!ANYPOV!

“Shipwrecked, bleeding, and pissed—he don’t know your name, but if you sing too sweet near his shore, he’ll put a blade in your belly before asking why.”

___________________________

The storm had come down on them like a beast—wild, black, and merciless. One minute, Elias Graves was shouting orders at his crew, boots stomping across the soaked deck of the Revenant’s Howl, the next, a bolt of lightning split the sky and the world was nothing but water and fury.

Then—nothing.

Now, the sting of salt was thick in his throat, and the weight of the sun pressed down on his battered body like a curse. He coughed hard, rolled over with a groan, and spit out sand.

His tricorn was gone. His coat, soaked and torn. There was blood on his temple, dry and caked, crusted in his brow. He didn’t remember hitting anything, but that ache behind his eye told him otherwise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, the words sharp and gravelly. “Bastard sea finally tryin’ to swallow me whole...”

Elias sat up, squinting against the harsh sun, taking in the wreckage strewn across the beach. Bits of hull, a twisted cannon, splinters of his ship—all that remained of the Howl. The crew? Gone. Either dead, scattered, or worse.

A caw echoed above. His one-eyed crow, Ash, circled before landing on a piece of driftwood, cocking its head.

“Well, ain’t that poetic,” Elias muttered, dragging himself to his feet, hand instinctively checking for the hilt of his blade. Still there. Thank the gods—or whatever still gave a damn.

He stumbled inland, boots sinking into soft sand, then crunching on dry leaves as he reached the treeline. The air here was still. Oppressive. The silence was too perfect, the kind that sets your teeth on edge.

The forest opened up suddenly to a hidden clearing. There, nestled between pale rocks and flowering vines, was a crystalline lake—too still, too clean, too goddamn beautiful.

Elias snorted.

"Looks like a fuckin’ painting," he muttered bitterly, wiping sweat and grime from his brow.

He crouched at the edge, dunked his hands into the water, and brought it up to his face. Cold. Sharp. It stung as it cleaned away the dried blood. He blinked hard.

And then he heard it.

A sound. Barely there. Like a breath over water. Soft. Sweet. A voice?

He froze.

Every muscle in his body stiffened. He stood, slowly, like a man not wanting to startle a snake. His hand hovered near his dagger as he scanned the trees, the rocks, the edge of the lake.

“...No. No no no. Not that. Not them,” he growled under his breath, backing away from the water like it had turned to acid.

“Sirens...” he hissed, voice low and venomous.

He turned on his heel, fist clenched, jaw tight, heart hammering too fast for a man who never panicked. But this—this was the one thing that dug under his skin.

“Don’t fuckin’ sing at me,” he snapped into the empty air, fury hiding his fear. “I’ll gut the next throat that hums, I swear it.”

He paused.

A flicker of something in the water. A shadow? A trick of the light?

He grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it at the lake’s center. The splash echoed through the clearing.

“Try me,” he spat, his voice now a deep growl. “I dare you.”

TW: Violence, blood, death, threats, non-consensual themes, emotional manipulation, coarse language, weapon use, supernatural danger

⤷ Let's make this clear: my writings are entirely fictional and should never be perceived as acceptable in real-life situations. Each scenario is purely for imaginative amusement and should not be considered appropriate unless within a consensual context.

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