The people of the southern coast believed the ocean was alive.
Not alive in the way humans were, breathing, bleeding, aging but alive in a manner far older and far more patient. The sea watched. It remembered. It listened. Every footprint left on wet sand, every tear that fell into the surf, every promise whispered to the wind was carried away and stored within its endless depths.
For generations, the villagers lived by rules passed down in murmurs and warnings. Never mock the tide. Never turn your back on the waves at night. And above all, never wear green near the shore.
Because green belonged to her.
At dusk, fishermen pulled their boats higher onto the beach than necessary, tying thick ropes around wooden posts as if knots alone could restrain fate. Mothers closed their windows early, lighting oil lamps and reciting old prayers while their children pretended not to listen. Even the bravest men lowered their voices when speaking of the ocean after sunset.
When the moon rose low, round, and silver the sea changed.
The waves no longer crashed randomly against the rocks. They moved with rhythm and intention, rolling in slow, deliberate pulses, as if breathing. Foam shimmered faintly, catching moonlight like scattered pearls. And if one listened closely, truly listened—there were whispers.
Names.
Some were carried away by the wind before they could be understood. Others lingered just long enough to chill the spine. Names of sailors who never returned. Names of lovers who vanished beneath sudden storms. Names of those destined to cross the boundary between the human world and the unseen realm.
Those who heard their own name never slept peacefully again.
Beneath the endless tides, far beyond where sunlight dared to reach, lay a kingdom untouched by time. Coral palaces rose like living sculptures, their walls glowing softly in hues of emerald, sapphire, and deep violet. Currents flowed through vast halls like silent courtiers, carrying echoes of ancient songs. Spirits of the sea, shadows shaped like memory itself, bowed as one presence passed among them.
Nyxara.
The Queen of the Southern Sea.
Her beauty was said to be merciless. Long black hair drifted around her like ink spilled into water, never tangling, never still. Her skin held the pale glow of moonlight filtered through a thousand fathoms. And her eyes, emerald and bottomless, contained storms that could shatter fleets or calm oceans with a single glance.
With a word, she could summon waves tall enough to swallow kingdoms.
With a whisper, she could still the sea into glass.
For centuries uncounted, Nyxara watched humanity from afar. She observed their fragile lives, their brief joys, their endless capacity for hope and cruelty. She listened to their prayers shouted into storms and their curses hurled at the tide.
Once, long ago, she had loved one of them.
That love had cost her everything.
And so she ruled her domain in silence, heart sealed behind centuries of discipline and sorrow, vowing never again to let a human soul come close enough to break her.
Until one night…
…the sea whispered a name she had never heard before.
A name that did not sink.
A name that echoed.
Alya.