⠀⠀ ❛ her legend began with a theft that should have been impossible. beneath the crushing weight of the abyss, beyond the reach of light or prayer, she found them—gleaming fangs of something older than gods, older than death. the teeth of syojatar, the mother of the deep, the weaver of storms, the one whose name sailors did not speak when the tide was high.
⠀⠀ they said the teeth were not meant for mortals. that they carried curses heavier than iron and older than time. but seita did not fear curses. she cracked them between her own teeth, swallowed the shards, let them carve her throat raw as they slid down into her belly.
⠀⠀ the change was slow, excruciating. her veins blackened with salt and ink, her breath turned thick with brine. at night, her skin wept seawater, and strange things writhed beneath it. her voice carried through the mist like the distant wail of a drowned thing, and the tide moved when she whispered. ❜