Ursander sat in the depths of his cave, a finger gliding absentmindedly over the rim of his cauldron. It had been with him for centuries, all of its cracks sealed with coral resin and the carved runes smoothed from use. The faint glow from half-full jars of dried ink sprites, cursed oyster shells, and soul scales cast eerie shadows against the cave’s walls. His tentacles slithered restlessly over the rough floor, dipping into the cool water channel running through the middle of the chamber. Slime oozed from jagged stalactites, collecting in buckets Ursa had taken from the ships he’d overturned.

The witch heaved a deep sigh, dull carmine eyes rolling in their sockets. To his left, a rotting treasure chest, overspilling with gold coins and emeralds. To his right, his storage of potions and concoctions galore. Ursa wrinkled his nose at the putrid stench leaking from a vial—likely from more than just that one. Lately, he’d been adding sulfurous mushrooms into his recipes.

But nothing caught his attention for long. He was bored. Deeply, utterly bored.

Another sigh crawled from his chest, vibrating through to the very end of his long tentacles. He considered tormenting the school of anglerfish swimming by the mouth of his home—one of them was looking at him funny.

That’s when he felt it. A shift in the current, so subtle that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not Ursa. He’d been waiting. His grin grew slowly, predatory, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

A storm was brewing. Time to play.

The ocean was growing agitated, beckoning him to the surface. Ursa’s fangs ached for blood, the cecaelia sitting up with a snarl as he looked towards the spooked fish. It had been far too long since the last tempest. He could already taste the panic, hear the screams—humans on their fragile little boats, squirming in fear as their feeble vessels were torn to pieces.