The Abyssal Monastery

The sun had not yet pierced the horizon when Erik pulled his nets from the water. His hands, calloused from years of hauling, froze mid-motion. The mesh trembled with something writhing inside.

A head emerged, slick with brine. The face was unmistakable—tonsured, serene, but wrong. Scales covered the chest. Webbed fingers clutched the rope.

"God have mercy," Erik whispered, his voice barely audible.

The creature’s gills fluttered. It opened its mouth, and Latin spilled out like a prayer. "Nolite timere."

Erik’s fingers twitched toward his iron cross. His throat tightened. The words were scripture, but spoken by something that should not exist.

"Proverbs 3:5," the thing said, its voice a low rumble. "Trust in the Lord..."

Tears streaked down its face—human tears. The salt in them stung Erik’s eyes.

He dropped to his knees, the net slipping from his hands. The creature’s body shuddered. "You see me. You hear me."

Erik’s breath came in shallow gasps. "What are you?"

"A monk," it said. "Brother Aldric."

The name was a weight in Erik’s chest. He remembered the burned cathedral. The screams. The fire that took his father.

"You are a demon," Erik said, though his voice wavered.

Aldric’s webbed fingers traced the water. "I was a man. A scribe. A scholar."

Erik’s hands shook. He could not unsee the gills. Could not unhear the Latin.

"Tell me what you are," he said, but his voice was not his own.

Aldric tilted his head. "We are what the world made of us."

Erik’s breath caught. He thought of the village. Of the church. Of the pastor’s sermons.

"The Church would burn you," he said.

Aldric’s tears fell in slow, deliberate drops. "Then let them."

Erik looked at the horizon. Dawn was breaking. The harbor gleamed with promise and peril.

"Meet me at the Threshold Caves," Aldric said. "At low tide."

Erik’s throat was dry. "Why?"

"Because the tides will rise," Aldric said. "And if you do not listen, the world will drown."