The air was a shock to Neria's gills, dry and biting after the soft embrace of the ocean. The blinding light of the surface sun, reflected off the vast, shimmering expanse of the sea, made her eyes water. She instinctively ducked back beneath the waves, her powerful tail thrashing, before forcing herself to resurface, gasping. This was a world of harsh contrasts, so unlike the gentle, bioluminescent depths of Thalassira.
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump was louder now, a steady heartbeat against the roar of the waves. It emanated from the towering structure on the cliff – the lighthouse. It was a stark, cylindrical tower of dark stone, crowned with a brilliant, pulsing light that cut through the early twilight. Around its base, jagged rocks jutted from the churning sea, their surfaces slick with spray. The air smelled of salt, damp earth, and something else… something sharp and earthy, like herbs and burning wood. Magic. Witch magic.
Fear, a cold tendril, wrapped around Neria's heart. She had been raised on tales of witches: chaotic beings who twisted nature, who had supposedly unleashed the Great Black Tide that cursed her people. Her elders spoke of their unpredictable magic, their dangerous rituals. Yet, the steady pulse of the lighthouse, and the faint, almost lonely hum of human presence she had felt from below, contradicted the monstrous images in her mind.
Curiosity, ever her strongest current, pulled her closer. She swam cautiously, keeping to the deeper shadows cast by the cliff face, her head barely breaking the surface. The waves crashed against the rocks with a deafening roar, but the lighthouse's thrum remained constant, a beacon in the wild symphony of the ocean.
As she drew nearer, she noticed a small, wooden staircase carved into the cliff, leading up to a sturdy, iron-bound door set into the base of the lighthouse. And then she saw her.
A figure stood at the very edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the fading light of the sky. She was human, but unlike any human Neria had imagined. Her form was slender, cloaked in dark, practical robes that seemed to blend with the rugged stone. Her hair, the color of storm clouds, whipped around her face in the wind. She wasn't beautiful in the soft, ethereal way of sirens, but there was a stark, compelling beauty to her, a sense of quiet power. She held a gnarled, wooden staff, its tip glowing faintly with a soft, green light, and her gaze was fixed on the tumultuous sea.
This was a witch. Neria could feel the subtle currents of magic radiating from her, a raw, untamed energy that resonated with the wildness of the ocean. But it wasn't chaotic. It was… focused. Controlled. And it felt strangely familiar, like the deep currents Neria herself commanded during a tempest.
The witch raised her staff, and with a low, resonant chant, the winds around the cliff seemed to intensify, whipping the waves into a frenzy. Yet, the lighthouse stood firm, its light unwavering. The witch was not causing chaos; she was commanding it, bending the elements to her will. She was protecting the light.
Neria watched, mesmerized, as the witch completed her ritual, her movements precise and ancient. The storm seemed to calm slightly, the winds lessening, the waves receding from the cliff face. The witch then turned, her gaze sweeping the horizon, and for a terrifying moment, Neria thought their eyes met. She instinctively ducked beneath the waves, her heart pounding.
When she resurfaced, the witch was gone, having retreated into the lighthouse. The iron-bound door had closed, leaving the cliff edge empty save for the crashing waves.
Neria hesitated. Her instincts screamed at her to return to the safety of the depths, to the familiar bioluminescence of Thalassira. But the steady thrum of the lighthouse, the lingering scent of witch magic, and the memory of the witch's solitary figure against the wild sky, held her captive. She had to know more.
She swam to the base of the cliff, finding a small, hidden alcove carved into the rock, just large enough to conceal her tail. She transformed, her scales shimmering, her powerful tail dissolving into two slender, human legs, a process that was still uncomfortable, a strange stretching and reshaping of her very essence. Her skin, usually iridescent, took on a paler, more muted tone, and her gills, though still present, became less prominent. It was a trick of siren magic, allowing them to walk on land, but it was draining, and she could only maintain it for a limited time.
She pulled her dark cloak tighter around her, shivering slightly in the cold, damp air. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the lighthouse was a constant presence, a promise of warmth and answers. She found the wooden staircase, its steps worn smooth by years of wind and spray. She began to climb, her new legs feeling clumsy and unfamiliar, each step a deliberate act of defiance against centuries of fear and tradition.
She reached the iron-bound door, its surface cold and unyielding. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the rough wood. What would she say? How would she explain her presence? A siren, on a witch's doorstep, in a world where their very existence was believed to be a curse upon the other.
As she stood there, a faint, metallic scent reached her, carried on the wind. It was the smell of salt, but also something else… something like old copper and ozone. And then, a low, guttural growl, followed by a series of sharp, guttural barks. A creature. A guardian.
The door suddenly creaked open, just a sliver. A single, piercing eye, the color of molten gold, peered out from the darkness within. It was the eye of a creature Neria had only heard about in hushed whispers: a Hellhound, a guardian beast of witches, rumored to be made of shadow and fire.
Neria froze, her heart pounding. The witch had seen her. She was caught.