"Get over yourself, princeling."
Lyra's voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and cool as sea mist. Kael's mouth opened in protest, but no words came. Not when she looked at him like that—unimpressed, unbothered, and absolutely in control.
He clenched his jaw, the sting of her tone needling deeper than he wanted to admit. "You think I'm trying to impress you?"
"No," she said, lounging back lazily on the rock, her tail half-submerged, flicking absently. "I think you're trying not to drown in your own delusions."
The salt-laced air was tense. Kael took a step forward, then hesitated.
"Don't mistake curiosity for affection, Kael. I'm bored out of my scales, not besotted."
His shoulders tightened, then dropped as he exhaled. "I'm not asking for anything."
"Good," she said without looking at him. "Because I have nothing to give."
The tide rolled in around them, brushing the rocks with white foam. They stood in silence for a long moment, the space between them wide and bristling. And then, as if the tension never existed, Lyra stretched her arms above her head with a languid sigh.
"Well," she muttered, "you're still here. So you might as well make yourself useful."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"
"Carving driftwood. Fetching oysters. Building a shelter so your royal behind doesn't get scorched again. I don't know. Be creative."
Despite himself, he laughed. It slipped out, sudden and rough. "You really are something."
She smirked. "You have no idea."
—
Kael spent the next few hours gathering dry branches and large leaves, building a makeshift canopy under Lyra's scrutiny. Her tail flicked lazily while she watched him, offering occasional commentary.
"That branch is too brittle."
"You call that a knot?"
"Are you sure you're not just a decorative prince?"
He grit his teeth through most of it, but by sunset, he'd fashioned something passable. The shelter leaned against the cliffs and looked like it might survive a light wind.
Kael stepped back, hands on hips. "Well?"
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "You won't die in your sleep. Barely."
"High praise from the queen of salt."
She chuckled, then turned her gaze to the horizon. The sea swallowed the sun slowly, casting streaks of gold and violet across the waves. For the first time, she looked almost peaceful.
"You really hate it here, don't you?" he asked softly.
She didn't look at him. "It's not about hate. It's about time. Imagine centuries of the same tides, the same skies, the same rocks. No change. No escape. Just... existing."
Kael's brow furrowed. "Sounds lonely."
She finally glanced at him. "That's the curse, princeling. Immortality isn't about power. It's about patience. And regret."
Their eyes locked. Something heavy passed between them—understanding, maybe. Or warning.
—
Later that night, Kael lay beneath the canopy, staring at the stars. Lyra's soft humming drifted from the shore, strange and haunting. He closed his eyes, letting her voice wrap around him like the tide. He didn't know what was coming next. But he knew he wasn't going anywhere.
—
Morning arrived on the tail of a dream Kael couldn't shake. He woke with a start, the sound of Lyra's voice echoing in his mind like an ancient song. She was already swimming, weaving around jagged rocks, hair glinting with sunlight.
He watched for a while before calling out. "Do you do anything besides look ethereal?"
"I bite," she called back. "Hard."
He snorted and went about checking his shelter. It held through the night, but the winds had already started tugging at the edges. He'd need to reinforce it.
By midday, Lyra returned with a glistening net of silver kelp and a cluster of sea urchins. She dropped them in front of him.
"Breakfast."
Kael blinked. "How generous."
"Don't flatter yourself. I can't stand the smell of your stomach growling."
Despite her words, there was something softer in her gaze. Not warmth—no, that would be too much. But maybe something adjacent. Tolerance.
As they ate, Kael asked, "What do you do to pass the time?"
Lyra tilted her head. "Besides judging mortals and rearranging seashells?"
He smiled. "Exactly."
"Sometimes I sing," she said after a pause. "It draws creatures. And sometimes dreams."
"Can you teach me?"
She blinked at him, surprised. "You want to learn siren's song?"
"Maybe I like danger."
Her grin was wicked. "Or maybe you're just really, really dumb."
—
The following days were strange but peaceful. Kael worked on improving the shelter and learned to fish with Lyra's help. They argued, bantered, shared stories—real or imagined—and fell into an odd rhythm.
One evening, a storm rolled in. Kael scrambled to cover the shelter while Lyra remained in the sea, eyes closed as lightning danced across the sky.
"You're going to get struck!" he yelled.
She laughed, voice whipped away by the wind. "Let it try!"
When the rain came, it drenched them both. But Kael didn't move. He watched her, framed by thunder and lightning, and felt something tighten in his chest.
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was something dangerous.
—