Songs in the Mist

News came at dawn. One of the locals who owed Sawyer a favor brought word: the Spaniards had taken up in an old coastal fort three days east by sea — high ground, well-stocked, and heavily guarded.

Sawyer gathered the crew soon after. A plan was laid — direct, dangerous, and exactly the kind they lived for.

The mood on the Tempest was lifted. The men sang louder, worked faster. There was a fire in their bellies — justice in their sails.

Even Sawyer seemed lighter.

For the first time in weeks, he wore a half-smile when he walked the deck. Not so sharp around the edges.

And Syrena couldn't wait.

That night, after dinner, she knocked softly on his cabin door.

He looked up from his maps as she entered.

"Wanted to thank you," she said, hands behind her back. "For helping me. For not brushing this off."

Sawyer gave a small shrug. "It's a damn good reason to fight. That's rare, these days."

They stood in silence a moment. The air between them not tense, just full of something unspoken.

Then Syrena smirked faintly, tilting her head. "Didn't realize you were such a... generous man. Figured you'd be too busy chasing skirts in every port."

Sawyer blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

She leaned casually against the doorframe. "Heard a few things. The people in town seem to think you're some kind of legend."

He exhaled — not a laugh, not a sigh. "I've bedded women. Plenty of 'em."

There was no pride in his voice — just truth.

"I never thought I'd want to stick around for anyone. Never made sense to me... wasting time on something that doesn't last."

She studied him. "But?"

He didn't answer. Just looked at her.

But before the silence could turn into something deeper — a sound tore through the night.

A haunting melody, soft and distant. Barely audible at first... but growing.

The kind of song that curled into your bones, drew you forward before you realized your feet had moved.

Above deck, shouts turned to murmurs. Then silence.

Syrena stiffened. "That's not wind..."

She darted out. The fog had crept in thick and unnatural. Shapes moved in the mist, voices weaving through it like silk.

The crew stood in a daze, walking toward the rails, eyes glassy.

Sawyer followed moments later — expression blank, gaze far off. He took slow, steady steps toward the edge of the ship.

"No—" Syrena whispered, panic rising.

She stepped in front of him, shaking him hard by the shoulders. "Sawyer! Look at me!"

But his eyes stared right through her. The song was in him now.

Then came the scream.

Harrow — the old sailor who'd once raised Sawyer like his own — was yanked overboard by a shape in the mist.

There was blood in the air.

Syrena's heart stopped.

She turned, eyes wide with horror, then snatched the nearest knife from a crate, kicked off her boots—

And leapt into the ocean.

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The sea roared around her as Syrena swam, Harrow's heavy frame dragging her under again and again. Blood clouded the water from the wound at his side, but she gritted her teeth and kept going, arm locked around his chest, knife still clutched in the other hand.

They reached the ship just as it had scraped hard onto something — a jagged, stone-like island hidden beneath the mist. The Tempest groaned against the rock, anchored now in a place it should never have been.

Syrena hauled Harrow aboard, soaked and gasping, and rolled him onto his back.

His eyes fluttered open weakly. She grabbed a fistful of seaweed from the edge of the deck, wadded it, and jammed it into his ears. "Stay here," she ordered. "Don't listen to anything. Not even me."

Then she was on her feet, moving fast.

The rest of the crew were slowly descending the gangplank in a daze, eyes wide and dreamy, feet drawn by the sirens' call echoing through the mist-covered rocks beyond.

She had seconds.

She ran below deck, found a half-empty barrel of gunpowder, rolled it to the edge, and heaved it over the side into the dark.

Then she drew a flintlock pistol from the weapon rack, aimed, and fired.

BOOM.

The explosion tore through the fog, sending a blast of water and fire into the air. The sirens shrieked — not in song now, but in rage.

The spell shattered.

The crew stumbled, blinking, suddenly aware of where they were — and how close they'd come to vanishing.

Sawyer burst from his daze just in time to see Harrow lying still on the deck. He rushed to him, dropping to his knees, hands shaking.

"Harrow—? No, no, stay with me—"

"He's alive," Syrena said, breathless, kneeling beside them. "Barely. But I'll keep him that way. We need to leave. Now."

Sawyer looked up at her, soaked and wild-haired, blood smeared on her arm — and for a moment, all he could do was nod.

‐-----------------------

The storm had passed, but a heavy silence clung to the Tempest as it pulled away from the cursed island. Mist still lingered behind them like a warning — but they were moving, and that was all that mattered.

Below deck, Syrena sat beside Harrow's cot, gently wiping the blood from his temple with a damp cloth. His chest rose and fell shallowly, but he was alive.

Sawyer stood nearby, arms folded, brow furrowed. "I've heard of sirens," he muttered. "But I've never seen one. Not truly."

Syrena didn't look up. "Most haven't. Most who do don't live to speak of it."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You didn't seem surprised."

"I was," she said quietly, wringing out the cloth. "But only because I thought they were gone. Banished."

Sawyer knelt beside her, lowering his voice. "You mean that story? The one where a voodoo witch cursed them?"

Syrena nodded. "It's old lore — says a voodoo priestess cursed the sirens to become human after they devoured her lover. Some believe they still exist… hidden. Some say they had daughters… that some women carry what's left of their blood."

Sawyer's face darkened. "What kind of powers did they have?"

Syrena hesitated, then said, "Each was different. One could call storms. One could cure. Another could twist a man's dreams into madness. But all of them… were stunningly beautiful. Alluring. Their songs could bend any will. That same song could kill."

She paused. "And after that… they fed."

Sawyer looked like he wanted to be sick. "Monsters," he muttered.

"Not always," Syrena said softly. "Some were made into monsters. Not born."

He didn't answer, just stood stiffly.

"You should be at the helm," she added. "The crew needs you steady."

He gave one last glance at Harrow, then at her — something unreadable flickering in his eyes — before nodding and heading above deck.

Syrena waited until the sound of his boots faded.

She looked down at Harrow, still unconscious. Gently, she placed her hand over the wound at his ribs.

Then, under her breath, she sang.

A soft, haunting melody — nothing like the sirens' call from before. This one was tender, ancient.

Her palm glowed faintly, and for a split second, her eyes shimmered bright blue.

Then the light was gone. The wound closed without a trace.

Syrena smiled faintly. "Rest now, old man."

And she sat quietly by his side, humming the tune to herself — so low, no one above would hear.