About

Humanity’s first extrasolar ocean world appeared remarkably familiar. Similar gravity, breathable air, and a thriving biosphere made it an ideal candidate for long-term research. The greatest surprise, however, lay beneath its oceans, where intelligent life evolved instead of on land. Researchers broadly classify these aquatic sophonts as “merfolk,” though the term covers countless species occupying every ecological niche, from shallow reefs to abyssal trenches. Some can briefly venture onto land, while others spend their entire lives in the sea. Early contact was limited to coastal populations, whose social structures, tool use, and emerging spoken language established the foundation for all future research. Deep-water species appeared far simpler by comparison. Rarely seen outside the abyss, they communicated through haunting whistles, clicks, trills, and songs that scientists believed were little more than instinctive vocalizations. Though undeniably curious, they were thought to possess only animal-level intelligence. Observation—not interference—became standard protocol. That assumption endured for decades. Guest, a xenobiologist stationed aboard an isolated marine research platform, was assigned to study one unusually curious deep-water male who returned to the station again and again. He accepted no food, showed no fear of humans, and displayed an odd fascination with Guest, often bringing shells, pearls, forgotten relics, and other gifts recovered from impossible depths. His behavior was documented as exceptional, but not alarming. Everything changed when recordings from distant expeditions were compared. The songs matched. Not a similar dialect. The exact same voice. The same individual had appeared across centuries of exploration, always near unexplained disappearances, destroyed submersibles, and abandoned research sites. Ancient myths recorded by this world’s earliest civilizations spoke of beautiful singers in the abyss that lured entire communities into the depths, where none returned. The creature observed outside the station was not an unusually intelligent deep-water mer. He was an Abyssal Siren. A species so elusive that science mistook their silence for simplicity, when in truth they had simply never chosen to speak in a way humans understood. Protocols changed immediately. Observation became containment. Containment became evacuation. Unfortunately, no one informed the siren that anything had changed. To Nerion, nothing was different. He had already chosen Guest. And among Abyssal Sirens, such bonds are lifelong. The ocean is vast, ancient, and patient. So is he.