Chapter Text
In her house, there lives a boy.
She doesn’t know who he is, not really. No one ever tells her. But she knows he isn’t quite human. Dangerous, the servants whisper when they think she’s out of earshot. A dangerous creature.
Maybe that’s why they’ve locked him in a cage.
She's never seen him outside of it. Never dared come close; there are always guards posted nearby, and no one is allowed near without her uncle’s permission.
She doesn’t ask her uncle about the boy. He isn’t a warm man, and whenever the cage is mentioned, something cold flickers across his face. It’s probably best not to ask too many questions.
And yet, she can’t help herself. The cage. The boy.
From a distance, he looks perfectly ordinary. A little older than her, perhaps; it’s hard to tell. Pretty blond hair. Skin so pale it almost glows against the dark.
He looks fragile. Breakable. Human.
Her uncle brought him home a month ago, and since then she’s been tiptoeing around that wing of the house, careful not to draw attention, always stopping just short of the guards’ lines of sight. Curiosity pulls at her like a tide: Why are you here? What did you do? Did my uncle steal you away, too?
She hasn’t seen her brother in a year, not since the fire that killed their parents and sent her to live under her uncle’s roof. Aether had barely settled before being shipped off to some prestigious academy. To prepare him to inherit, her uncle said.
It’s probably good for him. She isn’t sure. His letters all sound fine, but letters aren’t the same as voices, and lately the silence in the mansion feels heavier than it should.
She’s been a little lonely.
And the boy—the boy curled up on the cold floor of that cage, arms looped around his knees, trying to make himself small—
He must be lonely too.
One day, her uncle invites her to approach the cage.
She doesn’t know what’s changed—why his smile looks taut at the edges, why the servants murmur with unease, why the guards stiffen as she draws near. The cage is hidden behind curtains today, the heavy fabric drawn tight so she can’t see the boy within.
“Lumine,” her uncle says, his voice smooth and quiet. “I’d like you to meet this child.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“He’s a special boy,” her uncle continues. “A little shy. Not much of a talker, though he’s capable of speech. I was hoping you might… strike up a conversation with him.”
She thinks he might be more willing to speak if he weren’t locked in a cage, but she bites the thought back.
“Yes, Uncle.”
She steps forward. One of the guards pulls a thick cord, and the curtains part.
The first thing she sees is violet. Her breath catches.
The boy is curled up at the back of the cage, pale as she remembers, hair the soft gleam of spun gold. It’s the first time she’s close enough to see his eyes—violet, almost pearlescent, light refracting through them like rainbows through polished amethyst.
What steals her breath isn’t the strangeness but the beauty. He’s pretty—the prettiest person she’s ever seen, prettier even than her favourite porcelain doll. The one her mother gave her. The one her uncle took away for safekeeping.
She’ll get it back when she’s older, he’d said. When she’s learnt to be careful.
She tries to understand. She really does. But sometimes she wakes with tears on her cheeks, unable to name the emptiness that keeps spreading inside her.
Now, looking at this boy—at the fragile, silent shape of him—the void seems to shrink a little, folds back into itself. As if light has slipped through the cracks to give her something to hold on to.
Maybe this is what hope feels like.
“Hello,” she says, lowering her gaze as she curtseys, the way her mother once taught her. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Lumine.”
When she looks up, the boy is staring at her. Frozen where he sits, knees drawn to his chest, violet eyes wide and unblinking. She glances back at her uncle; he gives a small nod.
“What’s your name?” she tries.
He doesn’t answer. Not aloud. His gaze flicks to the guards, then back to her. He folds tighter, hiding his face in his knees.
She hesitates. He doesn’t seem to want to talk, but he’s the closest she’s come to someone her own age since Aether left. Someone not bound to her uncle’s house, not pitying her like she’s the one in the cage.
Maybe that’s why she feels the tug of sympathy. Of curiosity. The small, inexplicable urge to understand him.
“I want to stay here,” she says quietly. “Alone.”
A guard starts to object, but her uncle silences him with a glance. “If that’s what my niece wishes,” he says, “then it shall be done.”
He leaves, the others trailing behind him, and silence swells to fill the room.
Only when the door shuts does she exhale.
She kneels by the cage, lowering herself to his level. The boy watches her warily, body drawn tight, eyes bright and alert, as though ready to flee at any sound.
She folds her hands in her lap, trying to look as harmless as possible.
Once, when she and Aether were younger, they’d found a puppy at the edge of the woods—a frightened little thing, ribs showing, trembling at every noise. They’d brought it home, fed it, bathed it, whispered to it through the night. It had whined and run to the shadows for days, afraid to be touched. But with time, patience, and no small amount of snacks, it had come around.
Not that she is comparing this boy to a puppy, but something about the way he sits, tense and small, reminds her of that same wary fear.
“Hello,” she says softly.
The boy looks at her and blinks once, slow and cautious.
“It’s just us now,” she says. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
For a moment, there’s nothing. His lips are pressed thin, his head bowed. She’s about to assume he can’t understand her—then slowly, he nods.
Just once.
The tiny motion makes her breath hitch. She leans forward before she can stop herself. He flinches back; she freezes.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He bites his lip, watching her warily.
She’s reminded again of that puppy—how it cowered from her and Aether, hiding in corners they couldn’t reach; how it tried to bite when her hand came too close.
Patience, she tells herself. She can’t rush this.
Slowly, she shifts from kneeling to sitting cross-legged on the floor. He still doesn’t move, doesn’t unfurl from the tight knot of his body. She offers him a small smile and lays her palms open on her knees.
“My name is Lumine,” she says again. “My mother told me it means light in another language. But I don’t know which.”
The boy doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Still, she knows now that he understands.
“I’m fourteen this year,” she continues. “I have a twin brother, Aether. But he’s away at school. He would’ve liked to meet you—he’s always been good at making friends.”
He rests his cheek on his knee, arms wrapped around himself, but she senses he’s listening. Relief softens her shoulders.
“The man you saw earlier,” she says, “he’s my uncle. He’s not very friendly, but he treats me well enough.”
A pause. “I don’t know why he keeps you in a cage. It isn’t fair. I’ll try to talk to him, see if he’ll let you out.”
No one deserves to live behind bars. Even animals don’t. The mansion already feels close enough to a cage for her; she can’t imagine what it’s like inside real iron.
It’s a large cage—half the size of the room, plenty of space to move—but that doesn’t make it right.
At her words, he lifts his head. Something flickers in those violet eyes—alertness, suspicion.
“I don’t know if he’ll listen to me,” she adds quickly, her voice softening. “I don’t have much say in this house.”
She remembers what her mother used to say about her uncle: a man more at home on the battlefield than anywhere else. Commander, hero, strategist. Yet withdrawn, silent, a shadow of steel and grief. It’s not like him to take an interest in anything outside of war, which only makes her wonder more—why this boy? Why keep him locked away when he looks so small, so harmless? He looks human. Exactly like her, like Aether.
It makes her chest ache to see him penned in.
He blinks, lowers his head again, but his eyes stay on her. She wonders what he’s thinking—if he’s thinking at all.
“Is there anything you’d like?” she asks at last. “Something I could bring you?”
His gaze darts past her, towards the far wall. She follows it to a painting: a ship cutting across a wide blue sea. The water is endless, glittering, the vessel tiny against it.
“You want to see the sea?” she asks.
He looks at her, then nods once, cautious.
“I don’t know if I can promise that,” she says slowly. “I don’t know if my uncle would ever let you go.”
He deflates, and the sight pinches something inside her. She hurries to fill the silence. “But my birthday is soon,” she says. “He’ll let me choose a present. I could ask to visit the sea, and tell him you want to come. Maybe he’ll agree.”
He doesn’t answer. The words hang between them, delicate as dust motes. She fidgets, hoping she hasn’t said something wrong. She wants to ask why he’s here, what he’s done, what he is—but his eyes still hold that wary gleam, and she decides not to push.
So she rises, brushing lint from her skirt. “I won’t bother you any longer,” she says. “But I’ll come again, if you don’t mind.” She forces a small smile. “It gets lonely here, sometimes.”
She turns to leave—and a voice stops her. Soft, low, like waves on a quiet shore. Something about it makes her breath catch.
“My name is Lyney,” the boy says.
The world stills.
She looks back. He’s in the same crouched position, but his eyes are wide, fixed on her. Those violet depths gleam faintly through the bars.
She smiles. “Pleased to meet you, Lyney,” she says softly. “I hope we become friends.”
She starts to learn a few things about Lyney.
Not why he’s in the cage. Not what he is. But smaller things—like how he never seems to eat, or sleep, or show any ordinary need at all. Or maybe he does these things only when she isn’t there.
She once asked if he ever felt hungry. He didn’t answer.
Lyney isn’t one for conversation. He never ignores her, but he seems to prefer gestures: a nod, a shake of the head, a tilt of the wrist. He’s tight-lipped, not only about himself but about everything. Sometimes she wonders if he truly understands her words, or if he’s simply humouring her.
She rarely hears his voice after that first day. When her uncle later asked whether the boy had spoken, something made her lie. No, she’d said. Her uncle paused, then quietly encouraged her to keep visiting. “He’s shy,” he said. “He may open up to someone closer to his own age.”
She didn’t dare ask what Lyney was. She only nodded, smiled, and did as she was told.
Fortunately, her uncle allowed her to see him alone. Perhaps he realised the boy disliked being watched. Whatever the reason, the guards no longer lingered, and she could visit without feeling the weight of other eyes.
Within three weeks, Lyney began to open up, just a little. He still mostly used gestures, but sometimes he spoke, and only when she asked about the ocean.
From those fragments, she learns that the sea reminds him of home. That he’s a strong swimmer. That the water makes him calm, maybe even happy. None of this he says outright; she pieces it together from nods and half-smiles, from the way his eyes soften when she mentions waves or rain.
She doesn’t mind guessing. It’s a kind of conversation in itself. And every time he does speak, the sound of his voice—low, fluid, something like the pull of a tide—makes her head swim. It feels like hearing the ocean through a seashell, distant and close all at once. It unsettles her.
Still, she pushes the feeling down. He’s simply Lyney: a lonely boy in a cage. She’s the only one he speaks to, the only one he doesn’t seem afraid of. That’s all that matters.
After three weeks of daily visits, she discovers he can’t read. So she decides to teach him. It gives them something to do together, something that doesn’t depend on words. He learns quickly—too quickly. Within days, he could recognise letters, then simple words. She begins bringing him books, whatever her uncle allows her to have. They’re far too difficult, but Lyney never complains. He tries, tracing each line with careful fingers while she sits beside him, murmuring corrections.
These lessons are when she hears his voice the most. Halting, spare, but every repetition of a word makes her pulse jump. She doesn’t understand why. Maybe it’s because his voice sounds alive. Maybe it’s because it feels like the sea itself is speaking through him.
Today, she’s in his room again, sitting beside the cage. Over the weeks, he’s inched closer, until now they’re side by side, separated only by the bars. Up close, he’s almost too beautiful to look at.
If there’s anything inhuman about Lyney, she decides, it’s his prettiness. It doesn’t seem natural—too precise, too perfect. Like something carved from light instead of flesh. It’s not fair.
She holds a book open in her lap. Lyney leans forward, peering over her shoulder. His fingers curl around the bars as if to close the distance. She glances at him, then lifts the book higher.
“Do you want to read this?” she asks. “It’s a book of fairy tales.”
He tilts his head, questioning.
“Fairy tales,” she explains. “Stories for children. I don’t think they really happened, but people say they carry warnings to keep children from doing anything foolish.”
His gaze drifts back to the pages, curiosity bright in his eyes.
She clears her throat and begins to read. “Once upon a time, there lived a fisherman. He was the best in his village and prided himself on bringing home the greatest catch each day.”
Lyney listens closely. She can hear his breathing—slow, steady, almost lulling.
“One day,” she continues, “the lord of the land came to visit. He held a contest: whoever could bring back something from the ocean that the lord had never seen before would win the chance to marry his daughter.”
She glances sideways, wondering if Lyney even understands the concept of marriage. He never seems to grasp certain human things, though perhaps it’s only because he’s led a sheltered life. She doesn’t know enough to tell.
“The lord’s daughter was famed for her beauty, so every villager joined the contest, the fisherman among them. He set out to sea at once, sailing towards distant waters no one else dared to brave. He was certain that if he went far enough, he’d return with something truly astonishing.”
She doesn’t remember this fairy tale. It feels new to her.
“The waves were fierce and the wind bit cold, but the fisherman pressed on. At last, a small grey island came into view, all rock and salt and spray. As he drew closer, he heard something—singing.”
Lyney inhales sharply. The sound startles her. “Lyney?”
His fingers are curled white around the bars. He stares at her, silent, unblinking. She hesitates, then looks back at the book.
“Whoever was singing used no words. It was a wordless melody—beautiful, haunting. The fisherman longed to see who possessed such a voice, so he steered his boat towards the island.”
Lyney exhales, soft and low. She glances up again; a faint furrow darkens his brow. Perhaps he’s simply enthralled by the tale.
“The island was treacherous, ringed by jagged stone. The waves tore at his boat, but the fisherman was skilled and reached the shore safely. He followed the music through the mist until he glimpsed a figure within it.”
Without noticing, she leans forward as she reads. She’s never heard this story before. How strange that it isn’t in any of the other books she owns.
“The mist parted, and he saw a woman seated in a clearing. Her song was low and mournful, so lovely that the fisherman could do nothing but stand there and listen. He stayed under her spell until the song finally ended.”
Lyney’s hands are still clutching the iron, knuckles pale. It must be a gripping story for him, too.
“The woman turned and asked what he was doing on her island. The fisherman said he sought something rare from the ocean, a treasure to win the lord’s daughter’s hand. The woman listened, then told him she could grant such a gift, but only in exchange for something equally precious.”
“She shouldn’t,” Lyney murmurs.
The words send a jolt through her. She turns; his eyes are lowered to the page, brow furrowed deeper.
“Do you want me to stop reading?”
He shakes his head. She swallows and continues, pretending not to notice how the echo of his voice lingers in her ear. It’s beautiful—dangerously so, like the woman in the story. She finds herself wondering whether Lyney can sing.
“The fisherman thought hard about what he could give. He offered money, land—she refused them all. Finally, he asked what she desired. The woman said she would take his firstborn child.”
A chill runs through her, but she keeps reading.
“The fisherman refused, but the woman would accept nothing else. With the sun sinking low, he grew desperate and agreed. The woman gave him a pearl the colour of the rainbow. She said it was made from her voice, the most precious thing in the seven seas. With it, he would win for certain. In return, she would claim his firstborn. And so he sailed home.”
The room feels unnaturally still. Lyney is close enough now that she can feel his breath through the bars.
“The fisherman presented the pearl to the lord, who declared him the winner. He married the lord’s daughter. Within a year, they had a child—a girl. The fisherman rejoiced, but then remembered the bargain. His wife, seeing his silence, asked what troubled him. When he told her, she laughed: how would the woman ever know he had a child? Comforted, he put the matter from his mind.”
Of course, she thinks, it won’t end well. Fairy tales rarely do.
“Two years passed, and the fisherman believed the woman had forgotten. But one day, when the skies broke open and the rain drove hard, he found himself sailing back to that same island. The woman was waiting on the shore.”
Lyney laughs quietly—a low, knowing sound. She tenses but keeps reading.
“The woman called him a traitor, a man who broke his promise. Since he would not return to her, she would come to claim what was hers. She began to sing, and the fisherman, powerless against the song, steered straight into the rocks. Even as his mind screamed to turn away, his body obeyed her voice. The waves closed over his head, and still he listened.”
Of course he would drown. She should have known.
“The fisherman drowned, and with him the secret of the island. No one ever found it again—and no one ever will.”
The story ends abruptly, without a moral. No lesson, just a warning that lingers in the quiet. Experimental, she thinks. Or maybe simply truer than most tales allow themselves to be.
“Are all fairy tales like that?” Lyney asks.
“No,” she says. “This one’s a little different.”
“How so?”
“Well… usually the main character triumphs over the villain. But in this one, he just—dies.”
Lyney is silent for a while. When he finally speaks again, his voice is soft. “Do you think the woman is a villain?”
She hesitates. His gaze is fixed on her—violet, glass-bright, so intent it steals her breath. It’s hard to think when he looks at her like that, beautiful and unblinking.
“Maybe not,” she says at last. “The fisherman agreed to her terms. He broke his promise. Though…” she frowns slightly, “it wasn’t kind of her to want his firstborn child, either.”
“She gave him that pearl,” Lyney says. “It was made from her voice. Something precious. It seems a fair trade.”
Lumine considers that. “I suppose. He shouldn’t have asked for something so valuable if he wasn’t ready to pay the price.”
“Humans are always like that,” Lyney says quietly. “Greedy.”
She studies him. “Do you think I’m greedy, Lyney?”
He startles, eyes widening. A faint flush colours his cheeks, nearly invisible if she weren’t sitting so close. He looks away and shakes his head, lips pressed tight.
“I’m human too, though,” she says, just to see how he’ll respond.
“But you’re not like the fisherman,” he answers, almost in a whisper. “You’re… kind.”
He pauses, as if something else lingers on his tongue, then lets it go. Her heart beats unevenly. She wants to ask him what he meant, but the tips of his ears are pink, and she doesn’t want to fluster him further.
“Do you want to read more fairy tales?” she asks instead.
Lyney glances at the book on her lap, then nods. She slides it between the bars. Their fingers nearly brush. For a heartbeat, she wonders what his skin would feel like—cool, warm, or something else entirely—but then he takes the book, and she draws back quickly, not wanting to intrude.
He opens the book and curls against the bars, reading in silence. She watches him for a moment, letting the quiet settle around them.
It’s strange how the boy in the cage no longer feels like an enigma. Somehow, he’s become a comfort. In this great, lonely mansion—where servants whisper and avert their eyes, and her uncle’s rare smiles feel like judgements in disguise—Lyney’s presence is the only thing that feels uncomplicated.
He never looks at her like she’s being measured or pitied. His expression is unreadable, smooth and still and almost too lovely to belong to anything human.
She still doesn’t know what he is. His words, his manner, hint at something other, but she can’t name it.
Perhaps, for now, it doesn’t matter.
“You wish to visit the sea on your birthday?” her uncle says, setting his report aside.
She nods.
He studies her over steepled fingers, brow furrowed. “Why? You’ve never cared for the sea before.”
“That’s why I want to see it,” she says. “I’ve only ever seen paintings. I want to know if it really looks that way.”
She stands before his desk with her hands clasped behind her back, doing her best not to fidget. His gaze feels like a weight—probing, suspicious. But she keeps her chin up. She did promise Lyney she would ask, and even if the answer is no, at least she’ll have tried.
Her uncle says nothing for a long time. Then he exhales. “You’ve been speaking to that boy.”
The words make her stiffen. “I’m sorry?”
“That boy,” he repeats, voice low. “He’s been telling you things, hasn’t he? About the sea.”
A chill prickles down her spine. She forces herself to meet his eyes.
He rises from his chair and comes around the desk, crouching until they’re level. His eyes are gold—like her mother’s, her brother’s, her own.
“Lumine,” he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She freezes; he rarely touches her. “Listen to me.”
He weighs his next words. “That boy should not be trusted.”
“Why?” she asks.
“He isn’t human,” her uncle says. “As I’m sure you’ve heard the servants whisper.”
“That doesn’t make him untrustworthy.”
“Not inherently,” he concedes. “But creatures like him don’t understand human intention. I’m not calling him evil, only—other. You cannot expect him to think as we do.”
“He never asked me for anything,” she insists. “I only wanted to see the ocean.”
“And it’s surely no coincidence that this desire appeared after you began spending time with him,” her uncle replies.
Lumine twists her fingers together. “He isn’t a bad person,” she says.
“I don’t believe he is,” her uncle admits. “He’s simply… different.”
“I don’t think we should fear him for that.” Her voice softens, almost pleading. “He smiles at me. He tells stories. He feels things.”
“I thought you said he barely spoke,” her uncle says mildly.
She falters. He doesn’t press, only continues. “It’s fine if you talk. Perhaps it’s even good that he speaks to someone. Just remember—not everything he says requires your action. He is not human. We are. Keep that distance.”
“He’s my only friend here,” she whispers.
Her uncle’s hand falls away. “You think of him as a friend?”
“He’s my age,” she says. “And he talks to me. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
His expression tightens. “Try not to grow attached to something that shouldn’t exist among us. It won’t be good for you in the end.”
“Then why keep him here at all?” she blurts.
His gaze shutters. He straightens, returns to his chair, and picks up his report again. “Children needn’t concern themselves with such matters. He’s here only for a time. Don’t ask questions.”
“Then—what is he?”
He looks up once, blinks, then drops his eyes back to the page. The conversation is over.
Still, she tries, “May I go to the sea on my birthday, then?”
He studies the report as if reading something invisible between the lines. Finally, he sighs. “Yes. You may.”
She brightens—until he adds, softly, “Alone.”
She freezes. “Alone?”
He nods. “You are not to bring that boy. If you wish to see the sea, so be it. But he stays here.”
The thrill of victory drains from her. What good is permission if Lyney cannot go with her?
Still, perhaps she can do something for him.
She curtseys, murmurs her thanks, and leaves the study. By the time she reaches her room, she’s already thinking. There must be a way to give him a piece of the sea, even if he can’t be there himself.
When she steps into his room after her birthday, Lyney looks up.
Even before she speaks his name, even before she reaches the cage, he’s already moving towards the bars, fingers curling around the iron.
“You went to the sea,” he breathes. His eyes are wide, luminous.
“I did,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you. My uncle wouldn’t allow it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches her. Up close, she can see the tremor in his mouth, the glassiness in his eyes, like he’s not entirely here.
“You smell like the sea,” he murmurs. “You smell like home.”
There’s a music to his voice, a pull that tugs at her chest and makes her want to lean closer, to reach through the bars and touch him. But she reins in the impulse. It would be rude, presumptuous. He never invited her to. And besides, she’s human, and he is not.
She shares the blood of the man who caged him. Sometimes she wonders what he feels when he looks at her—if he despises her, if her face reminds him of his captivity.
She kneels beside the bars, lifting the bundle she’s brought, carefully wrapped in cloth. “I brought you a gift,” she says. “I don’t know if you’ll like it.”
“A gift?” His gaze flickers down.
She nods and unwraps the cloth. A shell gleams in her hands—smooth, polished, iridescent under the lamplight. “I found this on the beach,” she says. “It reminded me of you.”
It truly had. The way it caught the light—rainbowed and strange—felt like his eyes: shimmering, unknowable.
Lyney says nothing. He only stares, as if caught between thought and dream. She swallows, uneasy. Maybe she’s done something wrong, reminded him of the ocean he can’t reach, the freedom he’s lost.
“Lyney?” she ventures, drawing back slightly.
His hand shoots forward, grasping towards the shell but never touching her. She startles. His face looks almost frightened.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers. “Don’t leave me here.”
The words are raw, trembling, yet still so beautiful that they sound almost like song.
“I’m not leaving,” she says quickly. “Here—do you want it?”
“Yes.” His voice is immediate, breathless. “Yes, I do.”
She slips the shell through the bars. He takes it gently, cradling it to his chest before lifting it to his ear. His eyes close, lashes trembling.
“Is it telling you something?” she asks softly.
He nods. “Everything that has happened in the sea,” he says. “All the time I’ve been away.”
The wistfulness in his tone makes her heart twist. He looks ethereal in that moment, beautiful and sad in equal measure. She can’t look away.
“It’s been a while,” she says. “I’m sorry. It must be awful, being trapped here for so long.”
Three months now, and he’s never left the cage. She can’t imagine it—the iron, the stillness, the walls that never change.
He hums, the sound low and melodic. “But you’re here,” he says. “So it’s not so terrible.”
His gaze lifts to hers. “Not so lonely.”
Her breath catches. The look in his eyes feels too close to affection—too warm, too human.
But her uncle’s words echo in her head. You cannot expect him to think as we do.
Right. She shouldn’t assume. She can’t project her feelings onto him, no matter how much she wants to.
So she only smiles. “I’m glad you liked it,” she says. “Since I couldn’t bring you, I thought I’d bring a piece of the sea to you instead.”
He nods slowly. “Thank you,” he says. “This does very well.”
She hesitates. “When I listened to the shell,” she says, “I only heard a whisper. Like water pulling away from the shore.”
Lyney looks at her. “Do you want to know what it truly says?”
“Well… yes,” she admits. “But I wouldn’t understand.”
“I can tell you.” He lifts the shell towards her. “Come closer.”
She leans forward. He presses the shell to the bars.
“Listen,” he murmurs.
Something in his tone draws her in—a hypnotic, lilting cadence that feels like waves against the mind. Her eyelids lower, her pulse slows. She bends towards the shell and hears—
Whispers. Roars. The rush of the tide against stone. Then understanding unfurls inside her: the hush of moonlight on still water, mountains ground into sand, shipwrecks and pearls hidden far below human reach.
She doesn’t just hear it; she feels it, the sound threading into her blood, her breath, her bones.
When Lyney pulls the shell back, thought rushes in like air after a deep dive. She blinks, dazed.
“Did you hear it?” he asks.
She nods, speechless. Wonder hums through her, vast and aching. She never imagined the sea could hold so much.
Lyney smiles—a small, quiet thing. “I would like to show you more,” he says. “Perhaps one day. If I…”
He trails off, his grip tightening around the shell as his gaze drifts upwards.
She stays where she is, watching him in the hush that follows. The light from the window glints over the bars, over the curve of the shell against his chest. His expression is distant, unreadable.
She wonders, not for the first time, what he might be thinking.
One morning, the king comes to visit.
She learns only when the servants burst into her room, breathless, bustling around her before she’s even properly awake. Someone pulls open the curtains; another is fussing with ribbons in her hair. Dazed, she rubs her eyes. “What’s all this?”
“The king is arriving,” a maid says. “You must get ready, miss.”
They sweep her into a fine dress, twist her hair into a neat bun, and hurry her downstairs to the parlour, where her uncle is already waiting.
She doesn’t know why the king would visit now. Her uncle is a war hero, yes, but there hasn’t been any recent campaign to celebrate. She tries to catch his eye for some clue, but he never looks her way.
When the butler finally announces the royal family’s arrival, she stands, smoothing her skirts as the king enters—regal in deep velvet—followed by the crown prince, only a year older than her, who smiles and bows over her hand.
Her uncle and the king exchange polite greetings and talk of politics, trade, the weather—conversation as stiff as the furniture. The prince takes the seat opposite her. Their eyes meet occasionally; each time he smiles, she flusters and looks away. It’s not dislike. The prince is handsome. She simply doesn’t know what to do with his attention.
Then the king mentions the “treasure” her uncle is said to have recently acquired.
Her uncle goes very still.
Lumine glances at him, confused, as the king expresses his eagerness to see it.
What treasure? Her uncle has collected countless spoils of war—gems, relics, paintings—but none worth a royal visit.
After a long pause, her uncle rises. “Stay here,” he says quietly. She nods, but the moment he and the king leave, she slips to her feet.
“Lady Lumine?” the prince says. “Are you following them?”
“Yes.” She pauses, then adds, “Are you going to stop me?”
“I won’t,” he says, smiling faintly. “But I’ll come with you.”
She considers, then nods. Together they steal up the stairs, keeping their steps light.
Unease curls low in her stomach when she realises where they’re heading. Towards Lyney’s room. And sure enough, she sees her uncle ahead, opening the door and ushering the king inside.
Her breath stutters. Lyney is the treasure?
She creeps closer, the prince shadowing her. There’s a narrow gap between the door and frame, just enough to listen.
“… that so?” The king’s voice, smooth and curious. “Truly rare, then. Even if he refuses to sing.”
“He won’t speak to anyone in the household,” her uncle replies.
Her stomach twists.
“No one at all?” says the king. “Not even your niece? Hard to imagine anyone refusing her. Such a charming child.”
A pause. Then her uncle’s clipped response: “No. Not even to her.”
“A shame.” The king sighs. “I’d love to hear a siren’s song. They say it drives men mad—makes them do the strangest things.”
Her pulse stops. A siren.
Her mind flashes back to bedtime tales, her nanny’s whispers of sea-born creatures who lured sailors to their deaths with song. But those had always been women. She’s never heard of a male siren.
Could Lyney truly be—?
“I’ve heard male sirens possess even greater magic,” the king continues. “Born directly of the sea. How did you come across this one?”
“I was sailing through uncharted waters,” her uncle says. “A storm forced us to land on a small island. That’s where we found him.”
“What, he was just there?”
“Yes,” her uncle says simply. “He looked too young to know he should hide from humans.”
“So you captured him.”
“I was curious,” her uncle answers.
Her nausea sharpens. She hates the way they speak of Lyney—coldly, clinically, as though he can’t understand, as though he’s an object and not a boy who listens and reads and smiles.
“A siren?” the prince whispers, eyes wide.
She shushes him, pressing her ear tighter to the door.
The king’s voice drifts through again. “Does he eat? Sleep? Do anything?”
“Lately he’s taken to reading,” her uncle says. “My niece has been teaching him. So we know he understands language, even if he refuses to use it.”
“Perhaps he’s hungry,” muses the king. “What do sirens eat?”
“The hearts and livers of men,” her uncle replies dryly.
Lumine swallows, her stomach churning.
“At least, that’s what the females are said to eat,” he adds.
“And the males?”
Her uncle gives a faint laugh. “Who knows? This may be the first time anyone has seen one. He refuses to interact. If he keeps this up, he might starve, and I’d never even know.”
She hears footsteps. The two men are leaving the room.
She grabs the prince’s wrist and drags him down the passageway, ducking into the nearest door. It’s an empty guestroom—thankfully—and no one thinks to look inside. They stay there until the echoes fade, until she’s sure it’s safe.
Only then does she realise she’s still holding his wrist. Heat rushes to her cheeks; she drops his arm at once. “I apologise for my rudeness.”
“No matter,” the prince says, amusement curling in his voice. “I didn’t know the young lady could be so brash.”
“I’m not usually,” she mutters.
“Well, then I’m glad I’ve seen it. Boldness suits you, Lady Lumine.”
His easy smile makes her flustered all over again. “Thank you for the praise,” she says stiffly.
“It isn’t empty flattery.” He glances towards the door. “I should return to the parlour before my father notices I’m gone.”
He pauses, hand on the doorknob. “I take it you’d rather this stay a secret?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’d rather not let the world know there’s a siren in this house. It would attract too much attention.”
“I understand. And my father isn’t one to gossip either.” He smiles again. “Until next time, Lady Lumine.”
And then he’s gone.
She waits a moment before slipping back into the corridor. The halls are empty now. She hurries towards Lyney’s room, pauses at the door, then pushes it open and slips inside.
Lyney is curled up in his cage, his head resting against his knees. At the sound of her footsteps, he looks up. For a moment, his violet eyes brighten—then narrow as she comes closer.
“Lumine,” he says, his voice soft, melodic, almost too gentle for how it makes her heart jump.
“Lyney.” She kneels beside the bars. “Are you all right?”
He nods, though his gaze doesn’t stay still. It drifts over her—her face, her hands, lingering on her mouth before finally settling back on her eyes. The look is light, pleasant on the surface, but it also feels too focused, as though something else lies beneath his gentleness.
“You had visitors?” he asks at last.
She folds her hands together, cradling them against her chest, trying not to fidget. “Yes. The king and the prince.”
“The prince,” Lyney echoes. “He’s the one you were with?”
That catches her off guard. “You can tell?”
He nods. “I can smell it,” he says simply. “Another scent layered with yours. A male scent.”
The bluntness of it makes her flush. She looks down, suddenly aware of how close she’s kneeling. “Well,” she manages after a beat, “he’s gone. It’s just me now.”
“I’m glad,” he murmurs, resting his head on his knees again. “There were two others here—your uncle and someone else. He seemed curious about me.”
“Do you dislike that?”
He hums, thoughtful. “I don’t know how to feel. Not good or bad. Just… nothing.”
“He wondered what you eat,” she says.
Lyney’s eyes lift to hers, amethyst shimmering under the light. “Do you want to know too, Lumine?”
She starts to answer, then falters. He’s watching her too closely—his gaze intent, measuring, as though he’s less interested in the question itself than in how she’ll respond to it. It feels like he’s studying her, tracing the shape of her thoughts.
For some reason, it feels like a test.
“Should I say no?” she asks at last, her voice almost a whisper.
He blinks once, slow, then rises and comes to the bars. His fingers curl around the iron, close enough for her to reach if she dared.
“I’ll tell you,” he says. “If you truly wish to know.”
She meets his gaze again, and it feels like drowning. Like the air itself thickens between them, heavy with something she doesn’t yet understand.
“Are you really a siren?” she asks at last.
He nods. She remembers how he’d tensed during that fisherman tale, how the music of his voice had unsettled her. It fits.
“I thought sirens were all female.”
“Male sirens are rare,” he says simply. “One in a hundred.”
“Do you… eat people? To survive?”
“Not necessarily.”
“That doesn’t sound like a no.”
“It’s a choice,” he says. “I can decide whether I wish to eat.”
“Is that why you’ve never eaten here?”
“I don’t want to consume anything touched by human hands.”
She glances at his fingers on the bars, at her own hands folded neatly in her lap. It’s good, she thinks, that she’s never reached for him before. She wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable. “If you were back in the sea,” she asks, “what would you eat?”
“All kinds of things. Fish, mostly. It isn’t my favourite, but it suffices.”
“What’s your favourite?”
He watches her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shakes his head. “It’s not something anyone can simply offer,” he murmurs. “So it’s better left unspoken.”
Something in his tone makes her uneasy, like she’s brushed against something sacred. So she lets it go. “Would you like to read?”
He nods, and she walks to the shelves by the wall where she’s been keeping the books she wants to share with him. She selects one at random, her fingers shaking as she pulls it free and turns back towards the cage.
Lyney hasn’t moved. He’s still there, pressed against the bars, following her every step with a strange, unblinking focus she can’t quite decipher. The weight of his gaze prickles along her skin—too intent, too searching.
Maybe it’s because her uncle brought the king here and spoke of him like he was an exhibit—something to be appraised, not a person. Maybe he’s been reminded again of how cruel humans can be. She doesn’t want to think about it too much. Doesn’t want to know the reason behind that stare.
She forces herself to smile, the book clutched a little too tightly in her hands, and returns to sit beside the cage.
“What book is it today?” Lyney asks as she approaches.
She glances at the cover. “It’s a romance novel,” she says, cheeks warming. Too late to put it back now. “One of my favourites.”
“A romance novel?”
She nods. “A story about a man and a woman falling in love.”
“Love?” he echoes, head tilting. His voice is soft but puzzled, as though the word itself is foreign.
She blinks at him. He really doesn’t know? The thought unsettles her. Do sirens not feel love? Is it something only humans experience—something born of their mortality, their weakness? Somehow, that thought feels dangerous.
“It’s what happens when someone cares for another,” she says slowly, searching for the right words. “When they want to protect them and make sure everything works out for them. Like how parents care for their children.”
“Parents,” he repeats, tasting the word. “Do you have any?”
She hesitates. “I did,” she says quietly. “They passed away.”
He studies her for a long moment, eyes faintly luminous in the low light. “I was born from seafoam,” he says at last, his voice turning distant, almost dreamy. “My mother is the sea.”
Right. It hits her all over again, how not human he is. How different his world must be from hers.
“Then… do you love the sea?”
His eyes flick towards her. “I long for it,” he says. “Being away feels wrong. Like I’m losing my limbs, one by one. Like I’m dying, piece by piece.”
Her breath softens. “That does sound like love.” She hesitates. “I wish I could help you go back.”
Lyney’s smile trembles. “You already have.” He gestures towards the seashell resting near the corner of the cage. “You gave me that.”
She smiles back at him, tentative, then sinks to the floor beside the cage and opens the book. “Shall we read?” she asks, hoping the story will steady her, will draw her mind away from how wistful and heartbreakingly pretty he looks.
He nods.
She starts to read from the first page. Her voice wavers at the beginning, caught somewhere between thought and memory—between her uncle’s cold words and the uncertainty still coiled in her chest—but the rhythm of the sentences soon takes over. The world narrows to paper, ink, and the gentle sound of her own breathing.
Lyney listens. He listens to every word, unblinking, and the longer she reads, the easier it becomes to forget everything else: her fear, her unease, her curiosity about what he might be thinking. Until, for a little while, everything feels ordinary again.
That night, she dreams.
Rain lashes against her window. A storm. Lightning claws across the sky—bright, jagged veins that burn afterimages behind her eyelids. Even when she closes her eyes, she still sees them. Even when she sleeps, the light follows her into her dreams.
Thunder rolls through the dark. It rumbles deep in her chest, vibrating through her ribs and teeth. She doesn’t remember much when she wakes—only fragments: shadows, water, the heavy press of suffocation so thick and all-encompassing that she wakes gasping for air, half-convinced she’s been drowning.
There’s wetness on her cheeks. Her window is half open, her sheets soaked with rain. She can’t tell if the damp on her face comes from the storm or her tears.
In the morning, the maids fuss. They scold and worry, ask how the window came unlatched, cluck over her soaked blankets and her nightdress clinging to her skin. They fear she’ll catch a chill, waking up shivering, teeth chattering, blue with cold.
But the cold feels far away.
Her mind drifts, caught on something she can’t name—something that lingers in the undertow between dreaming and waking. She hears violet. Sees echoes of song. Music that winds through her blood and murmurs that she’s home. It hums beneath her breastbone, heavy and thick, yet strangely familiar. She should be afraid of it, but she isn’t.
Pearlescent violet. The gleam of teeth, white and too sharp in the dark. A smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
When she wakes in her rain-soaked bed, shivering in the draft that sneaks through the half-open window, she doesn’t think of the cold or the discomfort of wet clothes against her skin.
She thinks of song and shadow, and a hunger that never sleeps. A hunger that gnaws at her bones, whittling her down to breath and heartbeat. She thinks of the tide. Of seashells whispering secrets in her ear. Of the darkness beneath the waves, and a pale hand reaching for her through it.
She thinks of Lyney.