We arrived at a structure that looked like a humble seaside cottage—if cottages were built from coral walls, sponge insulation, and a roof draped in thick, swaying kelp. The yellow-tailed revolutionary, Denus, pushed aside a curtain of woven seaweed and gestured for me to enter.
The group of yellow-tailed merfolk who had been trailing us all this time came to a halt just outside. Without a word, they turned away and dispersed into the streets.
Perhaps this place was sacred. Perhaps it was a stronghold. Whatever the reason, their departure spared me from their piercing, watchful eyes—and that alone was good enough for me.
Inside, the light was dim, filtered through strands of green kelp hanging in the water. Furniture was minimal—if you could even call it that.
Denus motioned for me to sit on something resembling a couch, though it was clearly made from tightly woven kelp, buoyant and slightly swaying in the current. I hesitated for a moment, unsure whether my human body would be comfortable in something so... marine. But in the end, I sat.
Denus took the seat opposite me—a chair fashioned from coral and shell. He crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on me in silence. The way he was looking at me was more than simple observation; he was weighing something, measuring every movement, every expression.
I cleared my throat. "So... are you going to ask something, or just keep staring at me?"
He gave a small shrug and looked away briefly. "For a moment... yes, I’ll just stare. If you don’t mind, of course."
"I will mind," I replied bluntly. "Just so you know, I like girls."
He staggered slightly, then chuckled. "Ah, yes. I see. I think you might be misreading my intentions. Regardless—tell me more about these rift creatures. They resemble the ones that have begun lurking in our waters."
I gave a slow nod. "Why not? To be blunt, they’re not from this world. They come from somewhere else entirely—a different realm, if you will. They are merely the offspring, the spawns, of something far more dangerous. A being named Vorr’Kael. On the land, millions of these rifts have torn open the skies and the ground alike, spilling endless monstrosities into our world. They exist for one thing only—bloodshed."
Denus stayed silent, absorbing every word. His expression didn’t waver; the calm composure in his eyes suggested a man used to weighing heavy truths.
Finally, he spoke. "I assume they’ve only appeared recently? The more dangerous ones began showing themselves here just weeks ago."
I affirmed, "Yes. The same thing happened on the land."
He hummed thoughtfully, resting his head against his right hand, fingers tapping against his jaw. "Aside from that... the way you confronted me earlier, the way you debated—it wasn’t random. What did you hope to accomplish?"
I leaned back into the kelp seat, letting it sway slightly under my weight. "Quite a simple thing, really—a residence."
He tilted his head. "A residence?" His tone made it clear he hadn’t expected that answer.
"Yes," I said plainly. "I don’t want to return to the land. My only real option is to live here. And to live here, I need somewhere to sleep, somewhere to stay. That means I need allies. Friends, even. Which is why I wanted to speak to you—to see if you’d be willing to help me."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "And how does bluntly questioning my resolve make me your friend?"
I chuckled. "That part was just to start the conversation. The real way I’d make friends with you is by helping you achieve what you’ve been fighting for—a separate nation for your people. Of course, in exchange for a permanent residence... and a lifelong supply of food."
Now that made his brow rise. "Oh? That is... interesting. And how exactly do you plan to achieve something that I couldn’t in years of struggle—something even my ancestors couldn’t manage?"
I raised two fingers. "There are two ways. First, change the perspective of the other merfolk so that the color yellow is no longer seen as a mark of shame, but as something tied to the sea—a symbol they respect. Second, create a fabricated association between the color yellow and their deity. Something subtle but convincing. And as a bonus—make your people more competent."
His eyes flickered—perhaps with amusement, perhaps with calculation.
Then with a chuckle, he patted his hand on the chair’s armrest. "Ahahhahaha, great job! You are an amusing person. Even if you fail, your resolve makes you a wonderful asset already."
I also joined him in his laugh, "If I fail that is..."
He shot me a sharp look, the kind that slices through words before they’re even spoken.
"Yeah. If you fail, that is... Also, we’ve tried to show the other merfolk the importance of the color yellow in the oceans. But it never worked. Down here, yellow doesn’t symbolize life or hope. It’s a warning. A curse. When plants reach the end of their life, they turn yellow. It’s the color of rot, of things fading away. So, that plan is out of the question... Now—" he paused, his gaze narrowing in thought, "—about the deity one."
I couldn’t help but smirk, leaning back ever so slightly.
"You’ve never tried it," I said, "because whatever that deity is... it’s also your deity. That thought never even crossed your mind as something to exploit. You’re bound to it in a way you can’t easily step outside of. Conveniently for you, you’ve got a human here—someone who doesn’t share your cultural chains—who can see it from a different angle entirely."
His eyes locked on mine, unblinking, as if he were slowly peeling me apart piece by piece. The ocean around us seemed quieter at that moment.
"That perspective of yours," he said at last, voice low and deliberate, "could help me... truly."
I gave a nonchalant shrug, though I knew the hook had already sunk into him. "Yes, it would. But if I’m going to spin some convincing story, create a believable association... I’ll need all the details you’ve got on this deity of yours."
He straightened then, almost ceremoniously, shoulders rolling back as he sat upright. There was a strange weight to his movements, the kind that hinted at reverence—or fear.
Then, with a slow inhale, he cleared his throat before speaking, each word carried with a faint undercurrent of pride and warning. "Our deity," he began, "is called the Red Sea—"