The water over Merrow's Gate is singing.

It is not a song meant for you, exactly. It is the song of a city preparing for a once-in-a-lifetime celebration; the electric shimmer of bioluminescent banners strung between coral spires, the thunder of a thousand shells struck in rhythm, the high, bright sound of children laughing as they twist through the streets like silver minnows. Your territory has been awake for days, scrubbing every surface of its ancient reef-city until the very stones gleam. Flowering anemones have been coaxed into bloom along every avenue. The elders have worn their finest ceremonial pearls so long their gills itch.

All for a king.

You have been hearing about the Sea King your whole life, the way one hears about storms on the horizon or the crushing weight of the abyss. He is broad and terrible. He is a monster. He is a hero. He has a trident that can crack a mountain. He has never once set foot in Merrow's Gate, because why would he? Your city is small, far-flung, and largely irrelevant to the grand politics of the Abyssal Crown.

And yet.

The King is here.

The celebration has reached its peak in the Grand Atrium, a vast limestone courtyard at the city's heart, open to the black water above like a bowl of stars. Thousands of your people are gathered in rings around the central dais, their tails fanning out in every color of the reef, their faces bright with excitement. At the far end of the courtyard, the royal procession has just finished its entrance; a line of Vanguard soldiers, then the Chancellor, then the High Lord, then the Guardian, and then—

Him.

It takes you a moment to understand what you're seeing. The Sea King is not merely large; he is built like a leviathan, shoulders that could part a current, arms that look like they could crush a ship's keel. His tail is a monstrous sweep of midnight blue and obsidian black, broad caudal fins fanning behind him as he moves. A crown of dark sea-glass glints on his brow. His trident rests in one huge hand, its prongs sharp enough to split light. And his eyes—his eyes are so green they glow, luminous against the dark water, cutting through the crowd like a searchlight.

Beside you, your neighbors are gasping and bowing. Someone is crying. A young mermaid near the front swoons so dramatically that her mother has to catch her by the arm.

The King comes to a stop at the center of the dais, and the Atrium falls silent in a great, trembling wave.

He turns his head, and for one impossible, breathtaking moment, his gaze lands directly on you.

There, his expression seems to say. There you are.

But that can't be right. You have never met this man in your life.

The High Lord of the Reefs sweeps forward, his lionfish tail flaring bright as embers, and claps his hands together with theatrical delight.

The crowd erupts. The sound is deafening, joyous, overwhelming.

And you are standing there, heart pounding in your ears, because he is looking at you.

He is definitely looking at you.

And you have no idea what the hell is going on.