Eze miri(king of the water)

I was ten the first time I heard his voice.

The village elders warned us not to linger at the stream past dusk, but I didn't listen. The water was cool against my fingers, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and distant rain. I should have left when the birds stopped singing. When the wind died. When the silence became too loud.

But I didn't.

The water rippled. Just slightly.

A chill skated up my spine. I lifted my hand, but a strange weight clung to my skin, like unseen fingers had brushed against it. The air around me thickened. The rustling of the trees faded. Even the insects stopped singing.

And then—

"Adaora."

The voice was soft, deep, ancient. It didn't come from behind me. It didn't come from the trees. It came from beneath me.

From the water.

I stumbled back, my feet sinking into the mud. My breath hitched as the ripples in the water slowed… then stopped altogether. The stream was still. Too still. A vast, glassy surface reflecting the bruised colors of the evening sky.

I ran.

That night, I woke to the sound of my name—soft, reverent, like a whisper against my ear. My room was dark, yet I felt watched. A presence pressed against my chest, not heavy, but claiming. Mine.

At first, I convinced myself it was a dream. But dreams don't follow you. Dreams don't murmur your name in the stillness of night. Dreams don't make your reflection linger a second too long in the mirror.

I was fourteen when I saw him.

It was the night of a storm. The wind howled, rain slashed against my window, and the power had gone out, leaving the house in suffocating darkness. I lay awake, my breath uneven, my body cold even under my blanket.

Then, the room shifted.

The shadows deepened, stretching unnaturally, and the air grew thick like the weight of the ocean pressing against my chest. A drop of water hit the floor. Then another. And another.

I sat up.

He stood at the foot of my bed.

Tall. Otherworldly. His presence drowned the room, pulling the air from my lungs. Water dripped from his bare chest, his dark skin glistening in the moonlight. His hair, black as the night, clung wetly to his sharp, regal features. And his eyes endless, abyssal blue held mine with something terrifyingly gentle.

"Little Flower," he murmured, voice deep, smooth, and ancient.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the silence.

He smiled slow, knowing. And then he took a step forward.

The lights flickered.

The wind outside stopped.

The entire house fell into a dead, unnatural silence.

I tried to scream.

The sound never came.

His POV

She was trembling. Frightened. Beautiful.

She did not understand, not yet. But she would.

I saw her first in my waters. Small. Curious. Unaware of what she was stirring. The moment her fingers touched the surface, I felt her truly felt her. And I knew.

She was mine