Leilah swam to the surface, breaking into the morning sun as it cast its golden light across the ocean. The air was filled with birdsong, mingling with the melodic laughter of mermaids who frolicked in the cove's clear waters. Their features were bathed in the ruby hues of dawn, and the sunlight danced on their soft skin and shimmering scales, enhancing their ethereal beauty.
A gentle smile played on Leilah's lips as she took in the scene. Despite her feelings of being trapped in the ocean, she loved these tranquil mornings, the moments of peace before the world woke up. She often rose early just to swim to this bay, seeking a few hours of serenity.
Her routine was always the same—lounging on a rock near the water's edge, watching her reflection ripple in the crystal-clear waters while listening to the symphony of the sea. This morning, as she gazed at her reflection, she admired her long, wavy ocean-blue hair cascading around her shoulders, the strands moving like gentle waves.
Her pale, porcelain skin glimmered under the first rays of sunlight, giving her an almost otherworldly glow. Her turquoise eyes sparkled in the morning light, reflecting a mix of mischief, sadness, and conflict. Her lips, the color of ripe berries, curled into a soft grin as she let out a sigh, taking in the beauty of her surroundings.
Leilah's appearance was nothing short of ethereal, almost too beautiful for someone as simple as she felt herself to be. Compliments on her looks were frequent, but they often came hand-in-hand with reprimands about her behavior, a stark contrast to her angelic exterior. She may have looked like a serene goddess, but there was a devilish spark within her.
Her delicate features and graceful form only added to her allure. Loose curls framed her face, each wave shimmering like jewels in the morning light. Yet, despite her beauty, she couldn't help but feel inadequate, a late bloomer as her mother often reminded her.
Leone, the charming merman who had captured her heart more times than she cared to admit, always tried to convince her of her beauty, but her insecurities often got in the way. It was a source of constant tension between them, along with his relentless flirting with anything that swam in the ocean.
Thinking of Leone, Leilah's smile faltered, and her lips puckered slightly as if she had tasted something bitter. She couldn't help but replay their conversation from the day before, a conversation that left her with more questions than answers.
With a sigh, Leilah followed the current to the mouth of a river where saltwater met fresh. She had been warned countless times about the dangers of freshwater, where human fishermen often laid their traps. Normally, she wouldn't risk it, but today was different. No risk, no reward.
Navigating through the river proved challenging. She spent several minutes dodging hooks and nets, cursing the sailors as she disentangled herself from their traps. The nets always seemed to catch her hair—why was it always the hair? After fifteen minutes of struggling against the currents and avoiding capture, she finally reached a small, secluded house nestled among trees and overgrown weeds.
Leilah swam to a rickety dock connected to the house and called out. Silence was her only reply, so she dove back into the water, swimming beneath the weathered wooden planks. Once she was closer to the house, she called out again.
This time, a voice answered. "You've come a long way, little one."
Leilah looked up to see an elderly woman standing beside a fishing line tied to a makeshift bridge. The woman wore a loose black shirt and a blue skirt, her gray hair pulled into a ponytail with an orange bandana wrapped around her forehead. She smiled kindly at Leilah, who stared up at her, unsure of what to say.
"Um, could you help me?" Leilah asked tentatively.
"I may," the woman replied with a toothy grin. "Depends on what you need help with, child."
"Well, I'd like legs, ma'am," Leilah said, her voice timid yet resolute.
"Hmm… interesting," the woman hummed, her eyes scanning Leilah. "How old are you?"
"Uh, seventeen," Leilah replied, frowning slightly.
"Seventeen?" The woman gasped, a look of surprise crossing her face.
"Yeah, why? Is that odd?" Leilah tilted her head in confusion.
The older woman slowly stepped forward, her expression one of determination. "Well, well, well. How interesting. You do realize you'll get your legs naturally in a few years, right?"
Leilah's eyes widened. "Wait, what? How?"
The woman shook her head in disbelief. "This should be common knowledge. Young merfolk gain full control of both anatomies upon maturing. That includes legs, child."
"I can't wait that long," Leilah said, desperation creeping into her voice. "Every day I'm stuck down there, it feels more suffocating."
The woman's eyes narrowed as she studied the young mermaid. "And what exactly do you expect me to do?"
"Help me get my legs, please!"
"Why would I do such a thing?" the woman asked, her tone sharp.
"Because you're my only hope!" Leilah exclaimed, her frustration bubbling over. "My people have told stories about you for as long as I can remember. You helped another girl get her legs too! What was her name… I think it was A—"
The woman's face paled, and she quickly raised her hand. Leilah's words caught in her throat, leaving her speechless. She tried to speak again, but no sound came out. Panic filled her eyes as she looked up at the old woman, silently pleading.
"Do not say that wretched name in front of me!" the woman bellowed, her stern glare freezing Leilah in place. The young mermaid nodded quickly, relief washing over her as the woman lowered her hand.
"I'm s-sorry," Leilah croaked, her voice hoarse.
The woman sighed, her anger fading. "No, I'm sorry, child. It's just… I had a bad experience with that girl. I shouldn't have lashed out."
"It's okay," Leilah whispered. "So… will you help me?"
The woman smiled faintly and turned away. "We shall see, child. We shall see. It all depends on what you're willing to do for me in return."
With that, the old woman walked into her hovel of a house, leaving Leilah alone by the river.
Back in Novea on the night of the storm, a bitter cold seeped into the desolate cave, carried by the howling wind. Dracomire shivered as the chill penetrated his already soaked clothes. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the cuts on his face through the bars of the cell door.
A bitter, metallic taste lingered in his mouth. He spat it out, then lay down, inspecting the rope burns on his wrists. Did they really need to be that rough with him? He hadn't even put up a fight—well, besides trying to run.
Dracomire sighed, his thoughts drifting to what his brothers and Sammy must be thinking right now. Jasper, always the overprotective one, was probably panicking, blaming himself for everything that had gone wrong.
He rolled onto his back, staring up at the gray stone ceiling. The damp, cold stone chafed his skin, and the air reeked of dirt, mold, and mildew. Memories flooded back of the last time he and Jasper were trapped here, how they had stolen a boat to escape after being caught in a mudslide. Jasper had been so sure they'd be rescued, but they had nearly died of dehydration before finding their way out.
Now, Dracomire wondered how he would escape this time without his brother's help. He was injured, and there was no telling when the guards or the executioner might come for him. Time was running out, and he needed a plan.
With another sigh, Dracomire closed his eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. The makeshift bed—a mere indentation in the wall—offered no comfort, just two tattered blankets to stave off the cold. He had to find a way out.
Determined, he opened his eyes and sat up. Limping over to the door, he grabbed the bars and pulled with all his strength, but the door held firm. He pulled again until the pain in his knee became unbearable, forcing him to stop.
Defeated, Dracomire lay back down on the cold ground, wrapping himself in the tattered blanket. Sleep was elusive, as it had been since they brought him here. The thought of dying alone in this cell, with only the sound of waves for company, haunted him. He closed his eyes, listening to the faint noise coming from the door.
The soft clanking of metal echoed through the cell, keeping him awake. He cracked one eye open, watching as the guards delivered food to the other prisoners. They passed his cell without even a glance. It looked like he was going hungry tonight. His stomach growled in protest, but he forced himself to focus on sleep.
Hours later, a loud banging jolted him awake. His body ached, but he didn't move. It was too late to run anyway.
Slowly, he dragged himself to the door and peered through the bars. Five men stood outside his cell, two of whom were guards. They stepped aside to let a sixth man pass. The newcomer had dark brown hair that hung past his shoulders and piercing green-gray eyes. His navy blue shirt contrasted sharply with his light blue pants, and his gaze fixed on Dracomire.
"You're awake. Good," the man said in a deep voice, his eyes narrowing. "I see we haven't wasted our time."
Dracomire rubbed his eyes, confused. "Wasted time? What do you mean?" he asked, glancing at the guards.
One of them handed two slices of bread through the bars. The man reached for one, taking a bite before continuing. "The King wants to talk to you. So hurry up and eat." Without waiting for a response, he walked away. Dracomire scowled as he grabbed the remaining piece of bread, stuffing it into his mouth.
"Why'd he have to eat my food?" Dracomire muttered bitterly. As he ate, a wave of anxiety washed over him. "Is he going to kill me? Are Sammy and Jasper okay? Did they get captured too?" His thoughts spiraled as nausea rose in his chest. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he called out, "Hey, I'm ready to meet your king."
The guards laughed at his bravado, but one of them wasn't amused. He shoved Dracomire against the wall, growling, "Don't push it," before delivering a punch to his jaw. The impact sent blood into Dracomire's mouth and made his head spin. His vision blurred as they dragged him out of the cell and up the stone steps.
The storm had softened, the wind dying down to a drizzle, but the air was still cold. The sound of clinking chains echoed behind him as the guards brought more prisoners to join them.
Finally, they reached the top of the cliff. Dracomire paused, gazing out at the sea below and the sky above. The moon shone brightly, casting its light over the water, which glittered in the moonlight like a thousand dancing stars. The horizon was dotted with countless more stars, their light piercing the darkness.
A guard, irritated by his hesitation, shoved Dracomire forward. He stumbled, earning a kick in the ribs that sent him lurching down the path toward the castle. After a ten-minute walk down a steep, rocky road, they arrived at a massive set of wooden gates. Guards lined either side, their swords and torches casting harsh shadows over Dracomire and the other prisoners. He shivered as cold water dripped down his neck.
The gate swung open with a creak, and the guards gestured for Dracomire to enter. He complied, knowing it was unwise to resist.
They crossed a narrow bridge that led to the palace, the path slippery underfoot. If not for the guards' grip, Dracomire might have fallen. At the bottom of the slope, they entered the grand hall. Just ahead was the throne room of the King of Novea.
The room was opulent, filled with furniture and decorations made from a rare golden material that shimmered in the torchlight. Tapestries adorned the walls, and paintings covered every surface. Behind the throne, a large portrait of a beautiful girl caught Dracomire's eye, making his heart race.
"Oh my… she's beautiful," he murmured, warmth creeping into his cheeks. He didn't know who the girl was, but she looked a little older than him, with long blonde curls framing her delicate features. She seemed like a princess, and Dracomire couldn't help but wonder who she was.
His thoughts were interrupted when a large man appeared. He wore a red and gold robe with blue ribbons running down his arms and legs, and a long white cape that fell to his feet. The man stood proudly in front of the girl's portrait, a smile on his face.
"Ah, Dracomire. It's nice to see you again," the man said.