Our tale begins on the Red Siren, a ship of rogues who've been adrift for far too long.
How long, you ask?
Long enough that the bread is mold, the meat is gone, and all that remains in their bellies is watered-down rum and the taste of their own curses.
"Another net… another day of nothing!" growled Big Rog, the ship's hulking cook. His apron was stained with fish guts — though no fish had graced it in weeks.
"Aye," wheezed Tumble Tom, the one-eyed jester of the crew, "at this point I'd roast my own boot if the leather weren't so salty."
"Ha!" a lanky sailor barked, "Don't tempt him. Tom once ate a candle when we were short on tallow."
"Better than starving!" Tom shot back, wobbling dramatically.
The crew roared with laughter, though hunger had thinned their voices.
And then, there was Mr. Mottle.
Ahh, reader, you'll like him. The captain's right hand. Round as a barrel, with a nose like a pickled onion, always fussing and wringing his hands.
A man who laughed when he should cry and cried when he should laugh.
"Captain, sir," Mottle whined, bowing too low, "the men are restless. Hungry. All we've got left is booze, and if I may say so, even the booze is beginning to taste like bilge water!"
From the captain's cabin came a loud, unbothered yawn.
Captain Amor Van Dior —
Rogue, trickster, a man who fought like the sea itself: unpredictable, wild, yet sharp as a cutlass.
Meaner, handsomer, and twice as drunk.
He stumbled onto the deck, rum bottle in hand.
"What's this noise, eh? Can't a man dream of mermaids in peace?"
The crew erupted, shouting over one another.
"Captain, we'll starve!"
"Let's eat the rats!"
"No rats left!"
"Sell the ship! Sell the booze!"
"Eat the cook!"
Big Rog snarled, swinging his ladle. "Try it and I'll season you!"
Amor grinned, teeth flashing. "Enough! The sea always gives… eventually."
As if on cue, the rope snapped taut. A net, heavy with something unseen, dragged at the ship.
"By the beard of Poseidon—pull, you scurvy dogs!" Amor shouted.
The crew heaved, cursing, boots slipping on the wet planks. Jokes flew even in their struggle.
"If it's another boot, Tom gets it!"
"If it's seaweed, Rog can cook it!"
"If it's treasure, I'm retiring!"
The net rose, dripping. The sailors froze.
It wasn't treasure.
It wasn't fish.
It was a girl tangled in weeds.
"Saints preserve us," whispered Mottle, clutching his hat. "A lass!"
"Aye, but look close," Big Rog muttered, pointing with his ladle.
Her face was pale, hauntingly beautiful. But lower down… something writhed. Slimy, black tentacles tangled in the netting.
The men gasped, recoiling.
"She's cursed!" one cried.
"No—she's valuable!" another countered.
"Maybe… maybe we cook her?" Tom suggested nervously. "Stew's stew…"
Amor silenced them with a raised hand, smirking. "Oh, lads… what fortune! A mystery girl from the deep.
But then Old Crag, the ship's oldest sailor — scarred, half-blind, a man who claimed to have once sailed under three different pirate kings — stepped forward. His voice cracked with both fear and awe.
"I know what she is…" he whispered. "She's no mermaid. She's Cecaelia."
The name alone made a few men flinch.
"A what?" asked Tumble Tom, scratching his greasy hair.
"A Cecaelia," Crag repeated, his one good eye gleaming. "A warrior tribe from the deep. Thought to be wiped out in the last Gagaroth War."
Murmurs rippled through the crew.
"The what war?" a younger sailor asked.
Crag spat. "Ah, you young pups know nothing. Listen well, for the sea remembers. Five hundred years ago, the world burned with the Gagaroth War. Land folk against aqua folk. Every tribe fought — mermaids, sirens, leviathans, Cecaelia… the blood turned oceans black."
"Eighteen years it lasted," Crag continued, voice low, "until he came. A man named Walder, the Seer of Futures. A prophet. A warlock. Some say he was more than human. He saw the end of all things if the fighting went on — and so he ended it himself."
The deck creaked as every pirate leaned closer.
"Walder cast a curse upon both sides," Crag said. "If ever the oceans and the lands made war again, the curse would awaken. Storms would swallow kingdoms. Beasts would rise. Whole continents would sink."
"Is that true?" one whispered.
Crag nodded grimly. "After Walder's curse, the tribes signed the Treaty of Gollard, binding peace for five hundred years. And mark me — that treaty ends next year, when the Year of Gollard comes again."
A hush fell. Even Amor, the captain, tilted his head in interest.
"And you know what happens when a treaty like that expires?" Crag muttered. "History don't stay buried. The curse don't stay quiet."
Silence. Only the waves answered.
Then Mottle whispered, "Captain… ocean folk fetch fortunes in Helderdia's black market. The nobles of Gonor Kingdom would pay a king's ransom for her! Alive or dead!"
"Aye," Rog muttered darkly, "rare meat, rare magic, rare beauty. All of it sells."
Tumble Tom cackled, "Or stew, lads! Tentacle stew! Enough to feed us till kingdom come!"
The crew roared with laughter, greed mixing with hunger.
Amor raised his bottle, smirking.
"Unconscious, harmless, for now. Lock her in the brig. We'll decide her fate when she wakes."
The men dragged her below. Iron bars slammed shut.
Back on deck, the pirates kept laughing, tossing out wild plans — ransom, stew, selling her in the capital. But beneath the noise, unease gnawed at them.
For every man remembered Crag's words: Cecaelia… cursed… Gagaroth War…
And far below their feet, in the dark of the brig, something stirred.