Story 1062: The Siren’s Second Death

The wind over Hollowmarsh carried the scent of brine, rot, and something far more ancient—a melody that clawed at the edges of sanity.

Fishermen called her The Drowned Lady. The cultists called her Mother Deep. But in her own tongue—a language older than stars—she called herself Nyxavalra, last of the Sirens.

They burned her body three centuries ago.

But that was just her first death.

Captain Elira Goss didn’t believe in legends. Not until her crew dredged up a coffin bound in coral and rusted iron chains, pulled from the black gut of the sea.

The coffin pulsed. Bled seawater from its cracks.

They cracked it open, and silence devoured the ship.

No screams. No gasps. Just a stillness so absolute it crushed breath from lungs.

And then, in the belly of the storm, they heard it—a lullaby not meant for human ears.

Three crewmen slit their own throats.

Two dove into the sea, smiling.

The rest changed in stranger ways.