one round and perfect, freshly plucked from the ocean floor. The sunlight hit them, and they gleamed like drops of frozen light.
"—then you can sell these. Fund your precious little Kestrels," he added dryly, one brow arching.
Martyn looked down at the pearls, whistled low. “Damn. You raided a clam kingdom for these?”
“Maybe. Or they offered them willingly. I am very charming underwater,” Scott said, with a flick of his tail and a teasing glint in his eye.
Martyn scooped one up, turning it over in his fingers, the mischief already returning to his face. “Well, well… Looks like the Kestrels just got a little richer. The other factions are going to be fuming.”
Scott smirked, leaning forward again until his chin rested on his arms, gaze soft as the tide. “Then let them. If they’re mad, tell them their rivals have better taste in both currency and company.”
Martyn laughed aloud at that, the sound echoing over the waves. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, watching Scott with that trademark half-lazy, half-mischievous smirk tugging at his lips. He rolled one of the pearls between his fingers, letting it catch the sunlight like a bauble, before he glanced down at the water below where Scott floated in easy grace, shoulders just above the surface, gleaming like a myth brought to life.
“Hey, by any chance…” Martyn began, voice edged with sheepish annoyance, “did you see a cutlass down there?”
Scott blinked up at him, head cocking slightly. “A cutlass?”
“Yeah,” Martyn huffed. “Slipped through the damn dock slats while I wasn’t looking. One second it was next to me, the next it was gone. Pretty sure it bounced off the side and just—” he mimed something falling dramatically into the ocean, “plunk.”
Scott let out a deep groan, dragging a wet hand down his face, though his grin peeked through the gesture. “Seriously?” he muttered. “You lost another weapon? What is that, the third time?”
“Second,” Martyn corrected, holding up two fingers. “And the last one was a dagger. This was, y’know, more sentimental.”
Scott narrowed his eyes playfully, the sunlight catching on the high points of his cheekbones and the water that slicked down his jawline. “You mean rusted. That thing looked like it came out of a shipwreck.”
“It did! That’s what made it cool!”
Scott rolled his eyes, sighing like a man burdened by the world's greatest fool. “Well, if it did fall, either it’s still down there or one of the other pirates got sneaky while you were too busy daydreaming about your stupid faction rankings.”
Martyn raised an accusatory finger. “That’s slander.”
“Is it wrong?” Scott replied, already spinning in the water with an easy twist of his torso.
“...No,” Martyn admitted.
Scott gave him a wicked little smirk, then with a flick of his powerful tail, twisted around and dove beneath the surface. But not before deliberately snapping his tail sideways sending a powerful arc of cold seawater cascading up over the dock.
Martyn shouted in protest as the splash hit him square in the chest, soaking his tank top and dousing his face.
“Hey!” he yelped, spluttering, shoving dripping hair from his eyes. “That was uncalled for!”
But Scott was already beneath the waves, the water shimmering violently from the movement of his dive. His tail disappeared last; glimmering cerulean, flashing like polished opal before it vanished in a swirl of bubbles. The sea calmed quickly in his wake, rippling gently around the dock posts as Martyn sat dripping and laughing under his breath, wiping salt from his chin.
“Better find it fast, sea-glitter,” he muttered, eyeing the water. “Or I’m making you craft me a new one out of clam shells.”
Only the faint trail of bubbles answered him, curling up through the deep blue below like a promise.
The water beneath the dock was darker, dimmed by the thick beams above and the clusters of barnacles clinging to every slick, creaking support. Algae drifted lazily in the filtered light, green tendrils swaying like slow dancers to the current's subtle rhythm. Scott eased himself into the narrow space with the smooth, practiced precision of someone born to the sea. His hands brushed against the old wood, fingertips grazing patches of moss and salt-etched grooves as he maneuvered beneath the dock’s belly.
It was tighter here; claustrophobic to anyone not used to it, but Scott moved like water itself, weaving through the submerged beams and debris. Silt stirred beneath him in soft clouds, blooming outward with each flick of his tail, briefly obscuring the sandy bottom of the isle’s bank before settling again like dust over ancient stone.
He let his eyes adjust to the murky light. There: half-buried in sediment and nestled beside a half-collapsed crate, he saw it.
The cutlass.
Its blade was dulled with sea-grit, the edge jagged from age and impact, but still unmistakably sharp in places, and the handle, wrapped in worn, faded leather, was unmistakably Martyn’s. A relic from some long-forgotten raid, now a keepsake-turned-lost-again.
But it wasn’t alone.
Wrapped gently around the hilt, tucked in with the quiet confidence of something that belonged there was a small octopus. Its skin pulsed softly with shifting hues: inky purples and muted pinks, its limbs coiled like ribbons over the cutlass's grip. It blinked at Scott, one intelligent eye emerging from beneath the curl of a tentacle, calm and unbothered.
Scott hovered there, suspended in the gentle current, exhaling a stream of bubbles as he slowly reached out with one hand. "Hey, little guy," he murmured, voice barely more than a vibration in the water. "I’m gonna need that back.”
The octopus tensed; not in fear, just curiosity. Scott moved slower, careful, coaxing. He nudged a finger beneath one of the slender limbs, gently encouraging the creature to unwind. It clung tighter at first, suckers audibly pulling free of the leather with soft, popping noises. But Scott didn’t push. Instead, he scooped up the cutlass slowly, letting the octopus remain coiled around the handle like a stubborn cat refusing to leave its favorite perch.
“Well,” he murmured, inspecting the odd bundle, “looks like you’ve made a friend, Martyn.”
With a final flick of his tail, Scott drifted backward, pushing out from under the dock with a rush of water and light as he breached the open sea once more. He surfaced with a soft splash, hair plastered across his forehead and the blade still clutched gently in his hand glinting wet in the sun.
He swam to the dock and lifted the cutlass up with one arm, water streaming down his arm and from the curled limbs of the octopus still hugging the handle with comical possession.
“Found it,” he called, breathless but grinning. “But, uh—” he held it up higher, the octopus shifting slightly, one limb waving lazily in the air “—he won’t let go. So unless you want to duel with a mollusk, he’s part of the package now.”
Martyn stared, blinking at the sight of his beloved weapon wrapped in wet, squishy clinginess.
“…That is adorable,” he finally said, grinning ear to ear. “I’m naming him First Mate.”
Scott rolled his eyes and handed it up. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re the one who dove into a pirate octopus’s lair for me,” Martyn shot back, cradling the cutlass and its clinging companion with mock reverence. “Means we’re even.”
“Only if he doesn’t bite your fingers off,” Scott replied with a smug smile.
The dock groaned gently beneath the weight of the tide, sun-slicked and warm from the long day’s heat. Waves lapped lazily against the wooden supports below, rhythmic and soothing, the sea now calm in the wake of Scott’s dive. With a grunt and a splash, Scott finally braced his hands against the edge of the dock, muscles flexing beneath water-glossed skin as he hoisted himself up with practiced effort. His shoulders emerged first; broad and glistening with seawater followed by the curve of his back as he pulled himself clear from the tide.
Martyn instinctively scooted aside, boots scraping against the old planks, giving Scott the space without comment.
The merman exhaled sharply through his nose, sea-slick arms trembling slightly from the exertion. His scales dragged against the dock for a moment, leaving faint, shimmering smears behind him like sea-paint before he twisted onto his side and rolled onto his back with a satisfied, low groan.
His long cerulean tail, still dripping, still glowing faintly in the sunlight flopped across the planks with a dull thump, droplets pattering like soft rain. The heat of the sun wrapped around him almost instantly, the warmth sinking into his cold skin like a balm. He sighed through his teeth, one hand lazily rising to rake back his wet red hair, now streaked through with dark copper and seawater. It clung in damp locks to his brow, his neck, and his temples before he swept it off his face, blinking up at the sky.
The dock radiated a sticky, pleasant warmth soaked in salt, old memories, and the lingering hum of the sea, and Scott laid there like he’d melt into it.
The transition began slowly: a shimmer along his hips, a quiet twitch in his scales, like something beneath them was shifting. The brilliant blue of his tail began to dull, the shimmer receding like the tide. Fins shrank and gave way to knees, calves, heels— until there, beneath the fading glimmer, lay two pale legs stretched out and sun-damp, toes curling against the dock.
Martyn watched the change with casual familiarity, leaning back on his hands, grinning crookedly. “Always weird watching that,” he commented, his tone light. “Like watching a fish turn into a guy in slow motion.”
Scott cracked one eye open at him, face relaxed, expression unreadable. “It is a guy. The fish part just happens to be better looking.”
Martyn barked a laugh. “Cocky.”
Scott offered a lazy smirk, one hand flopped over his stomach, chest rising and falling with slow breaths as he basked. “Confident.”
There was a moment of comfortable silence, the only sounds the creak of the dock and the hush of the waves, and then Martyn clapped his hands softly against his thighs, standing in one fluid motion.
“Well,” he said, glancing down at his sun-drenched, sea-kissed companion, “you finish sunbathing and, I dunno, get dressed, and I’m thinking we hit the tavern. I’ve got coin, thanks to your clam-friends, and I want something stronger than seawater in my mouth.”
Scott groaned, eyes still closed. “Give me five minutes. I can’t feel my legs yet.”
“I’m giving you ten. After that, I’m leaving you here for the gulls.”
He just hummed, barely lifting a hand in mock farewell as he let the sun burn the salt into his skin, the warmth of the dock grounding him while Martyn’s laughter trailed off like the wind heading back toward the shore.
Martyn’s footsteps thudded lightly along the dock, accompanied by the occasional clink of a buckle and the faint swish of leather straps. His silhouette loomed against the high summer sun as he returned from the shore, dragging a half-unbuckled satchel along behind him with one hand and wearing a crooked, amused grin that said he'd been planning his opening line since he left.
Scott still lay stretched across the dock, his bare legs sprawled out where his tail had once glistened, slick with evaporating seawater. The transformation always left him raw in a way the sun couldn’t quite dry; vulnerable in his own skin, hips damp against the wood, the heat a clingy warmth over pale thighs. He had one arm flung across his face, shielding his eyes from the glare, his chest rising slow and deep with each sun-drenched breath.
Martyn stopped a few paces from him, cocked a hip, and tossed the pack forward.
The bundle of clothes landed squarely on Scott’s stomach with a thump, eliciting a surprised grunt and a wet smack as fabric hit damp skin. A pair of dark breeches flopped out of the pile, followed by a loose, sea-green tunic and a salt-stained sash tangled in itself.
“Get dressed,” Martyn snorted, nudging Scott’s leg with the toe of his boot. “Before some poor sailor rounds the bend and sees you laid out like a shipwrecked siren airing out his everything.”
Scott groaned again, dragging the shirt off his stomach and squinting up at him through mussed strands of red hair, the sun behind Martyn making his halo of curls look even more annoyingly heroic.
“I was baking in peace,” Scott muttered, squinting. “The sea took my clothes. I had to sunbathe naked.”
“The sea took your clothes because you strip every time you dive. That’s on you,” Martyn replied, folding his arms. “Now stop flashing the damn birds and cover up.”
Scott huffed and sat up slowly, the dock damp beneath him, muscles groaning from both effort and leftover chill from the sea. As he pulled the breeches into his lap, he shot Martyn a sidelong glance.
“You just jealous someone else might see this and fall in love too?” he teased, dragging the fabric up his legs, still clammy with salt.
Martyn scoffed, waving a hand as he turned away; though not quickly enough to hide the amused curl in the corner of his mouth. “Please. I’ve already seen it all. The mystery’s gone.”
Scott laughed quietly, the sound low and fond, as he yanked the tunic over his head, the linen clinging slightly to damp skin before settling. “Still stuck around though,” he said under his breath, voice barely louder than the creak of the dock.
Martyn didn’t answer right away, just looked out at the glinting ocean, the waves stretching wide and golden under the sun. Then, just loud enough to carry back to Scott over the hush of the sea:
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I did.”
The path to the Isle’s center wound like a vein through sun-baked dunes and stubborn grasses, the boards of the dock giving way to packed sand and stone that crunched underfoot. Scott fell into step beside Martyn, the two of them cutting an easy silhouette; one sharp-edged, sun-browned and swaggering, the other sleek and sea-born, hair still damp and darkened to rust, sticking lightly to the collar of his tunic.
Now dressed in their respective faction colours, the contrast between them was almost theatrical. Martyn wore the bold, burnished golds and deep teals of the Kestrels, his sleeveless coat fluttering behind him, fastened by ornate clasps shaped like talons. A sash hung low on his hips, dyed with the rich colours of coin and conquest, a sign of the Kestrels’ wealth-obsessed pride. His boots struck the ground with the clunk of someone who walked like they owned every step, and maybe they did.
Scott, in contrast, was a vision of the Herons, clad in layered whites, sea-glass greens, and soft greys that whispered more than shouted. His tunic hung open at the throat, stitched with delicate wave-like embroidery, and his belt bore no weapons, just trinkets: small shells, bits of coral, and a single pendant made from a shard of obsidian. His movement was fluid, shoulders loose, like he hadn’t fully left the water behind him yet. The air still seemed to cling to him like mist.
As they neared the central hub of the Isle, the sound grew: voices laughing, calling, bartering. The scent of grilled fish and spice wafted through the breeze, mixing with the ever-present tang of the sea. The center was alive, a true melting pot of chaos and charm; pirates of every allegiance weaving through the clustered stalls and shaded awnings of the market.
To their left, a pair of Kites bartered loudly with a merchant, one slamming a rusted anchor onto the table, demanding it be weighed in gold. To the right, a Nightgale leaned against a post, reading the quest board with squinted eyes, lips silently mouthing the words. A pair of Kestrels played dice in the dust, laughing raucously as one accused the other of cheating and got a handful of sand in the face for his trouble.
Scott’s eyes lingered on the activity, alert but unbothered, while Martyn offered a few familiar nods and mock salutes to other Kestrels passing by, most with belts jingling and eyes like coin. Their path led straight to the heart of it all: the Tavern.
It stood proud at the center of the Isle like a monument to mischief; stone walls patched with driftwood planks, windows open to let the ocean air in, and its crooked sign swinging above the door: The Reddoons. Music leaked from inside, the thrum of a lute and the occasional clang of tankards meeting in cheer or challenge.
The second the two pirates stepped inside, the tavern turned its head.
A moment of recognition, then a few murmurs, a few raised brows. One of the Nightgale captains at the bar muttered, “Kestrel and Heron walk into a tavern... sounds like the start of a joke,” as they downed their drink.
Scott arched a brow but said nothing, drifting toward a corner booth like he belonged there; which, despite his faction, he sort of did. Martyn followed, all cocky grins and light-footed charm, already waving to the barkeep.
“Oi! Two bottles of rum! And if it’s watered down, I’m charging you interest.”
Scott slipped into his seat with the kind of effortless grace that made even wood creak quieter beneath him, resting his arms on the table, eyes scanning the room like a quiet tide rolling in.
Martyn sat across from him, loosening his collar slightly. “See?” he said, gesturing around with a smug grin. “Isle’s got its problems, but the booze is always here.”
Scott smiled faintly, eyes glinting like sunlight on the sea. “Mmm. And so are all the people watching to see which one of us breaks alliance first.”
Martyn shrugged, lifting a brow. “Let ’em watch. They’ll blink first.”
The tavern's air was thick with heat and the smell of sweat, woodsmoke, and spilt liquor. It clung to the skin, settling in the folds of clothes and the corners of eyes. Laughter echoed through the beams overhead, raucous and slurred, rising over the strum of a worn-out lute in the back and the occasional crash of a dropped tankard.
Scott and Martyn sat in the relative quiet of their booth, half-shadowed in the corner, their drinks glistening with condensation, fingers lightly brushing tankards and eyes occasionally scanning the tavern like lazy hunters. It was a rare moment of peace, tension low, banter slow-burning between them.
Until the bench across from them creaked. Then groaned. Then jerked forward with a clatter of sloshed metal and limbs.
Oli slammed into the booth like a cannonball with legs, his body sprawling, tankard in hand and half the contents already airborne. A wave of sticky-sweet mead splashed onto the table, running in rivulets toward Scott’s sleeve and soaking into the edge of Martyn’s coat.
“'Scuse me lads—move, move, make room—” Oli slurred, squeezing up beside Martyn like a man trying to wedge into a lifeboat during a storm. His shoulder pressed up against Martyn's with no apology, tankard still tilted precariously, threatening another spill.
Martyn recoiled slightly, wiping at the splash on his sleeve with the back of his hand. “Oli, for the love of— watch the drink.”
Scott blinked once, then slowly raised his arm off the table with a faint look of betrayal at the mead now dripping from his cuff. He didn’t say anything yet; just slowly met Martyn’s gaze across the booth.
It was the look. That look.
Shared, weary, eternal. The look of two men silently screaming across the battlefield of fate.
Oli, of course, noticed none of it.
He leaned heavily into Martyn’s side, all limbs and flushed cheeks, his wild curls damp with sweat. “So, listen— listen,” he began, voice rising as if they were across a noisy market instead of an arm’s reach away. “I was down near the beach, right? Near the crags. And I swear, she was there. My wife. My lovely, glistening beauty.”
Scott subtly arched one brow, lifting his tankard to his lips with practiced grace.
Martyn sighed through his teeth, eyes fixed ahead. “The crab again?”
“She’s not just a crab, Martyn,” Oli said, voice catching like he was personally offended. “She’s got depth. Elegance. Those little eyes… eight of ’em! Always watchin’. And the way she waved at me with that claw? Romantic.”
Scott choked on his drink, coughing behind the rim of the tankard. “Eight eyes?” he muttered, half-laughing. “Thought she only had six last time.”
“No, no, eight! I counted this time. Saw her clear as the moon. She was perching on a rock like a goddess from the deep; her shell, all barnacled and shiny—”
“And you’re sure she wasn’t trying to pinch you?” Martyn asked dryly, attempting to scoot half an inch away from Oli and failing.
“She was caressing, Martyn,” Oli said with great emphasis, slamming his tankard down again; splashing more mead across the table like a sacrament. “You don’t understand love. Not the kind I have.”
By now, a few other pirates in the tavern had turned slightly in their seats, not out of concern, but familiarity. Everyone knew Oli. Every faction. Kestrels, Herons, Nightgale, Kites— they all knew about the crab-wife. No one questioned it anymore. He’d once gotten in a fistfight defending her honour after someone called her a “sea bug.” Another time, he’d asked the island blacksmith to make her a ring.
Scott rubbed at his temple, trying to hide the smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “Is she still refusing to meet the crew?”
“She’s shy!” Oli declared, indignant, before suddenly softening. “But I know she loves me. Last time she skittered away, she left a shell behind. Like a gift. That’s love. That’s devotion.”
Martyn leaned back, looking at Scott with deadpan intensity, voice flat. “Do we stage an intervention or just… let the romance take its course?”
Scott didn’t even hesitate. “She’d probably click us both to death.”
Martyn nodded solemnly.
Oli continued, oblivious, now describing in vivid detail how the moonlight had caught his wife's carapace just so, as if the stars themselves were giving their blessing.
And so, the booth held three pirates: one drowned in mead and crab-shaped longing, one calculating how much mead would be required to make all this make sense, and one already planning how to tell the story later with twice the absurdity and none of the context.
The tavern had slipped into that that… vibe where the light spilling through the cracked shutters turned molten, bathing the warped floorboards and crooked tables in streaks of amber and gold. The warmth clung to the wood like memory, thick and old, as if every laugh, fight, and secret ever shared here had soaked into the very walls.
Scott leaned back in the booth, his tunic slightly open at the throat, collar damp from salt and sweat, bottle of rum balanced loosely in his hand. The glass was sticky with fingerprints, and the dark liquid inside caught the last traces of sunlight like honey before a storm. Across from him, Martyn nursed his own bottle, rocking it gently against the rim of the table with a lazy rhythm that suggested he'd already forgotten how many rounds they'd shared.
The two of them sat hip to hip with Oli, who was now well beyond the threshold of tipsy and tumbling headfirst into the chasm of full-blown drunkenness. He’d given up even pretending to drink with dignity; his tankard sat forgotten on the table, mead pooling around its base while he waved his hands animatedly, half-ranting, half-singing, cheeks red, eyes glassy.
“Swear to the tides, I’m not makin’ it up,” Oli slurred, pointing at nothing in particular. “Talkin’ to a lad from the Nightgale lot— young'un with the hair that looks like a crow landed on his face, he says they saw ’em. Merfolk. A whole school of ‘em. Flashin’ their tails like sunken treasure just beneath the waves!”
Scott’s fingers twitched just slightly around the neck of the bottle.
“‘Said they were near the reef past Kite's bay,” Oli continued, gesturing wildly, “glimmerin’ blue and green and gold like— like gods swam down there! Beautiful things. Unnatural. Lookin’ up at the ship. Watchin’.” He leaned forward, eyes wide and drunk with wonder. “Watchin’, Martyn. Like they knew. Like they were waitin’.”
Martyn’s bottle paused halfway to his lips.
Slowly, deliberately, his gaze drifted sideways; over the lip of his drink, across the table and met Scott’s.
It wasn’t a long look. Just a flick of eyes between two men who knew more than they’d ever said aloud. But it was enough. Enough to confirm the tension in Scott’s jaw, the way he blinked once, too slow, his mouth twitching in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. The heat of the room suddenly felt heavier.
“Shapes in the water could be anything,” he said smoothly, voice liquid, casual. “Shadows, currents. Everyone thinks they see a ghost or a god when the sea’s deep enough.”
Oli snorted. “Nah! Not shadows, tails. One of the lads said he saw a flash of scales the colour of— what’d he say? …like the sky just before a storm hits. Said it was beautiful. Hypnotic, even.”
Martyn, to his credit, laughed a bit too quickly. “Right. And next you’ll say your crab wife has cousins.”
“She does!” Oli barked with a drunken grin, tipping forward. “Whole family of sea creatures. Probably royalty.”
Scott took another swig, slower this time, letting the rum coat his throat, the burn distracting him from the sharp edge of his own pulse. The very thought of it, other merfolk, surfacing near the Isle? That wasn’t nothing. That was dangerous. Reckless. Or worse, curious.
Martyn leaned back with a clink of glass against the table, tossing a glance at Scott that carried just enough meaning beneath the bravado. He dropped a boot onto the empty bench beside him, tone light. “Even if there were merfolk, sounds like they’ve got better taste than to flirt with pirates. You ever seen how we smell?”
Scott gave a wry smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Oli didn’t notice; he was halfway through a poetic declaration about how his wife would “snap the legs clean off” any merfolk who tried to seduce him. His tankard dripped down his shirt, his words slurring together like waves.
And still, Scott sat still as driftwood in a current, staring into his rum, the reflection of the candlelight shimmering on its dark surface.
More merfolk.
More like him.
More that could expose him.
He took another slow sip and said nothing, but the sea behind his eyes stirred restlessly.
Because no one else knew. Not the rest of the Kestrels. Not the Herons. No one on the Isle; save for Martyn and, unfortunately, now-drunk Oli knew that Scott wasn’t just a sailor.
They didn’t know the shimmer of his skin under the full moon was more than sweat. That the ocean called to him not with memory, but with blood. That just hours ago, he’d been more scale than skin, tail slicing through the sea like a knife.
Scott took a slow sip of rum, letting the burn distract from the chill rising at the base of his spine. “Probably just reef reflections,” he murmured, voice level, casual. “Saltwater plays tricks on the eyes.”
Oli squinted at him, brows furrowing drunkenly. “Nahhh. This wasn’t no trick. Says they followed the boat for miles. Like they were escortin’ it or herdin’ it. Creepy, that. I don’t like bein’ watched by things that ain’t blinkin’. One of ’em even had hair, he said… short red hair, can you imagine that?”
Another long silence.
Scott drank again, deeper this time, then placed the bottle down with a soft clink and gave Martyn the smallest, driest smile.
“You’re really bad at keeping secrets, you know,” he muttered under his breath.
Martyn chuckled, low and warm, the sound buried behind the rim of his drink. “Wasn’t me this time.”
And still, Oli rambled on; unaware, untouched by the tension, his voice thick with drink and wonder.
“Think maybe they’re lonely,” he mumbled, eyes glazed now, more dream than awareness. “All that water and no one to talk to. Maybe they just want... somethin’. Someone.”
Scott didn’t answer. Just sat there, back to the wall, bottle in hand, the gold light sliding down his cheek like seawater. Watching. Listening.
And somewhere far beyond the tavern walls, the sea waited.
Oli’s words stumbled out of his mouth like spilled coins, tumbling over one another, slurred and clumsy. His tankard swayed dangerously in his loose grip, mead sloshing over the rim and leaving sticky trails across the table that soaked into the frayed grain of the old wood. His eyes; red-rimmed and unfocused, darted between Martyn and Scott, as if eager to share some drunken epiphany that had been bubbling behind his teeth all night.
“I swear,” Oli blurted, leaning forward too fast, elbow slipping, nearly planting his face in the puddle of rum. “Apo said the merfolk’s hair— it was like… like fire under water, right? All red and bright and just like… just like—”
Scott froze.
His hand, still wrapped around the neck of the bottle, didn’t move, but his spine had gone taut beneath his tunic, like a wire pulled tight. His damp red hair clung to his forehead, curling slightly at the ends under the tavern’s heat; vivid, unmistakable. His heart pounded once, loud and hot behind his ribs.
Martyn, too, stiffened, eyes flicking sharply toward Oli, his drunken daze evaporating just enough to sit straighter, like a hawk scenting the shift in wind.
“Just like—” Oli started again, a finger waving vaguely toward Scott, his mouth hanging open, words teetering on the edge of disaster.
Then, like a sudden gust of wind through a cracked sail, a voice sliced through the haze.
“Scott!”
It was bright, familiar, unmistakable.
Cleo.
They swept through the tavern like a storm in velvet and boots, ducking low to avoid a swinging mug from some argument at the next table, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. Their cloak was flung back behind their shoulders, dyed dark and edged with beadwork that glittered faintly in the tavern light, and their presence dragged the attention in the room subtly with them, like the pull of the tide.
Scott’s shoulders uncoiled slightly, tension bleeding from his posture as he looked up. Relief didn’t show in his face, but it hummed beneath his skin, electric and buried.
Cleo slid up to the edge of the booth, resting their hand briefly on the table beside him, rings glinting against the sticky wood, ignoring the puddle of spilled alcohol like it didn’t exist.
“Got a moment?” She asked, voice cool, but with that curious edge she always carried, like they knew something they weren’t supposed to and hadn’t decided whether to say it out loud yet.
Scott didn’t even glance back at Oli. He rose with a smooth, unhurried grace, placing the bottle down without a sound, the dark liquid inside still rippling faintly from the sudden halt of tension.
“Of course,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost grateful.
Cleo nodded once, stepping back to give him space as he slipped from the booth.
Behind them, Martyn reached across the table and firmly pushed Oli’s tankard down onto the wood.
“All right, drunk-squid,” he muttered, flashing a sharp grin that didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Maybe we don’t finish that sentence tonight, yeah?”
Oli blinked, blinking slowly, utterly unaware of how close he’d come to drawing blood.
Scott followed Cleo through the tavern crowd, his damp hair catching in the candlelight like copper strands pulled from the deep, and behind him, the murmurs of merfolk and memory were drowned beneath the sound of boots on floorboards and the quiet crackle of fire.
Outside the tavern, the world was quieter; still loud in the way the Isle always was, but filtered through the thick breath of salt air and the distant hush of waves curling around the shore. The sun had begun to dip lower, casting long golden strokes across the sand and stone, washing the world in amber. The sky was cracked open with streaks of deep violet and burnt orange, the scent of smoke and brine lingering on the wind.
Scott stood just outside the warped doorframe of the tavern, boots planted firmly in the packed earth, arms crossed loosely over his chest as if trying to shield himself from something more than just the sea breeze. His red hair; still damp, now dried in messy copper strands ruffled gently in the wind. He stared ahead at nothing, face unreadable but carved in the same stillness the sea sometimes wore before a storm.
Cleo stood beside him, just out of reach of the flickering candlelight nailed to the tavern wall, their posture casual, almost careless. Hands in their pockets, cloak trailing faintly in the dust; but their eyes, dark and sharp, watched him like a hawk circling above choppy waters.
She waited a beat, then spoke low.
“I took down a quest from the board today,” Cleo said, voice barely above the breeze. “It was new. Didn’t stay up more than an hour.”
Scott’s gaze didn’t shift. “What kind of quest?”
Cleo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they pulled something from her cloak; a folded scrap of parchment, edges smudged and stained from handling. They held it out, not forcing, just offering.
Scott hesitated, then took it.
He unfolded it with careful fingers.
The words were scrawled in jagged script:
> "Sightings confirmed. Tailed creatures seen east of the reef. Glimmering scales. Suspected colony approaching. Reward for confirmed location or remains."
Beneath, the sigil of a minor faction; The Seagulls.
Scott’s jaw tightened. The parchment crinkled under his fingers.
Cleo spoke again, softer now. “I burned the original. That’s a copy.”
Scott didn’t look at them. “You shouldn’t have taken it down. That’ll raise suspicion.”
Cleo exhaled a quiet laugh, humourless and short. “Too late for that.” Another beat of silence. The wind tugged at the hem of Scott’s tunic. He folded the parchment again, hands shaking faintly, and passed it back.
Cleo didn’t take it. “Keep it,” she said.
Scott looked at them then, really looked, eyes dark and guarded, the mask cracking just enough around the edges. “You knew?” he asked, voice a raw whisper. “How long?”
Cleo tilted their head. “Long enough,” they murmured. “Long enough to know that no one else can know.”
Her tone wasn’t accusatory. It was protective. Grounded. A quiet promise hidden in the marrow of each word.
Scott turned his face away, staring off toward the horizon where the ocean met the sky in a slow, pulsing line. His voice was distant.
“They’re not hostile. The colony. They’re just... curious. We always stay out of reach, out in the deeps. But something’s changed. I don’t know why they’re coming closer.”
Cleo didn’t press. They just stood there, steady as stone, gaze never wavering.
Scott swallowed. “If word spreads… if more people start searching… They won’t be prepared. They’ll treat them like prey. Like monsters.”
“They’ll treat you like a monster,” Cleo said bluntly.
Scott flinched, but didn’t deny it.
A silence passed between them. Not heavy. Not empty. Just full of old truths and sharp edges. Then Cleo finally reached out, brushing her fingers along Scott’s arm, just once, grounding him.
“I’ll keep it quiet,” they said, steady. “But you need to be careful. Martyn can only cover so much. The moment someone else makes the connection, you’ll have more than a quest to worry about.”
Scott nodded once, the motion small. “Thank you.”
Cleo offered a lopsided smile. “Thank me later. Preferably when I’m not committing minor acts of treason for you.”
The wind picked up again, tugging at cloaks, tossing salt into their hair.
And behind them, the tavern doors creaked open and shut, the Isle moving on as it always did; loud, chaotic, and utterly unaware that the tide had shifted beneath their feet.
The tavern door creaked open behind them with a lazy groan, its hinges whining like the knees of an old sailor, and the warm glow of flickering lanternlight spilled out onto the dusty path in a golden spill. Bootsteps followed, casual but sure. A familiar silhouette stepped through the haze of mead and smoke, framed against the interior glow like a painting caught in motion.
Martyn.
He sauntered out with the usual tilt to his gait; half swagger, half stumble, but the look in his eyes was sharp, sobered just enough by everything that wasn’t rum. His Kestrel coat flared a little in the evening wind, and tucked beneath one arm were two bottles: both dark-glassed, sweating faintly with condensation from the tavern chill.
Without a word, he pressed one into Scott’s hand, nudging him with the bottle’s neck against his ribs.
Scott blinked, then accepted it, fingers curling around the cool glass.
Martyn raised his own bottle in a loose toast, voice low and easy, tinged with something soft beneath the roughness. “Thought you looked like you needed another. And someone to walk you home. Or—well, walk you as far as your fishy legs’ll take you.”
Scott snorted under his breath, but there was warmth in it. The tension in his shoulders eased a touch, the corners of his mouth twitching toward a reluctant smile.
“I’ve got legs right now, thanks.”
Martyn waggled his eyebrows. “For now.” He turned, already beginning to walk backward down the lantern-lit path, bottle dangling from his fingers, boots scuffing softly on the packed dirt. “Come on, Heron. Let’s get you back before one of the Corsairs decides to mount your tailfin on a tavern wall.”
Scott rolled his eyes, but followed.
Cleo gave a quiet, knowing huff as Martyn passed them, then fell into step beside them without question, cloak whispering over the stones. They didn’t speak, didn’t press; just kept pace like a silent shadow, their presence a buffer from the world’s too-curious eyes.
The walk through the Isle’s central paths was alive with muffled noise, the low chatter of pirates lingering at the market stalls, the occasional shout from within open tavern windows, laughter echoing off the crooked stone buildings. But the path they took cut quieter as they veered off toward the shoreline where the Heron faction kept their quarters, near the calm shallows and the cool embrace of the reefs.
The deeper they walked into Heron territory, the gentler the Isle seemed to become; less raucous, more still. Lanterns hung lower, swaying softly on ropes, their glow reflected in pools of seawater caught in stone divots along the trail. Salt clung to the air here, cleaner, quieter.
Scott let his gaze wander toward the ocean once more, bottle warm in his hand now from his grip. The tide lapped at the shore in rhythmic hushes, a familiar heartbeat, and though worry still lingered in the tightness of his brow, it had lessened, blurred by the quiet companionship beside him.
Martyn leaned in slightly, bumping Scott’s shoulder with his own.
“We’ll keep it quiet,” he said softly, not looking directly at him, “Whatever you need.”
Scott’s hand brushed his as they walked, fingers briefly touching.
“I know,” he murmured, voice like a wave returning home.
Cleo, just ahead of them now, glanced back once, nodded, then looked forward again: wordless, but vigilant. A sentry at the edge of secrets. And so, the three of them walked deeper into the coastal dark, toward the part of the Isle where the sea knew Scott’s name and whispered it gently across the waves.