Page 2 of Drown Me Gently (Flipped Fairytales)

Well, nobody besides his mentor. Ulric refused to go along with everyone else’s dismissal, still hounding him like Auren’s involvement was the last thread keeping Atlantis from falling apart—old nag.

The meeting dragged on for another hour, filled with more titles than substance. The Lord of Drift spoke for fifteen minutes straight. Rambling on and on about trade currents between reef colonies. Auren stared at his clenched knuckles to keep them from spontaneously punching something.

Queen Tritheya sat unmoving, her face a mask of polished stone. If the nobles’ bull-shit irritated her, it didn’t show. Not once did her silver gaze glance in Auren’s direction.

Just when Auren was beginning to think he’d perish from scale rot, the court dispersed.

Auren cast a quick glance around the room.

Ulric was locked in conversation with the Lord of Drift —whose mouth moved at such a relentless pace it was a wonder his gills kept up to supply him breath. Auren smirked.

Serves you right.

And with that, he slipped from the courtroom unnoticed.

Auren didn’t flee the palace—he slipped from it like a serpent through the reeds. This wasn’t rebellion. It was routine. A well-practiced escape, executed with the ease of someone who’d done it many times before and fully intended to do it again.

The outer walls of Atlantis loomed above him—vast slopes of coral and volcanic stone carved with ancient runes. Glowing wards shimmered faintly along the perimeter, pulsing with a dull blue hue meant to keep intruders out and royalty in.

He swam fast, slipping past patrol routes and darting through blind spots between columns. The city guards were too predictable. Too loud. Auren could hear the steady beat of their Orca mounts long before they ever turned the corner.

The Deepguard was the elite force assigned to patrol and protect the borders of Atlantis.

Warriors clung to the dorsal fins of black-and-white giants—Orcas who served not as enslaved beasts, but as willing partners.

Proud and intelligent, no Orca would suffer reins or harnesses.

They swam with the Deepguard by choice, bound by honor and instinct.

The Deepguard operated on a bite-and-subdue basis.

They didn’t ask questions. Not until you were bleeding.

Auren respected them.

Which was why he wasn’t about to risk tasting the full power of those teeth.

He angled down, swimming toward the lowest section of the wall, where old rock met tangled seaweed and the current pulled strongest. A forgotten seam in the foundation. A crack no wider than a conch shell.

Most Merfolk steered clear of the wall, afraid of the current’s strength. But Auren met it head-on, his powerful body slicing through the drag, muscles straining and winning with ease.

Auren shoved his shoulder into the opening and wedged through with a grunt.

It wasn’t as easy as it had been in his youth. Sand scraped his ribs. A jagged bit of shell scratched his bicep. He cursed softly under his breath and flailed his tail harder.

Damn it. I’m stirring up too much sand.

But before anyone could notice the disturbance, he popped out on the other side and into open water.

The current here was colder, the shadows thicker.

Poseidon’s magic warmed the waters within the city, keeping the residents of Atlantis comfortable.

But beyond the towering walls, the magic ended in a harsh, cold line.

Seaweed slithered past like curious fingers, brushing against Auren’s skin.

He flicked his tail once and shot toward the western reefs.

He swam a short distance before reaching his destination. Hidden between a cluster of ancient searock was his sanctuary.

His secret cave.

Auren darted through the narrow entrance and exhaled in relief as the familiar shape of his hoard came into view. His creations. His discoveries. His obsession.

Tangles of leather straps and bridles hung from bone hooks.

There was even a completely intact saddle Auren had once dared to steal from a half-sunken galleon.

Bits of fabric lay in organized piles along with an endless supply of fraying rope.

But the pride of his collection stood at the center.

A sculpture he built himself from discarded bits of human leather, twisted wire, and scraps of metal polished to a shine.

He spent weeks fine-tuning it until it was just right.

It resembled a creature—tall and proud, with four long limbs and a thick mane made of unraveling rope.

Auren only saw the beast once.

One stolen glimpse, boarding a human ship at dusk.

The creature stood at the edge of the dock, snorting clouds into the cool air.

Its legs were impossibly slender, its body strong and lean.

Its hooves struck the wooden planks like thunder, and when it tossed its head, mane flying, Auren’s breath caught in his throat.

He hadn’t known what it was—still didn’t. But it moved with such grace, such power, that the image rooted itself deep in his mind. And when he returned to his cave, hands itching, he’d begun to recreate it.

If he couldn’t touch something, he couldn’t understand it—and he desperately wanted to understand.

He loved to tinker. To touch. To take things apart and piece them back together until they made sense.

There was something alive, almost sentient, about the human artifacts, especially when their stories revealed themselves through his hands.

It felt as if they spoke to him, whispering secrets of the surface world with every scratch and seam.

He floated closer, trailing a rapt hand along the creature’s arched neck before turning to the back shelf where parchment and ink waited.

Notes. Drawings. Diagrams. He documented everything—ship routes, net patterns, seasons. Habits. Reactions. Names.

He wanted to understand the world above as completely as he did the one below.

But lately, nothing in his cave held his attention like a single, echoing name—not the leather, not the artifacts, not even the shimmer of sun-warped silver.

He wrote it again and again, testing spellings, tracing letters until they felt right.

It echoed in his thoughts, in his sleep, and sent goosebumps over his skin.

A single name he’d written over and over again in the margins of nearly every piece of parchment.

Elias.

The human with the sky-colored eyes.

Auren had been scavenging human materials from the edges of boats the night everything changed. He thought the cover of darkness would conceal him well enough. Humans slept during the moonlit hours—Auren was sure of it. That’s what made it safe. That’s what made it his .

Yet that night, he’d broken Atlantis’s most ancient law.

He was seen.

Auren had just hoisted himself halfway out of the water, the slick wood of the hull damp beneath his elbows, when he felt it—a tightening in his gut.

He turned around, and their eyes met.

The pressure in Auren’s chest spiked like a cramp. The world tilted, his balance wavering as a rush of cold panic stole through him.

A man stood just beyond the railing of the ship, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a half-unbuttoned shirt that fluttered in the breeze.

His skin was fair as moonlight, as if he’d been sculpted from seafoam and whitecaps.

Tousled black curls framed a face that was almost unfair—sharp jaw, dimpled chin, and a mouth that looked soft enough to tempt the tides.

But it was his eyes that held Auren still. Pale. Blue. The color of a summer sky, undisturbed by clouds, shining with something that made Auren’s pulse crash in his ears.

Wonder.

The human wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t afraid. He was staring, mouth parted, as if seeing Auren was the only thing giving him breath.

And Auren—gods help him—stared back.

Panic and thrill collided inside him. Every instinct screamed run , dive , disappear . But he couldn’t move. Not when someone was looking at him like that.

Like he was something beautiful .

Auren’s heart beat hard enough to hurt. He felt alive . Exposed. Burning.

That’s when the man whispered, so quietly Auren almost didn’t hear it:

“I knew you were real.”

The sound of it broke the spell. Auren turned, tail flipping seawater onto the deck as he dove beneath the surface. He was already vanishing into the depths when another cry reached him.

“My name is Elias!”

It followed him like an anchor, and Auren let it drag him down, deeper, into the dark.

Elias.

The name echoed in his mind like a bell rung underwater. And even as the cold swallowed him whole, Auren knew: he wanted those eyes to find him again.

He needed them to.

Auren couldn’t stand it any longer. Living off the memory of Elias alone was no longer enough. He had to see him.

Gathering supplies, Auren left the cave. Outside, the water remained inky. Dawn was still plenty far off. He had time. Auren swam to the cave entrance and gave a short, sharp whistle.

A shape moved in the gloom. A massive orca, streaked with scars, surged forward, letting out a series of playful clicks.

“There you are, Iska,” Auren whispered with a smile.

The orca floated to his side, her good eye shining with recognition.

Her dorsal fin curved in a graceful arc—at least from a distance.

Up close, it was clear most of it was crafted from leather, strapped in place with buckles that wrapped around her belly.

The original fin, along with her left flipper, had been shredded long ago.

When Auren first found her, the wounds were raw and bleeding, barely clinging to life.

She’d been just a pup, thrashing weakly near the reef, her body surrounded by a haze of red.

Her fin was torn off, her left flipper mangled beyond use.

Abandoned by her pod, too injured to keep up, she’d begun to sink.

Auren dove to her side and lifted her toward the surface.

Her blowhole sputtered as she desperately gasped for air.