The dim, honeyed light from the massive crystal chandelier in the adjacent living room barely reached the boundaries of this hall, transforming it into a realm of twilight and shimmering reflections. The air here was different—cool, humid, saturated with the smell of salt, old wood, and the quiet, motionless dust settling on drapes of the most expensive Genoese velvet. This was not merely a study; it was a private menagerie, the "Hall of the Turned," as its owner called it, and every centimeter of space screamed of a fortune so astronomical it allowed its owner, Artas Veil, to purchase not just things, but myths themselves.

Dominating the center of it all stood the colossal aquarium—a creation of engineering genius and mad luxury. Solid panels of tempered star-glass, joined by almost invisible platinum frames, soared upwards. It was not just a water tank; it was an autonomous biosystem, worth a small island, the main altar in the temple of the collector's vanity.

But the aquarium, for all its monumentality, was just one exhibit in this gallery of living rarities. Along the perimeter of the hall, in niches and on podiums, stood other cages, enclosures, and reservoirs. In one corner, in a gilded, filigree cage resembling a giant birdcage, a centaur dozed. Its powerful equine hindquarters were covered with a blanket of embroidered silk, and on the wall hung a bridle and harness trimmed with gold. A little further away, in a small pool of white marble, a mermaid with scales the color of sea green swam lazily.

In a glass cube where a desert environment with scorching sand and stones was recreated, a man-scorpion sat motionless, like an idol, its chitinous tail raised in a state of perpetual readiness, its eyes staring into nothingness. And in the darkest corner, in a box of matte glass, something shapeless and scaly pulsed slowly, devoid of will and form, a reminder of what happens to those who no longer hold value or interest.

Artas himself sat in his chair made from the skin of an extinct sea beast, positioned at the exact distance to survey his entire zoo without rising. He held a heavy folio in his hands—the catalog of his possessions. His slender finger slid down the page dedicated to the main treasure.

"Inhabitant of the northern seas, beyond the Arctic Circle," he whispered, rereading his own notes in a calligraphic hand. "The last confirmed specimen of its subspecies. Male sirens, unlike their southern counterparts, do not lure prey with song. Their voice... is different."

His gaze once again turned to the motionless figure in the giant aquarium. The creature hovered in the depths, the living heart of this collection.

"They say you are the last," the collector said quietly, and his voice, muffled and subdued, still penetrated the glass. "That your songs are not a lure, but a lament. A lament for what is lost. For your kin. For freedom."

Artas set the book aside and stood up, slowly approaching the cold, damp surface of the aquarium. His reflection—a man in an impeccably fitting robe, with the face of an aristocrat and the eyes of an alchemist—superimposed itself onto the motionless figure in the water.