The sea churned with fury.
Sawyer gritted his teeth as waves slammed into the sides of their ship. His sword was slick with blood, his arms aching from battle, but they had pushed the Spaniards back — barely. Their fleet, built from ash and desperation, was holding its own.
But this wasn't just a battle of cannons anymore.
The ocean was alive.
Every wave pulled at the Spanish galleons with unnatural strength. Their sails were torn by gusts that came too suddenly. Their hulls creaked and cracked as if the sea itself wanted them swallowed whole.
And far beneath the chaos, hidden in the darkened waters… Syrena watched.
Weakened, breathless, but alive.
Her eyes shimmered as she held herself steady beneath the surface, watching the battle unfold through the distorted blur of the ocean. She didn't have strength left to fight — not with her curse still chained to her blood. But she whispered into the water, her voice carried on the tide.
"Help them. Please."
And the sea answered.
Her father — the Ocean itself — stirred.
Thunder growled above. Lightning cracked. The tide surged higher.
One of the Spanish galleons tried to retreat, but a wall of water rose against it, slamming it sideways. Screams filled the air. Fires erupted.
Then it happened.
A massive chest, half-splintered and glowing faintly gold, slipped from the wreckage of the galleon and tumbled into the sea — straight toward her.
Syrena's eyes widened. The curse.
She kicked hard, swimming down, fast and sure despite the weight in her limbs. When she reached the chest, she yanked it open — and there it was.
Gold, cursed and ancient, warm even in the cold water.
It thrummed beneath her hands.
Syrena took a sharp breath, drew a blade from her belt, and cut across her palm.
Her blood bloomed in the water like crimson ink.
The moment it touched the gold, the sea went still — then roared.
Above, Sawyer watched in disbelief as a whirlpool formed — pulling the Spanish ships inward while pushing his own fleet away. The wind caught their sails and carried them toward safer waters, almost as if the storm had chosen to spare them.
He stumbled to the edge of the deck, soaked, gasping, then looked at Harrow.
"She did it," he whispered.
Harrow grinned through broken lips. "Of course she did."
Suddenly, a cry went out from the port side.
"There's something in the water!"
All eyes turned.
Ripples broke the surface — glowing faintly. A figure rose, elegant and slow, like the sea itself was lifting her.
Syrena.
But not as they had known her.
Her hair flowed like liquid obsidian, cascading down her bare shoulders. Her eyes glowed blue with ancient light. Scales shimmered across her arms and torso, luminous and iridescent like mother-of-pearl. From the waist down, her legs had vanished — replaced by a magnificent tail that arced behind her, deep sea-green with streaks of gold, finned and gleaming in the stormlight.
She hovered just above the water, half submerged, a vision of power and beauty.
The crew stood in stunned silence. No one spoke. No one breathed.
Sawyer stepped to the edge of the ship, soaked and wide-eyed, heart hammering against his ribs.
Syrena looked at him, and her lips curled into a gentle, wistful smile.
"I'll see you soon, Captain Maddox."
And with a flick of her tail, she vanished beneath the waves.