"Once upon a time, there was a grand kingdom built upon the sea—an empire of endless blue and whispered magic. Its name was Thalassara.
Thalassara was unlike any other kingdom. It did not rest upon land but floated upon the waves, held aloft by ancient magic woven into the bones of the ocean itself. Its cities shimmered like pearls beneath the sun, their structures carved from coral and mother-of-pearl, their towers rising in elegant spirals that mimicked the waves cradling them. Silver bridges arched between islands of floating marble, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that pulsed in rhythm with the tide. The ocean was not just their home—it was their god, their guardian, their master.
It was a masterpiece of the sea, a jewel of the deep, and a prime trading hub for all things rare and powerful that the ocean had to offer.
The people of Thalassara did not fear the depths; they were born of them, whether of land or sea. Silver-tailed merrow and fair-skinned selkies bartered in the bustling markets, their laughter bubbling through streets paved with seastone. Humans walked freely among them, some adorned with pearls and ocean-kissed skin, others bearing the gifts of the deep—webbed fingers, gill-like markings, or eyes that gleamed like polished shells. There was no division, no hierarchy of blood—only the shared bond of the sea that united them all.
The canals pulsed with life, schools of iridescent fish weaving between the legs of human children who played at the water's edge, their merrow friends darting alongside them with flicks of their shimmering tails. Trade thrived between land-dwellers and water-born alike, as artisans crafted jewelry from enchanted sea glass, and alchemists bottled the tides into shimmering vials of liquid magic.Sea dragons coiled around the highest towers, their misty breath perfuming the air with salt and storm. In Thalassara, the ocean was a mother to all, and beneath her gaze, no soul was lesser than another. The city was a perfect harmony of construction and sea, magic and nature. Even the wind carried whispers of ancient spells, singing lullabies older than time itself.
But Thalassara's magic was not free.
For centuries, the kingdom thrived under an unbreakable covenant: in exchange for the sea's favor, one life must be given every century—the life of a prince. This was the price of their prosperity, the offering that kept the waters calm and the storms at bay. It was not questioned. It was not defied.
And so, the people worshipped their princes even as they mourned them before they were gone. For centuries, nine princes had walked the path of sacrifice, each surrendering to the sea so that Thalassara might endure. In their honor, the people built statues—nine towering figures of coral and pearl, standing in the heart of the city like silent sentinels of fate. Each prince immortalized in stone, their gazes forever fixed upon the waves that had claimed them. They adorned them in silk and gold, weaving their names into songs and stories, all while knowing the ocean would take them in nothing but salt and foam. It had always been this way.
And so it should have been for Prince Alon of Thalassara.
He was the next in a long line of sacrificial kings. Born with the ocean in his veins, with eyes the color of the shifting tide and hair dark as the abyss beneath the waves, he was both beloved and doomed. Like each chosen prince before him, he possessed an otherworldly beauty—a gift from the sea, a mark of the sacrifice to come. The people adored him. They praised him as their savior even as they counted the days until his death.
And in the meantime, he lived as all doomed men do—boldly, indulgently, with no fear of the future. He was a prince with the world at his feet, basking in the luxuries offered to him. Gold-threaded robes draped over his shoulders, the scent of rare sea blossoms perfumed the halls he walked, and the finest delicacies passed his lips. His nights were filled with music, laughter, and whispered confessions from those drawn to him—women bewitched by the tragic prince who would never grow old, enchanted not only by his beauty but by the pleasures they could offer him, and he them in return.
But Alon was more than the pleasures woven into his days. He was a warrior, trained to command the tides in battle. He was a scholar, well-versed in the ancient runes that bound Thalassara to the ocean's will. He spent hours in the temple, listening to the elders speak of the great cycle, of duty, of fate. He knew what awaited him, accepted it, even. And so, he let himself enjoy what time he had, even as the sea whispered its growing impatience. Though he knew his time was short, he wanted to live fully, be knowledgeable. A true prince at heart.
It had always been this way.
And Alon did not question his fate.
How could he, when he had been raised to believe it was an honor? To die for his people, to walk into the sea with open arms, was the greatest glory a prince could achieve. His life had been shaped by duty, by whispered prayers and reverent bows, by the knowledge that he was not his own.
And so, as the years passed, Alon prepared himself.
Until the night came when he could not.
On the eve of his 30th birthday, Thalassara gathered to witness the sacrifice. The sky was clear, the moon a watchful eye above the endless horizon. The sea, ever hungry, rose higher than usual, foam licking hungrily at the ceremonial steps. It was waiting.
Alon, draped in shimmering robes of sea-silk, stood before his people. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of it all. He had always imagined this moment would bring him peace. Instead, he felt hollow.
He took a step forward. The waves curled toward him in anticipation.
And then he stopped.
Silence fell over the kingdom.
The elders gasped. The priests faltered. The sea stilled, as if it could not comprehend what had just happened.
Alon did not kneel. Alon did not submit.
For the first time in the kingdom's history, the sacrifice refused to die. And the ocean, betrayed and furious beyond all reason, rose up with an unrelenting vengeance that shook the very foundations of Thalassara.
The sky itself split open as if the heavens themselves wept in fury. The once-benevolent sea, the kingdom's protector and life-giver, twisted into an insatiable beast, hungry for retribution. A tidal wave—monstrous, unstoppable, and suffused with the wrath of ages—rose from the depths, an unholy mountain of water higher than the tallest tower. The air was thick with the scent of salt and death, as the water loomed, swelling with a terrible inevitability.
The first crash was cataclysmic. It tore through the city like a giant's fist, shattering the shimmering bridges—delicate arcs of marble and silver—into fragments of ice and stone. The sound was deafening, a screeching, grinding roar as the great structures splintered apart, splashing into the churning abyss below. The city trembled, its bones rattled, and the very ground beneath the people's feet cracked open, sending fountains of water pouring into the streets.
Then came the second blow—a tidal surge so violent it swallowed the streets whole. The water surged with a vengeful scream, consuming the markets, the homes, the palaces in its unyielding tide. Merchants, once proud and bustling, were swept away in the blink of an eye, their stalls and wares sinking beneath the murky waves, all traces of their lives erased in seconds. The waves swallowed everything—fields, statues, even the great central plaza where the statues of the fallen princes stood in eternal vigil, now vanishing beneath the crushing flood.
The people screamed, their cries lost to the howling winds and the rising waters. The merrow, ever the children of the sea, dove into the depths in a desperate bid to escape, their sleek bodies disappearing into the blackness below. The sea dragons, great and ancient protectors of Thalassara, roared in defiance as they spiraled through the waves, their massive forms billowing clouds of mist. But even their strength, born from the deepest heart of the ocean, could not hold back the fury of the sea. Their roars echoed through the sky, but it was as if the ocean itself had become deaf to all calls for mercy.
The sea was not a guardian anymore—it was a destroyer, a relentless force of nature set free to erase all that had once been. Thalassara, the kingdom that had danced with the waves, now sank beneath them, claimed by the very ocean that had once whispered its lullabies.
And Alon, who should have perished in the water as a willing sacrifice, was instead dragged into the abyss as a cursed exile.
Thalassara was no more.
The sea had reclaimed what was owed."
Lyra stared at the remaining blank pages of the book in her hands, confusion settling in. That was it? She had never come across a book with no ending before. It had to be a mistake. Maybe the last few pages had been torn out, or perhaps there was some sort of error. She glanced around, waiting for the librarian behind her wooden desk, typing away at her computer.
"Um, I wanted to read this book, but it's not finished," Lyra said, handing the book to Vanessa. The librarian, a mousy woman with thick-rimmed glasses and curly, brown hair, gave the book only a cursory glance before returning her attention to the screen.
"That's not one of ours," Vanessa replied, her tone dismissive, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
"But I got it from your shelves," Lyra pointed out, perplexed by the response. Every time she visited this library, it seemed like Vanessa was in a permanent bad mood.
"Someone must've dropped it off as a joke," Vanessa said with a sigh, as though the whole situation was an inconvenience. "If it's an uncompleted book, I'll just toss it."
Lyra quickly snatched the book back, cradling it protectively. "You can't just throw away a book!"
Vanessa sighed again, her expression one of exaggerated patience. She didn't even look up as she continued typing.
"Can I just take it, then, if you don't want it?" Lyra asked, pressing further.
Vanessa shrugged without a word, clearly uninterested.
"Thanks," Lyra said quickly, tucking the book into her bag before hurrying out the door.
She didn't even know why she took it. Something about the incomplete book had tugged at her, pulling her in. Maybe she could track down the rest of the story online when she got home. The mystery of it called to her.
As she walked to the bus stop, she slipped on her wireless headphones, letting the soothing rhythm of lofi RnB fill her ears.
Lyra was of average height with a lean, graceful build. Her fair skin had a subtle glow to it, a warm undertone that didn't demand attention but was noticeable in the right light. Her face, soft and unassuming, held gentle features—slightly rounded cheeks, a narrow nose, and full lips with a natural pink tint. Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, held the most striking quality—silvery-gray, shifting in hue depending on the light. They carried a quiet intensity, an underlying strength behind their warmth and curiosity.
Her dark hair fell just past her shoulders in soft waves, shining faintly without any effort, framing her face in a way that felt effortless. A light bang swept across her forehead, softening her features and adding a touch of approachability to her natural beauty. When she smiled, it was a soft, warm thing—genuine, without a hint of arrogance.
As the bus pulled up, she looked up from her phone. She scanned the nearly empty bus before finding a seat near the window. She sank into her seat with a sigh, still distracted by the unfinished book in her bag.
She felt the shift in the air as someone sat down next to her. Lyra huffed quietly, irritated. Of all the empty seats, why did this person have to sit right next to her?
She turned to face the man. He had sharp features, handsome but in an unconventional way. "Hello Lyra." his friendly smile followed his greeting.
"Uh, do I know you?" she asked, feeling uneasy.
"Not yet." His smile remained, warm but with an odd undertone. "I'm here because of the book you just picked up."
Lyra blinked. "The unfinished book?"
He nodded, his eyes glinting with something curious. "How rude of me." He extended his hand. "I'm Bartholomew, but most people call me The Concierge." He had a slight accent that she couldn't figure from where it derived.
"Okay..." Lyra hesitated, her confusion growing. "And how may I help you?"
"Well, the book you've got," Bartholomew continued, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "is a very 'special' book." He made air quotes around the word "special," and his tone made it clear he wasn't speaking casually. "And it's chosen you."
"Chosen?" Lyra raised an eyebrow, her suspicions immediately going on high alert. "Are you on something? Because if this is a prank, I'm really not in the mood. I'll just give you back your book."
"Oh, no." He chuckled, shaking his head. "The book can only be touched by the one it has chosen."
"I'm sorry, but that makes no sense," Lyra muttered, leaning back in her seat. "You're losing me."
"I know this is hard to understand now," he said, speaking slowly as if carefully choosing his words. "But if you want to know more about the book, I'd like to invite you to meet its creator."
He handed Lyra a black business card. On it were written the letters VRB and an address. She knew of VRB because it was a well known publishing house that were famous for the unique fairy tale books they published.
"Is this some kind of human trafficking thing?" Lyra eyed him suspiciously.
He laughed, a deep, pleasant chuckle that had one of the female passengers who look over at them, flush pink. Lyra watched the exchange, still not entirely convinced. "No, I assure you it's not that. Think about it. Pay a visit. I'm sure you'll want to know what happens next. It's not every day you get chosen by a book." With a final smile, Bartholomew stood up and left at the next bus stop, leaving Lyra alone with her thoughts.
Lyra looked down at the card again. She got out her phone and in her search engine typed the address that was written. The images revealed a beautifully sleek designed tall building, a 50 minute drive from her apartment.
She took out the book from the bag. No author name was present on the book, just the title: The Sea Prince. It had lured her to read it because it was a title she had never seen before in the library, and she was at the library A LOT.
Why hadn't the author finished it? What was so significant about a book that wasn't completed? Maybe it was some sort of experiment—a decoy book left to draw someone in, to see if anyone would ask about it.
Lyra shook her head at the absurdity of her thoughts.
But maybe this could be good for her. She'd just finished university, earned her master's degree in writing, and was currently in-between jobs. She had written a few books herself, which were now sitting in a pile awaiting consideration for publication. Meeting the creator of this book might open up opportunities for her career.
She slipped the card, the book, and her phone back into her bag, then stepped off the bus at her stop. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she would visit the VRB building.