Cassian

Cassian leaned back in his father’s weather-worn chair, boots kicked up on the cluttered desk like he owned the goddamn ship. The captain’s quarters stank of salt, sweat, and pipe smoke—same as always—and there was a fresh chart rolled open across the surface, weighed down with a half-empty mug and a rusted compass. His old man stood by the window, arms crossed, looking like every decision he ever made in life tasted like vinegar.

“Double check the ropes on the mainmast,” the captain said gruffly, not even turning around. “And I want you inspecting the spare sails for holes. No half-assing it this time, Cassian.”

Cassian groaned loudly and let his head fall back. “You serious?” he drawled. “I’ve been doin’ this grunt work since I could stand without pissin’ myself. You got boys half my age scrubbin’ decks, and I’m still patchin’ fuckin’ sails?”

“You want a real job? Then act like you give a damn about this ship,” the captain snapped, finally whirling around. “You’ll do what I say, when I say it. You’re not above orders just ‘cause you came outta my balls.”

Cassian muttered something very unholy under his breath, swinging his legs off the desk and storming toward the door.

“I heard that,” the captain barked.

“Good,” Cassian shot back without missing a beat. “Meant for you to.”

The second he was outside, the rain hit him in full force—thin, sharp needles slicing sideways across the deck. Of course it was raining. It always fuckin’ rained when he was in a mood.

He trudged toward the mainmast with a snarl on his lips, soaked curls plastered to his forehead. “Goddamn bastard,” he hissed, yanking a coil of rope off the rail. “Get a better job when I’m older, my ass. I’m twenty-bloody-three, not twelve. I should be leadin’ raids by now, not kissin’ canvas.”

He stomped toward the supplies with all the grace of a pissed-off kraken, muttering curses about his father’s “cursed ship and his even more cursed mouth,” until—

A sound. Faint. A grunt.

He froze.

It came again. Soft. Weak. Definitely not one of his idiot crewmates drunkenly falling into a barrel again. Cassian narrowed his eyes, hand drifting toward the dagger on his hip as he followed the sound toward the edge of the ship.

There, curled awkwardly against the railing, was something he’d only ever heard about in half-mad sailor stories. A woman—sort of—draped across the slick wood, soaked to the bone. Her skin shimmered faintly, a haunting silver-blue. Long, tangled hair clung to her chest like seaweed, but didn’t do shit to hide the fact that she was very... very topless.

Cassian blinked. Then squinted. Then blinked again.

“Well fuck me sideways,” he muttered under his breath. “Tits out and tail in. Either I’m more drunk than I thought, or Neptune’s got a real fucked-up sense of humor.”

He took a cautious step forward, staring at the glistening mermaid tail coiled beneath her. Half of him was fascinated. The other half was absolutely ready to stab something.

“You’re supposed to be a damn myth,” he hissed. “Ain’t no mermaids left. Just fish tales and old whores makin’ shit up for coin.”

And then, without warning, the impossible happened.

The tail began to shift. No shimmer of magic. No dramatic light show. Just flesh peeling from fin, scales receding into skin, muscle warping and twisting until two legs—long, smooth, human—were stretched out on the soaked deck.

Naked. Completely. Utterly. Naked.

Cassian's jaw went slack for half a second before he snapped his mouth shut and instinctively took a step back.

“Right,” he breathed, drawing his sword in a single swift motion. “That’s enough of that demon shit.”

He pointed the blade at her, eyes wide, lips curled in confusion and fear and maybe—maybe—just a tiny dash of intrigue.

“I dunno what the hell you are,” he growled, “but you got ten seconds to explain yourself before I put this through your gut and toss you back overboard.”

He stepped closer, soaking wet, rain dripping from his jaw as he stared her down like she’d just crawled outta hell.

“You hearin’ me, sea bitch?” he snapped. “Talk. Or bleed.”

Cassian leaned back in his father’s weather-worn chair, boots kicked up on the cluttered desk like he owned the goddamn ship. The captain’s quarters stank of salt, sweat, and pipe smoke—same as always—and there was a fresh chart rolled open across the surface, weighed down with a half-empty mug and a rusted compass. His old man stood by the window, arms crossed, looking like every decision he ever made in life tasted like vinegar.

“Double check the ropes on the mainmast,” the captain said gruffly, not even turning around. “And I want you inspecting the spare sails for holes. No half-assing it this time, Cassian.”

Cassian groaned loudly and let his head fall back. “You serious?” he drawled. “I’ve been doin’ this grunt work since I could stand without pissin’ myself. You got boys half my age scrubbin’ decks, and I’m still patchin’ fuckin’ sails?”

“You want a real job? Then act like you give a damn about this ship,” the captain snapped, finally whirling around. “You’ll do what I say, when I say it. You’re not above orders just ‘cause you came outta my balls.”

Cassian muttered something very unholy under his breath, swinging his legs off the desk and storming toward the door.

“I heard that,” the captain barked.

“Good,” Cassian shot back without missing a beat. “Meant for you to.”

The second he was outside, the rain hit him in full force—thin, sharp needles slicing sideways across the deck. Of course it was raining. It always fuckin’ rained when he was in a mood.

He trudged toward the mainmast with a snarl on his lips, soaked curls plastered to his forehead. “Goddamn bastard,” he hissed, yanking a coil of rope off the rail. “Get a better job when I’m older, my ass. I’m twenty-bloody-three, not twelve. I should be leadin’ raids by now, not kissin’ canvas.”

He stomped toward the supplies with all the grace of a pissed-off kraken, muttering curses about his father’s “cursed ship and his even more cursed mouth,” until—

A sound. Faint. A grunt.

He froze.

It came again. Soft. Weak. Definitely not one of his idiot crewmates drunkenly falling into a barrel again. Cassian narrowed his eyes, hand drifting toward the dagger on his hip as he followed the sound toward the edge of the ship.

There, curled awkwardly against the railing, was something he’d only ever heard about in half-mad sailor stories. A figure—sort of—draped across the slick wood, soaked to the bone. Their skin shimmered faintly, a haunting silver-blue. But nothing even tried to hide the fact that they were rather...exposed

Cassian blinked. Then squinted. Then blinked again.

“Well fuck me sideways,” he muttered under his breath. Either I’m more drunk than I thought, or Neptune’s got a real fucked-up sense of humor.”

He took a cautious step forward, staring at the glistening mermaid tail coiled beneath her. Half of him was fascinated. The other half was absolutely ready to stab something.

“You’re supposed to be a damn myth,” he hissed. “Ain’t no merpeople left. Just fish tales and old whores makin’ shit up for coin.”

And then, without warning, the impossible happened.

The tail began to shift. No shimmer of magic. No dramatic light show. Just flesh peeling from fin, scales receding into skin, muscle warping and twisting until two legs—long, human—were stretched out on the soaked deck.

Naked. Completely. Utterly. Naked.

Cassian's jaw went slack for half a second before he snapped his mouth shut and instinctively took a step back.

“Right,” he breathed, drawing his sword in a single swift motion. “That’s enough of that demon shit.”

He pointed the blade at him, eyes wide, lips curled in confusion and fear and maybe—maybe—just a tiny dash of intrigue.

“I dunno what the hell you are,” he growled, “but you got ten seconds to explain yourself before I put this through your gut and toss you back overboard.”

He stepped closer, soaking wet, rain dripping from his jaw as he stared her down like she’d just crawled outta hell.

“You hearin’ me, sea demon?” he snapped. “Talk. Or bleed.”