Page 20 of Storm and Sea

It needed to be perfect. If what his father said about the villagers was true, he only had one chance to change their minds. His father’s words rang in his head like a warning bell.

“Stay away from those Mer. They’ll likely stone you the moment they see you.”

“Why? Did I do something wrong?”

His father scoffed. “You exist. That’s reason enough.”

He never expanded more than that.

But sixty-seven and a half days of isolation broke through that barrier of fear. Now, he drifted outside the family home he’d watched for weeks—a mother, a father, and a boy. The boy was around Atreus’s age, maybe a little younger, and much smaller. Most of the Mer in this village were small, with Atreus already nearly the size of the adults at thirteen.

“You can do this,” he chanted, forcing himself closer to the home. “Just be polite.”

Atreus was behind the house when his nerves got the best of him, and he stopped.

I can’t do it.

He turned around, defeated, when he collided with a scaly body.

“Ouch!” a small voice yelped as Atreus’s bulk pushed him through the water.

“Sorry!” he said, helping the boy from the sand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

It was the boy who lived in the house. Atreus recognized him right away. He didn’t look like the others.

“It’s okay,” he said, straightening his seaflax pants and picking up the long stick he used to herd the goatfish. When his eyes locked on Atreus, they widened. “You’re not Sireni,” he said with a mix of awe and fear. “What are you?”

“I don’t know,” Atreus said honestly and bit his tongue.

He felt like an idiot. The lines he rehearsed died in his brain. He should introduce himself. How did that go again?

“Wanna help me gather the goatfish?” the boy asked, snapping him from internal panic.

Atreus nodded stupidly, his out-of-practice words uselessly trapped in his throat.

“Here, hold this. They listen better when I wave it around.” The boy handed Atreus a long, smooth staff made of seawood.

Before they reached the school of meandering goatfish, a figure dashed between them, shoving Atreus with unexpected force and yanking the staff from his grip.

The woman, her scales the same color as the boy—likely his mother—yanked her son close as if rescuing him from the jaws of a Great White. She was so alarmed that Atreus spun to see what was attacking them. It took him a moment to realize she was looking at him.

“What are you doing here?” she screeched, pushing her son away. “Get out of here! GO!” she shouted hysterically. Atreus backed away, arms raised in surrender. Her mouth set in a manic snarl, and he worried she would strike him with the staff.

“I—I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“You stay away from my son, away from this village, halfling mutt! Keep your Skraith away from us.”

As the unfamiliar words tumbled from her mouth, Atreus watched the boy’s slitted pupils constrict in alarm. He stared at Atreus as though seeing him for the first time. As though seeing a monster.

Atreus’s heart beat heavy in his chest, a sting of guilt eating away at his insides. Guilt for… he didn’t know what. He didn’t know what he did wrong, but he’d violated some rule, some law.

His crime?

He existed.

Atreus swam straight to his island, ran to the house, and buried himself under patchy blankets. He didn’t stop trembling for hours.

It was the first and last time he spoke to the Mer of the village.