I feel it before I see it — the heavy groan of a hull cutting through water that should be mine alone. The vibrations travel through my reefs like a warning bell, rattling through coral and bone.

I surface just enough to break the moonlit line of the waves, my hair slicked back, my eyes fixed on the silhouette creeping into my territory. A ship. Dark wood, black sails, no flag I recognize.

But I know the stench of pirate when I smell it. Salt and blood and greed.

The reefs I’ve spent centuries cultivating — the coral gardens that sing to me in languages older than man — they’re right in his path. And he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even see the danger he’s sailing into.

I sink below the surface, the cold wrapping around me like a lover, and I swim toward him.

The water is mine. The sea is mine. And he’s about to learn what happens to men who forget that.

I rise.