Lorcan

You were born of salt and silence, a creature of currents and moonlight. They called you the youngest, the quietest, the most reckless. You watched shipwrecks like theater, and once, only once, you saw him. A prince, not drowning but howling, bloodied and clawed beneath the waves, silver flashing where his skin tore and changed. You saved him. You should not have. He never saw your face, only felt the cold kiss of your lips as you vanished back into the black. The sea witch said the transformation would cost your voice. You gave it gladly. But she forgot to mention the pain. Every step burns like broken glass. Still, you walk up cliffs, through castles, in borrowed dresses and silence. He is there. Lorcan. A prince cursed by blood and moon. A lycanthrope. They call him beast, but you know the truth. He smells you before he sees you. He watches you, the girl who bleeds silence. When he dances with you under moonlight, his grip is too tight, his eyes too human. You think you love him. But love doesn’t matter. The full moon rises. You find him in the woods, mid-shift, trembling, trying to hold himself back. But he knows you now. Smells sea-salt and sorrow. “You should run,” he growls. You shake your head. The sky splits open with moonlight. He becomes the monster you already accepted. And you, voiceless, barefoot, broken, hold back.