The sky had darkened into a thick, rolling grey, swollen with the promise of rain and whispered thunder. From her high perch on the jagged cliffs overlooking the Eastern Commons, the Beast—her feathers shimmering with iridescent hues of ocean blue and seafoam green—watched the distant shape moving steadily below. Her great wings stretched wide to catch the rising wind, feathers rippling like liquid scales in the storm's breath.
The creature of the wild threads beneath the world did not know her name. She called her only Sea Child.
The figure below was unlike the others that wandered the cracked earth and broken stone of the outskirts—no frantic, desperate movement, no frantic flight from unseen terror. This one moved with purpose, a quiet rhythm, steps measured and sure despite the weariness in her limbs. The Beast's sharp eyes tracked every motion—the set of her shoulders, the occasional glance upward, the way she touched her wrist as if sensing an invisible pulse beneath her skin.
Sea Child was searching. Not for safety or shelter, but for harmony.
The Beast's memory stretched back through centuries, through cycles of moonlight and shadow, tides that rose and fell like whispered prayers. She had seen many pass beneath her watchful gaze—hunters, scavengers, other lost souls—but the Sea Child was different. She bore the resonance of the deep currents, the old waters that ran beneath stone and bone, the salt in the air that spoke of distant seas.
Her first sighting had been days before, during the early days of the training. The girl crouched in a ruined tunnel beneath the city, hands trembling as they hovered above a cold stone bowl. The orb, cracked and faintly glowing, pulsed softly under her palm, stirring the threads of magic like the tide pulling at a hidden shore. The Beast had felt the faint tug in her own spirit, a faint harmony beneath the discord of the world.
Since then, she had followed, silent and unseen—a shadow threaded between mist and leaf, wind and rain.
The Sea Child did not know she was watched. She struggled beneath the Empire's harsh hand, bruised and beaten by iron blades and sharp words, but never broken. The Beast admired that stubborn flame—the fierce hunger not just for survival, but for something more: for strength, for purpose, for belonging.
It was a dangerous hunger, and one that would shape the weave of their fates.
The Monster, by contrast, was a violent stain on the world's tapestry. A creature of pure destruction, tearing through forests and villages with wild, senseless rage. The Beast hated the Monster—not just for its cruelty, but because it threatened the delicate balance she so carefully maintained. The Monster's path was one of chaos and slaughter; the Beast's, one of patience and understanding.
Patience.
The Beast's gaze softened as the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of sea spray and fresh earth. She knew the currents were pulling the Sea Child toward her, threads weaving tighter across the space between them. Soon, their paths would cross—not by chance, but by design.
Yet the Beast waited.
She was no mindless predator. She was a guardian of the old patterns, a creature that chose her companions with care. The Sea Child had not yet earned her trust, nor had she proven herself worthy of the bond that might link them. But the seed was planted.
Night fell thick and heavy, and the first drops of rain began to splatter on the rocky ledge. The Beast tucked her wings close and watched as the Sea Child paused beneath the shelter of an ancient oak away from her companions for but a moment, water dripping from light blue hair and soaked leather. The girl pulled her cloak tighter, shivering not from cold but from the weight of unseen burdens.
The Beast's mind reached outward—not with words, but with feeling, with a vibration so subtle it was more a ripple than a message. It brushed the Sea Child's spirit like a faint echo, a call from the deep.
Sea Child stirred, a flicker of awareness crossing her features, but she did not look up. The Beast understood—she was not ready. Not yet.
Below, the city's distant lights flickered through the rain, but here on the cliff, there was only the storm and the sea's endless song.
The Beast recalled the moments when she had first chosen companions in the long centuries past. The quiet, the waiting, the testing. The meeting of eyes that spoke without sound. The touch that bridged two worlds.
She longed for that moment with Sea Child—the moment when the tuning fork would finally hum in perfect resonance, and the bond would seal like a promise written in the wind.
But until then, the Beast remained the watcher.
She knew the girl carried more than just the weight of her past wounds. The rune on her wrist was a spark of the old currents, yes—but also a beacon. The Empire had marked her. The Empire watched her. And something older stirred beneath the waves of control and discipline.
The Beast was no fool.
She sensed the storm coming—not just the one in the sky, but the one brewing in the city's heart. The turf war between the Monster and herself was reaching a dangerous fever pitch, one that would soon drag the Sea Child into the fray.
Yet, even then, the Beast would protect her.
For the Sea Child was no ordinary prey or pawn. She was a current, a tide, a song waiting to be sung.
The rain grew heavier, washing the cliffs in silver light. The Beast spread her wings again, lifting from the ledge with effortless grace, the storm carrying her high into the roiling clouds.
Her eyes, bright and ancient, never left the figure below.
Sea Child.
The threads of their fates were entwining—closer now than ever before.
And when the time came, the Beast would be ready. The question is will Sea Child be?