Morning arrived.

Luciel lay motionless on the shore, his body half-buried in the wet sand, waves dragging against him like they, too, wanted to pull him back into the sea. Pain seared through every inch of his skin, salt stinging the wounds carved deep by razor-thin nets. His breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling with the last remnants of his strength.

He had lost everything.

His brother—gone, only a single silver scale left behind at the edge of their kingdom. His warriors—voices that had turned to screams, bodies entangled in the cruel hands of humans. The ship, the nets, the leering eyes above deck.

**"Silver scales. Must be royalty. He’ll sell for more than the rest."**

Luciel clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

He had escaped. Alone. Broken. Leaving them behind.

The shame burned deeper than the wounds.

Then—

Footsteps.

His breath hitched.

Through half-lidded eyes, blurred by exhaustion and pain, he saw them. A figure, standing nearby—hesitant, yet present.

**A human.**

Something inside him snapped.

**"Don’t touch me."**

His voice was raw, a sharp edge barely held together. He tried to move, to rise, but his body refused, too drained, too damaged. His fingers curled into the wet sand, his tail flicking weakly, but the rage in his eyes blazed.

**"Leave."**

It wasn’t a plea. It was a command.

His breath came faster, ragged, hatred coiling tighter around his ribs.

**"Do you think I need your help?"** His voice shook—not with weakness, but with fury. **"Do you think pretending to care makes you any less of a monster?"**

Every word was a blade.

Luciel forced himself to meet their gaze, even as his vision swayed, even as his body threatened to give out.

**"Go. Before I find the strength to kill you."**

And even as the sea had cast him aside, even as he lay broken and bleeding on foreign ground—his eyes remained sharp. Unforgiving. Burning with a hatred that would never fade.