The city-state of Astoria stood proudly on the sapphire coast, its towering walls and golden-tiled rooftops glinting like scales in the sun. A gateway to the open sea, it was a place where power and glory converged.
Cyrus Evan, heir to this seaside realm, was a man born to command attention. In his early twenties, tall and striking, he bore hair of molten silver-gold that gleamed like amber in the sunlight. His features were so flawlessly handsome they bordered on otherworldly—strong brows, a straight nose, sculpted lips. But most captivating of all were his eyes: deep, crystalline blue like ocean gemstones, eyes that could strip someone to the soul.
Trained from childhood in warfare and archery, Cyrus was also a skilled sailor. Among his people, he was known as the "Hawk of the Sea."
That day, he led a royal escort fleet beyond the coastline, charged with ensuring a convoy of merchants reached distant shores.
The sea was calm at first, the sun casting golden shards across the water's surface.
"Favorable winds, Your Highness. We expect a smooth passage today," his captain reported respectfully.
Cyrus gave a short nod, eyes on the horizon, his deep-blue cloak snapping in the breeze.
But by late afternoon, the skies changed.
Dark clouds rolled in from the sea's edge, swallowing the warmth of the sun. A sharp, salty wind swept the decks. Birds screeched and took flight.
"Storm!" a sailor cried in alarm.
The sea rose violently, walls of water surging like monstrous creatures. The ship pitched wildly, its mast groaning under strain.
"All hands to stations! Lower the sails! Secure the cargo!" Cyrus bellowed, gripping the helm with steely focus.
Lightning cracked across the sky. Rain and wind lashed in all directions. One sailor tumbled into the sea, others clung to the rigging.
Then came the wave.
A towering wall of water crashed down, flipping the ship as though it weighed nothing. Cyrus was thrown into the deep.
Icy seawater rushed over him. Darkness closed in. He fought to surface, but something heavy seemed to pull him downward. His lungs screamed for air; the sea devoured him whole.
Just as consciousness began to flicker, he felt something—soft, strong—catch him.
A hand? A current?
Through blurred vision, he saw it—a slender figure in the deep, shimmering faintly with silver-blue light. A flash of what might have been a tail fin, gliding like silk in moonlight.
Cool skin brushed his fingers. He tried to see more, but the image vanished.
Then, warmth at his chest.
The crystal pendant he had worn since birth glowed faintly blue.
And all went black.
——
When Cyrus woke, he felt as though he had been trampled by horses. His eyelids fluttered open to a white ceiling. The scent of herbs lingered in the air.
He lay in a tidy room, sunlight filtering through seashell-adorned curtains. Turning his head, he saw a young woman seated beside the bed.
She looked sixteen or seventeen, with golden hair and skin like porcelain. Her eyes were soft and clear, her posture refined. She wore a pale pink gown embroidered with roses, her demeanor both noble and gentle.
Seeing him stir, she set aside the bowl in her hands, her smile blooming with relief.
"You're awake," she said gently, her voice as smooth as a harp string.
Cyrus blinked. Before he could speak, she leaned forward and helped him sit up, her touch practiced and careful.
"You are..."
"Vera Catherine," she said, smiling. "Princess of Calia."
"You... saved me?" he asked, voice hoarse. As he spoke, a flash of silver-blue swam through his mind.
"Yes. After the storm, one of my guards found you washed ashore near the rocks. He'd visited Astoria before and recognized you as their prince. You were barely breathing. We feared the worst. Thank the stars you survived."
"I'm deeply grateful, Your Highness," Cyrus said with sincerity.
"There's no need for thanks," Vera replied graciously.
In the following days, as he recovered, Vera frequently visited. She brought him tonic and stories, reading beside his bed, her presence warm and composed.
And yet, in the back of Cyrus's mind, that mysterious figure in the sea remained. The silhouette of a fin, the shimmer of silver-blue beneath stormy waters.
No words had been spoken. No face had been seen. But in that moment between death and salvation, someone—something—had pulled him from the brink.
It hadn't been a dream. He was certain.
His true savior had come from the deep.
When his wounds healed, Cyrus bid farewell to Vera and prepared to return to Astoria.
She stood at the palace steps, bathed in light, serene as a white rose in bloom.
"May fate bring us together again," she said with a soft smile.
He paused, then nodded. "If it does, I shall welcome it."
With that, he mounted his horse and rode away from Calia.