Page 4 of Drown Me Gently

Damn it. I’m stirring up too much sand.

But before anyone could notice the disturbance, he popped out on the other side and into open water.

The current here was colder, the shadows thicker. Poseidon’s magic warmed the waters within the city, keeping the residents of Atlantis comfortable. But beyond the towering walls, the magic ended in a harsh, cold line. Seaweed slithered past like curious fingers, brushing against Auren’s skin. He flicked his tail once and shot toward the western reefs.

He swam a short distance before reaching his destination. Hidden between a cluster of ancient searock was his sanctuary.

His secret cave.

Auren darted through the narrow entrance and exhaled in relief as the familiar shape of his hoard came into view. His creations. His discoveries. His obsession.

Tangles of leather straps and bridles hung from bone hooks. There was even a completely intact saddle Auren had once dared to steal from a half-sunken galleon. Bits of fabric lay in organized piles along with an endless supply of fraying rope. But the pride of his collection stood at the center. A sculpture he built himself from discarded bits of human leather, twisted wire, and scraps of metal polished to a shine. He spent weeks fine-tuning it until it was just right. It resembled a creature—tall and proud, with four long limbs and a thick mane made of unraveling rope.

Auren only saw the beast once.

One stolen glimpse, boarding a human ship at dusk. The creature stood at the edge of the dock, snorting clouds into the cool air. Its legs were impossibly slender, its body strong and lean. Its hooves struck the wooden planks like thunder, and when it tossed its head, mane flying, Auren’s breath caught in his throat.

He hadn’t known what it was—still didn’t. But it moved with such grace, such power, that the image rooted itself deep in his mind. And when he returned to his cave, hands itching, he’d begun to recreate it.

If he couldn’t touch something, he couldn’t understand it—and he desperately wanted to understand.

He loved to tinker. To touch. To take things apart and piece them back together until they made sense. There was something alive, almost sentient, about the human artifacts, especially when their stories revealed themselves through his hands. It felt as if they spoke to him, whispering secrets of the surface world with every scratch and seam.

He floated closer, trailing a rapt hand along the creature’s arched neck before turning to the back shelf where parchment and ink waited.

Notes. Drawings. Diagrams. He documented everything—ship routes, net patterns, seasons. Habits. Reactions. Names.

He wanted to understand the world above as completely as he did the one below.

But lately, nothing in his cave held his attention like a single, echoing name—not the leather, not the artifacts, not even the shimmer of sun-warped silver. He wrote it again and again, testing spellings, tracing letters until they felt right. It echoed in his thoughts, in his sleep, and sent goosebumps over his skin.

A single name he’d written over and over again in the margins of nearly every piece of parchment.

Elias.

The human with the sky-colored eyes.

Auren had been scavenging human materials from the edges of boats the night everything changed. He thought the cover of darkness would conceal him well enough. Humans slept during the moonlit hours—Auren was sure of it. That’s what made it safe. That’s what made it his.

Yet that night, he’d broken Atlantis’s most ancient law.

He was seen.

Auren had just hoisted himself halfway out of the water, the slick wood of the hull damp beneath his elbows, when he felt it—a tightening in his gut.

He turned around, and their eyes met.

The pressure in Auren’s chest spiked like a cramp. The world tilted, his balance wavering as a rush of cold panic stole through him.

A man stood just beyond the railing of the ship, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a half-unbuttoned shirt that fluttered in the breeze. His skin was fair as moonlight, as if he’d been sculpted from seafoam and whitecaps. Tousled black curls framed a face that was almost unfair—sharp jaw, dimpled chin, and a mouth that looked soft enough to tempt the tides.

But it was his eyes that held Auren still. Pale. Blue. The color of a summer sky, undisturbed by clouds, shining with something that made Auren’s pulse crash in his ears.

Wonder.

The human wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t afraid. He was staring, mouth parted, as if seeing Auren was the only thing giving him breath.

And Auren—gods help him—stared back.