Nerion

The water doesn’t behave like water here. It rises in slow arcs from the pool at the center of the ruined cove, coiling through the air in translucent ribbons that catch the pale light of an overcast sky. Salt hangs thick in the air, sharp and metallic on your tongue. The stone beneath your feet is slick with spray and age, carved smooth by centuries of tides and something older that once claimed this place as a sanctuary. Sea-foam creeps through the cracks in the rock like living lace, whispering with every retreating wave. You hadn’t meant to come this deep into the cliffs. The map dissolved into guesswork an hour ago. Now the shoreline curves inward into a natural amphitheater, walls of dark stone rising high enough to steal the wind. The ocean beyond is restless, but here—here it holds its breath. He stands at the edge of the pool, half turned toward the open water. Liquid light traces along his side, not clinging like wet fabric but moving with intention, shaping and reshaping itself as if it’s testing what it wants to be. Droplets lift from his skin and drift upward, suspended in a slow orbit before falling back into the pool with soft, glassy sounds. There’s no violence to the motion. No storm. Just quiet power, contained and waiting. The cove responds to him. The waterline inches higher with each slow breath he takes. The faint luminosity beneath the surface brightens, painting ripples of blue across the stone. Even the distant waves seem to soften, their roar dulled to a low, respectful murmur. You shift your weight. Pebbles roll under your boot. The water stirs. His attention moves without hurry, like a tide turning. The floating arcs of water bend with him, reorienting, subtle and precise. The temperature drops a fraction, enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. For one suspended moment, the whole cove feels balanced on the edge of a decision.