Finally, the war between gods and demons had ended—and technically, it ended in favor of the demons. However, they had to forge a pact with the gods: to claim Neverland, their promised dark lord must bear an offspring with any magical creature he desired—be it Mermaids, Sirens, dark fairies, or witches—so long as they had willingly remained in Neverland. Once the offspring of the promised demon lord is born, Neverland shall be claimed by the Dark forces. Until then, no Azuras (ogres, fomories and beasts of the dark realm), except the promised dark lord himself, may remain in Neverland.
It had been days since the war ended, and the boy said to be the promised dark lord lay naked on the sand. His skin glistened as if kissed by moonlight, his chest rising slowly, steadily. Dark hair clung to his brow, soaked with salt and starlight. One hand curled against his chest; the other held something that glowed faintly—a feather, warm to the touch, though soaked in sea. The tide cradled him gently, as if the ocean itself regretted letting him go. He didn't stir. He was dreaming of being with her.
On the shore, a cluster of mermaids emerged, their wet bodies glittering like oil-slicked pearls beneath the moon. They hovered just beyond the tide, hair floating like seaweed, eyes glinting with something far too hungry. "Look at him…" one purred. "He's divine." "He's dangerous," said another, licking her lips. "I can feel it. There's power in him—ancient. Sleeping." "I'll wake it up," giggled a third. "Maybe I'll be the one,". "My womb will carry his heirs. Imagine how glorious they'd be." His child will open the gate. His blood will break the chains. His body will bring us power."
"You always want the cursed ones," one snapped. "Because cursed ones are always chosen," she hissed. "And I want to be chosen."
They argued in soft, musical snarls—each one drawn to the boy's sleeping form like moths to a flame.
This was only the beginning. The boy had become a walking bounty—a living prophecy. Magical beings watched him with hungry eyes. Mermaids, sirens, witches, and dark fairies—all of them dreamed of tempting him, seducing him, bearing his heir. They wanted their bellies swollen with his legacy, to be the vessel of the chosen one. They wanted only one thing: power. position, legacy, control. In him slept ancient magic. In their eyes, ambition shimmered. He was no longer just a boy. He was a throne made of flesh. And none of them cared what he'd lost to get here.
But the one he longed to have children with was long gone. She had defied gods and demons alike to protect him—and paid the price. Her magic was stripped, her memories erased, and she was cast into the world to live as a mere mortal. No one remembered her sacrifice. Least of all, the boy for whom she made the sacrifice.
The mermaids' bickering woke him. He rose from the sand and strode toward them, moonlight trailing across his damp skin. His voice was sensuous—low, almost mocking.
"Each of you will have the chance to bear my heir," he said, and the air trembled. "But first, I must find her—the one who betrayed me." "We swore to kill for each other, never each other... but I suppose everything changes. Now, one of us will have to kill the other."
Then, drawing a long breath, he made his proclamation:
"The one who leads me to her and secures my vengeance shall be crowned Queen of the Dark Realms."
For a moment, the world held its breath.
The flames dimmed. The shadows froze. A peculiar silence thickened the air—tense, expectant—as if even the elements feared something unnamed lurking just beyond the veil of reality.
Then she stepped forward.
Nerissa, the siren princess, born from the Leviathan's final sorrow, moved like a ripple across still water. Her presence cut through the silence like a blade drawn from the deep.
She didn't kneel. She didn't bow.
She simply looked at him, her eyes burning with a haunting purpose, and accepted the quest.
Her voice, barely a whisper, trembled with memory and vengeance:
"I have a debt to settle with her too."
Suddenly, the waters rumbled.
The mermaids gasped and dove beneath the surface. The sirens hissed, retreating to the edges of the lagoon as shadows curled at the waves. Then came a familiar voice—cocky, amused, and as biting as sea salt:
"For the love of my eyes, cover yourself, oh mighty Dark Lord."
From the depths emerged The Jolly Roger, its black sails slicing through the mist like blades. And standing at the helm, as if summoned by fate itself, was the one name even the ocean dared not whisper lightly—
Captain Hook.