Chapter 9 The Siren's Tale.

Dinner is a simple fish stew, stale bread, and laughter that warms the ribs better than the soup ever could. It’s only my second meal shared with friends since leaving the tower, and I savour it like a feast. The air smells of salt and smoke, of sea-worn men who’ve lived more lives than I can imagine. I sit cross-legged on the deck beside Eddie, the stars swinging lazily above us as the boat creaks beneath the night. They ask questions about where I came from, what my story is, and how a girl with no shoes ended up on their ship. I tell them, softly, about the tower. About the frost that followed me, the people who locked the doors, and the silence that became my only companion. I don’t mention the panic or the loneliness—just the snow. When I finish, no one speaks for a while. The sea hushes too, as though listening.

Eddie clears his throat, pushing a bowl toward me. “Not a happy story,” he says gently. “Not yet, at least.”

I nod. “No. But I think it’s getting there.”

A few men chuckle, the mood lightening again, until Pike leans closer. His grin looks harmless, but his eyes are too serious for the joke that follows.

“How about a haunting tale then?” he says, swirling his cup. “Something to make the waves shiver.”

Eddie groans. “Don’t start, Pike.”

But Pike only grins wider. “What? You think she shouldn’t know? Everyone who sails these waters should hear about her.”

“Her?” I echo.

“The Kraken,” Pike says, lowering his voice until it’s almost a growl. “Not just a beast—no, she’s older than the sea itself.”

The crew falls silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Pike leans back and spits over the side. “That’s why you never answer the song. Not even in your dreams.”

Eddie shakes his head, muttering, “You’ll scare her.”

But my curiosity is already hooked. “Tell me the story.”

Pike grins, teeth flashing in the lantern light, and Gilfred scurries up to perch on my shoulder as if he wants to hear it too.

“They say,” Pike begins, his voice low and rolling like the tide, “that she once stood beside the King of the Sea, a kraken advisor, trusted and feared in equal measure. But greed doesn’t swim well in calm waters. She wanted more—more magic, more power, more worship—and when the King cast her out, she went mad with envy. That’s when she began granting wishes.”

He pauses long enough for the waves to lap against the hull. “Only… every wish comes with a price.”

The men around us go quiet.

“She lured in a siren once,” Pike continues, his tone softening, “a sweet creature who begged her for one thing: to stop her song from killing the man she loved. To love him without driving him mad. And Vasra—” he spits the name like a curse—“gave her what she asked for. Only twisted. The siren could love him, aye, but only from afar. She was cursed to watch him live, grow old, and die, and never again could she touch him.”

The sea groans against the ship’s side, and a gull cries somewhere far off.

“That siren still serves her,” Pike finishes quietly. “Tied to Vasra’s will. Her song leads sailors down to the depths, to feed the kraken’s hunger. Some say they’ve heard it, soft as a heartbeat, just before the waves rise. Others swear they’ve seen men leap overboard, smiling, like they’d found heaven in the sea.”

He tips his cup, letting the last drops spill into the dark water.

“That’s how she gets them. Not with fear. With longing.”

I gulp hard. That’s not like any of the books I’ve ever read. That’s…terrifying, and sad.

“Okay, so, don’t listen to music out here, got it.” I half-joke, half-fidget with my pants.

Eddie nudges my arm playfully, giving me a reassuring smile. “You’ll be right. I’ve been out on the sea for almost twenty years now, never seen or heard a thing.”

Later that night, the deck has fallen silent. The waves slap gently against the hull, steady and rhythmic, like the slow beat of a sleeping heart. I lie in my hammock, swaying with the ship’s movement, and Gilfred is curled into the crook of my neck. He’s warm and soft, a tiny pocket of life against the cold that still clings to me no matter how many blankets I wrap around myself. I can hear the men below snoring and above it all, the sea humming to itself. It’s strange how alive it feels. Sometimes I swear it breathes.

My thoughts drift back to Pike’s story. To Vasra. To that poor siren. I can’t imagine anything crueller than being forced to watch the person you love move on, seeing them laugh, fall in love again, live an entire life you can never touch. To be so close, but never close enough. It sounds worse than death. It sounds like being forgotten. I roll onto my side and stare up at the thin stretch of stars through the open hatch. The world out there is vast and glittering and full of people who can love freely, who can walk hand in hand without freezing the ground beneath them. Maybe that’s what I envy most, just the ability to touch and be touched without consequence. To know what love feels like, if only for a moment.

Gilfred lets out a soft chirp, half-asleep. I stroke the top of his tiny head and whisper, “Don’t worry. I’m not giving my voice away to anyone.” He blinks once, slow and unimpressed, before tucking his nose back under his tail.

The hammock rocks gently. Somewhere out on the water, something brushes against the hull with a low thud. My breath catches, heart stuttering. But the sound fades, replaced by the whisper of foam against wood. I close my eyes and try to let the rhythm lull me, but it doesn’t quite work. The sea feels too alive, too knowing, like it’s listening, like it’s waiting. When sleep finally starts to pull me under, I think I hear it, faint and almost sweet. A tune so soft it could be the creak of the ropes or the sigh of the tide. But it sounds an awful lot like someone singing.