"If you're going to stalk me, at least bring snacks next time," she said, flicking seawater in his face like an unbothered sea goddess.
Kael stood knee-deep in tidewater, boots ruined and pride somewhat battered. The ocean breeze tangled his hair, salty and wild, as he stared at the mermaid lounging on a smooth slab of coral. Lyra, with her pearly scales glinting in the fading light, looked utterly at ease — as if the sea itself bowed before her whims.
"You cursed me." His voice was flat, but inside, confusion churned.
She glanced at him, an amused glint in those glossy green eyes split with gold. "Barely touched you," she said, inspecting a glistening fingernail as if his complaint was a minor irritation. "If you're that sensitive, maybe the ocean isn't for you."
Kael took a tentative step forward. "I tried walking back. My legs gave out after a hundred steps."
She snorted. "Sounds like you need more leg day."
"Lyra." He groaned, shaking his head. "Seriously, how do I break this?"
"That's the thing about sea curses," she said, flipping onto her back and floating effortlessly, her tail fin shimmering beneath the waves. "They don't come with instructions. And they don't break easy."
He sighed, sinking down onto a half-submerged rock, water soaking through his clothes. Might as well get comfortable. He glanced up at the pastel sky streaked with pink and gold.
"Tell me what happened to you," he said quietly.
"Boring story." Her voice was light, almost dismissive. "Betrayal, heartbreak, eternal punishment. Yawn."
"I've got time. Lots of it, apparently."
Lyra narrowed her eyes, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "Fine. Only because I'm bored out of my scales."
She began with the island she once ruled — a kingdom beneath the waves, gleaming and alive, where sea gods danced with mortals and magic was as common as the tides. But something had gone wrong. A pact shattered by pride and jealousy, love twisted into betrayal.
Her voice softened when she mentioned her sisters, taken by the gods as punishment for the curse. The shimmer of her scales dulled with the memory.
Kael listened without interrupting, sensing the layers beneath her casual tone.
When she finished, he asked gently, "Have you tried breaking it?"
"Only every century or so," she replied with a bitter laugh. "Magic likes rules. Irony. Poetic justice."
Kael looked toward the horizon. "Maybe this time will be different."
She snorted. "You're just a runaway prince with too many feelings."
He blinked. "Wait — how did you know I'm a prince?"
Her smirk was sly. "You bathe. Speak in full sentences. And you don't run away screaming. Most do."
He flushed. "You're not that scary."
"Liar."
Days blurred into a strange routine.
Kael built a shelter of driftwood and palm fronds near the beach. Every dawn, he wandered to the tidepools. Every dusk, Lyra was waiting.
He brought her gifts: shiny buttons, salted fish, a cracked mirror. She pretended not to care, but he caught her keeping each one.
She taught him to listen to seashells, tell a sleeping starfish from an awake one, float without panic.
He told her stories: his father's throne room, brothers who barely noticed his absence, the loneliness of royalty.
One night, beneath a swollen moon, Lyra surfaced beside his campfire, her eyes gleaming.
"Most mortals cry by day three. You're on day nine."
Kael tossed her a berry. She caught it between pearly teeth.
"I'm just too stubborn to cry."
"Good," she said. "You'll need that."
The tenth night was different.
Kael's curiosity pushed him closer than usual. The ocean whispered as he edged toward Lyra, mesmerized by the way her tail shimmered under the moonlight. It was beautiful and alien — a tapestry of iridescence and power.
His hand trembled as he reached out.
Just the tip of a finger brushed along the smooth curve of her tail fin. It was colder than he expected — like river stones after a rain — and somehow softer than silk. The scales felt alive beneath his touch, shifting lightly as if breathing.
He pulled back instantly, heart pounding.
Lyra's eyes narrowed, half amused, half warning.
"You're brave," she said. "Or stupid."
"Sorry," he muttered. "I just wanted to know if you were real."
"Real enough to bite," she said, flicking a drop of seawater in his face.
Kael laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
The night deepened, and Lyra rested her head on his shoulder, the sea breeze mingling with campfire smoke.
For a moment, the barrier between mermaid and prince felt less like a curse and more like a fragile promise.
"Maybe the sea didn't curse him after all," she thought. "Maybe it sent him.
Kael awoke the next morning with sea salt clinging to his lips and the memory of Lyra's head resting lightly against his shoulder still warming his skin. For someone cursed by the sea, he didn't feel cursed. Not exactly. Maybe tangled. Caught in a net of something strange and bittersweet.
He stretched, groaning as his back cracked. The makeshift shelter he'd built was sturdy enough, but no castle bed. He doubted Lyra would approve of it—unless he strung pearls and sardines through the palm thatch.
The tide had receded, leaving the shore scattered with gifts. Not from her, but from the sea itself. A cracked conch shell. A piece of driftwood shaped like a trident. Sea glass smoothed round like coins. Kael pocketed the glass and wandered toward the edge of the lagoon.
Lyra was already there, floating on her back like royalty lounging in a bath drawn just for her.
"You snore," she called out.
Kael raised a brow. "You watched me sleep?"
She smirked without answering. "Did you dream?"
He hesitated. "A little."
"About me?" Her eyes were too amused. Dangerous territory.
"No," he lied. "About fish."
"Mm. Jealous fish, I hope. I'm far prettier."
He threw a shell at her. She caught it mid-air, twirled it between her fingers, and tucked it behind her ear like a jewel. Even when she was teasing, there was grace in her every movement—like a dancer who had never known clumsiness, only the fluidity of water.
Kael crouched near the rocks and dipped his hand into the tidepool. A tiny crab scuttled across his palm. "Do you ever get bored?"
"Bored out of my scales," she said instantly, and he laughed.
"You really do hate staying in one place?"
She floated upright, tail fanning beneath her like a curtain of pearls. "This shore. This island. This same stupid view for centuries. I know every grain of sand, every gull with a limp, every crab with a grudge. Immortality's not all it's cracked up to be."
He looked at her, really looked at her. "Then why stay?"
Her eyes flicked to his. "I can't go. Not far. The curse keeps me close to the water. Like... a leash, but invisible."
"Is that why you pulled me into this?" he asked, voice low. "Because you're lonely?"
There was no immediate answer.
Then: "Don't flatter yourself, prince. I just wanted to see what would happen."
Later that day, Kael tried hunting again. The forest beyond the beach was unfamiliar, but he had his instincts. A rabbit, maybe. Or a few seabirds if luck sided with him. But every step inland felt like dragging lead. The curse, subtle but unyielding, resisted him.
Half a mile in, his vision spun. The pull toward the shore grew stronger—like a rope tied around his chest, yanking hard.
He collapsed beside a tree and cursed.
"You'll learn," a voice said above him. Lyra. Perched on a branch like some smug sea goddess come to mock him. "The sea doesn't like sharing its toys."
Kael looked up, panting. "I'm not a toy."
She shrugged. "Then stop playing so easy."
That night, they sat by the fire again.
This time, Kael offered her one of the cooked fish he'd caught earlier. She sniffed it dramatically before taking a bite.
"It's not poisonous," he assured.
"That's what they all say before they die tragically," she replied, chewing.
Kael watched her, then glanced down at her tail, shimmering beneath the firelight. "Do you feel it? The curse? Always pulling?"
She hesitated. "Not anymore. I've grown used to it. Like background music you can't turn off."
"That sounds... exhausting."
"It is."
He reached into his pouch and pulled out the rounded sea glass he'd found earlier. "Here. I thought it looked like a moon."
She took it, surprised. "You're giving me garbage now?"
"It's magical garbage," he said, grinning.
Lyra examined it, holding it up to the fire. "It is shaped like a moon. A broken one."
"Fits the theme," he said.
She didn't return it.
The next few days passed in strange rhythm. He built a hammock between two trees. She brought him crabs—alive, of course, and always grumpy. They argued about nonsense: the best fish, whether trees were overrated, if mortals actually deserved toes.
And slowly, something shifted.
One evening, Kael tripped over a loose rock and landed flat on his face in the shallows.
He expected laughter.
Instead, Lyra rushed over, water spraying from her tail as she bent over him. "Are you—wait, no, don't bleed in the tide. It'll attract sharks."
"Glad to know you care," he muttered, spitting out sand.
She blinked. "I do. Sort of."
Later, when he sat with a wrapped ankle and a bruised ego, Lyra brought over a seaweed poultice.
"This'll sting," she warned, pressing it to his skin.
It did. He hissed and shot her a look. "You're enjoying this."
"Only a little."
He stared at her hands—delicate, precise, cold but gentle.
"I think you're soft underneath," he said quietly.
She looked up, startled.
Then she smiled, slow and unreadable. "Don't go making dangerous assumptions, Kael. The sea is vast, and it keeps its sharpest secrets hidden."