Salah wrapped the glowing egg in a spare fishing net, layering cloth over it again and again as if that might contain whatever lived inside. Even through the rough fibers, warmth seeped into his palms—steady, rhythmic.
Like a heartbeat.
He swallowed.
"It's warm," he murmured, more to himself than to Tex.
Tex stood several steps away, hands clenched, eyes fixed on the bundle as though it might suddenly leap at him. "That's not warmth," he said quietly. "That's life."
The wind around them stirred uneasily, responding to Tex's tension.
"I swear," Tex continued, voice low, "I felt it move. Not like a fish. Not like anything I've ever felt."
Salah tightened his grip. "Everything alive moves."
"That thing isn't normal," Tex snapped. "You saw the symbols. You felt the sea react. The ocean doesn't bow to fishermen, Salah."
Salah looked down at the bundle.
"I can't leave it," he said.
Tex stared at him. "You can—and you should."
"And do what?" Salah shot back. "Throw it back into the deep and pretend it never happened?"
"Yes!"
"And when my wife dies?" Salah's voice cracked. "When I've done nothing?"
Silence fell between them.
The egg pulsed faintly, light bleeding through the cloth—slow, patient, almost aware.
Tex exhaled, rubbing his face. "You're talking about selling it, aren't you?"
"I don't know," Salah admitted. "Maybe a scholar. A noble. Someone from the capital. People pay for strange things."
"They also pay to destroy them."
Salah's jaw tightened. "I'll take responsibility."
Tex laughed bitterly. "You always do. That's your problem."
The wind shifted suddenly, tugging at the sail.
Tex froze. "It's reacting again."
"To what?"
"To it." He pointed at the bundle. "Whatever that thing is, it doesn't like being out here."
Salah hesitated only a moment. "Then help me secure it. We go home. Now."
Tex looked at him—really looked at him—and finally nodded. "Alright. But once we dock, I'm done. This is your burden."
He raised his hands, and the wind answered.
The sea calmed.
Too calmly.
_____________________________________________
The village greeted them with lantern light and murmurs. Fishermen unloading their catch paused as Salah hurried past, clutching the cloth-wrapped bundle to his chest.
"What'd you catch?" someone called.
"Old junk from the deep," Salah replied quickly.
No one questioned him further.
He slipped into his small house, careful not to wake his wife. Her coughing echoed faintly from the bedroom, thin and fragile, each breath a reminder of why he'd done this.
He placed the bundle gently in the storage room behind the house, away from the windows. The moment he set it down, the air shifted—cooler, heavier.
The egg glowed faintly through the cloth.
Salah stepped back. "You're staying here," he whispered. "Just for tonight."
The glow dimmed, almost as if it had heard him.
That night, the wind screamed.
It clawed at the roof, rattled the shutters, howled through the narrow streets like a warning. Salah lay awake, heart pounding, listening to the storm—and to something else.
A sound.
Soft.
Crack.
He sat upright.
Another sound followed—sharp, brittle.
Crack.
"No," he whispered, already on his feet.
He rushed into the storage room.
The cloth was glowing.
Bright.
A thin fracture spread across the egg's surface, golden light seeping through like molten metal. The shell trembled.
"Oh gods," Salah breathed. "It's hatching?"
The crack widened with a soft hiss, steam-like mist curling into the air.
The shell split.
Not violently—but gently. As if it had waited.
Inside, cradled within a faintly glowing membrane, was a child.
A baby.
Small. Fragile-looking. His skin was pale—almost translucent—shimmering faintly as though light lived beneath it. Wisps of white hair clung to his head, drifting slightly despite the still air. Around him floated thin, ribbon-like tendrils, moving slowly, like jellyfish filaments suspended in water.
Salah stumbled back, nearly falling.
"This… this isn't possible."
The membrane dissolved into light, leaving the child lying among the broken shell.
The room fell silent.
Then—
The baby opened his eyes.
Gold.
Not bright. Not glowing. Just… deep. Too aware.
They locked onto Salah.
He didn't cry.
Didn't move.
He simply watched.
Salah's knees hit the floor.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The baby blinked.
At that instant, bioluminescent patterns rippled across his skin—soft purples, ocean blues, deep greens—slow and rhythmic, like waves breathing in the dark.
Tiny sparks of light lifted into the air around him, drifting upward like glowing spores.
Salah recoiled instinctively, heart hammering.
But the air changed.
The wind outside softened.
The room filled with a calm so deep it felt unreal—like standing at the edge of the sea just before dawn.
The baby inhaled.
The ocean answered.
Salah felt it then—a pull in his chest, a rhythm syncing with the child's breath. With the tide. With something far older than himself.
Tears blurred his vision.
"I don't understand you," he whispered, voice trembling. "I don't know where you came from… or what you're meant to be."
The baby's fingers curled slightly.
Salah reached out before he could stop himself.
Warm.
Alive.
"And yet," he said softly, "the moment you opened your eyes… I knew."
He swallowed.
"The world just changed."
Behind the walls, the sea rolled gently—watching.