The sun was beginning its slow, deliberate descent, painting the western sky in washes of gold and rose, a stark, beautiful lie that masked the darkness waiting for them on the shore. The dinghy, which had been a vessel of revelation, now felt like a condemned rowboat returning to the gallows. The playful clicks and whistles of the dolphins had faded, replaced by the low, monotonous grumble of the outboard motor—a sound that seemed to chant, going back, going back, going back.
Mirna had withdrawn again. The serene, sea-connected creature who had communed with the dolphins was gone, folded back into the trembling, fearful girl as the villa grew larger on the cliff. Her hand, which had so gracefully trailed in the water, was now clenched in her lap, her knuckles white. Her gaze, which had been clear and deep as the ocean abyss, was now clouded with a returning dread, fixed on the approaching fortress with the hollow stare of a prisoner returning to her cell.
Ante's heart ached with a pain that was both profound and terrifying. He had glimpsed her true self, the being she was meant to be, and the contrast with the broken creature beside him was unbearable. The wild, impossible theory that had bloomed in his mind on the water now felt less like a fantasy and more like the only key that could unlock the terrible, illogical truth of her.
He guided the dinghy into the sheltered inlet, the sound of the motor echoing off the concrete dock. The silence that fell when he cut the engine was heavy, oppressive. The villa loomed above them, its blank, glass eyes watching their return.
He secured the lines, his movements slow, reluctant to end this fragile interlude of freedom. He turned to her. She was still sitting on the pontoon, unmoving, as if hoping the boat might suddenly turn around and carry her back to the open sea.
"Mirna," he said softly.
She flinched at the sound of her name, a reaction that was now as instinctive as breathing. She looked at him, and the fear in her violet eyes was a physical weight.
He knew he couldn't promise her freedom. He couldn't promise her safety. His father's will was a force of nature in this place, as immovable as the cliffs themselves. Any grand, sweeping promise would be a lie, and she deserved more than lies.
He knelt in the bottom of the boat, bringing his eyes level with hers, trying to project a calm he was far from feeling. "I know you're scared," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I know what this place is for you. I... I heard... last night."
Her eyes widened in fresh horror, a flush of shame staining her pale cheeks. She looked away, unable to bear his gaze.
"I'm not him," Ante whispered, the words a fervent vow. "I will never be him. And I will do my best to protect you."
It was a small promise, a humble promise, but it was the only one he could make that was true. He was not all-powerful. He was not the master of this house. He was just a man, standing against a monster, armed with nothing but a desperate need to do what was right.
She didn't respond. She didn't nod or smile. But she did look back at him, and for a fleeting second, the sheer, panicked edge of her terror seemed to soften into something else—a fragile, desperate hope, so thin it could be shattered by a harsh word.
It was enough. For now, it was enough.
He helped her out of the boat, his hand under her elbow a brief, steadying pressure. They walked up the stone steps to the villa in silence, the shadow of the building falling over them like a shroud. The moment they crossed the threshold, the change in her was instantaneous and heartbreaking. Her shoulders hunched, her head bowed, and she became smaller, trying to make herself invisible. She was once again the ghost in the machine, the beautiful, silent secret of the south wing.
She fled to her room without a word, the door closing with a soft, final click.
Ante stood alone in the vast, empty living area, the echo of his own promise ringing in his ears. I will do my best to protect you. But how? How did one protect a creature of myth from a man of ruthless, earthly power? How did one fight a legend with lawyers and logic? He couldn't call the police. What would he say? My father is holding a mermaid captive. They would laugh, or worse, they would see it as a family dispute over a vulnerable, mentally ill young woman, and his father's wealth and influence would easily crush any inquiry.
No. To protect her, he needed to understand her. He needed to arm himself not with weapons, but with knowledge. He needed to prove the impossible.
He went to his father's study. The room still smelled of Jure—of leather, old paper, and the faint, expensive scent of his cologne. It felt like a violation to be in here, but it housed the only real library in the villa. His father was a man who collected things, and that included books, especially rare, leather-bound volumes on Croatian history and local lore, more for their value as objects than their content.
Ante ignored the shelves of business biographies and economic treatises. He went to the back, to the section his father never touched. The books here were older, their spines cracked and faded, their pages smelling of dust and salt and time. He ran his fingers along the titles, his heart pounding with a strange, anticipatory dread.
Legends of the Dalmatian Coast. Folk Tales of Konavle. The Spirits of the Adriatic.
He pulled down a heavy, cloth-bound volume, its cover embossed with a stylized wave. He took it and several others to his father's massive desk, the desk from which empires were commanded, and he began to read.
At first, it felt like a descent into madness. He was a scientist, a man of data and observation. He dealt in salinity levels, migration patterns, and spectral analysis of cephalopod skin. This was a world of superstition, of stories told by drunken sailors and frightened fishermen.
But as he read, the pieces, insane as they were, began to lock into place with a chilling, poetic logic.
The Morske Devojke. The Sea Maidens. They were not the fish-tailed mermaids of Northern European lore. They were described as breathtakingly beautiful women, often found sunning themselves on remote rocks or secluded coves. They had long, flowing hair, the colour of seaweed or sun-bleached gold. Their eyes were frequently described as being of an unusual, captivating colour—sometimes green as the sea itself, sometimes a deep, hypnotic blue… or, in a few obscure verses from a collection of islander poems, a "violet as the sky before a storm."
They were creatures of duality. They could be benevolent, calming the waves to guide lost fishermen home, filling their nets with fish as a reward for kindness. They could sing, and their songs could charm the very winds, persuading the Bura to relent or the Jugo to bring life-giving rain.
But they could also be wrathful. They could summon tempests to dash ships against the rocks if they were dishonoured or their sanctuaries were violated. They were known to lure arrogant or cruel men to a watery grave with their unearthly beauty and enchanting songs. They were the soul of the Adriatic—beautiful, generous, but fiercely possessive and dangerously vengeful.
One passage, from a crumbling journal of a 19th-century priest from Korčula, made the hair on Ante's arms stand on end:
"The old ones here speak of the women of the water not as demons, but as ancient spirits of the place. They say these beings can walk on land for a time, appearing as human women of surpassing beauty, but they are tied to the sea as a man is tied to the air he breathes. To trap one, to pull her from her element and hold her captive, is to invite a curse of unimaginable proportion. The sea does not forgive the theft of its daughters."
To trap one. To pull her from her element.
Ante's blood ran cold. He thought of the cove, the one his father was so secretive about. A perfect, secluded sanctuary. Had his father stumbled upon her there, not as a shipwreck victim, but in her natural state, resting between the sea and the land? Had he found her in a deep, transformative sleep, as the legends sometimes suggested, and taken her, believing her to be merely a helpless, beautiful woman?
It explained everything. Her amnesia—not a medical condition, but the disorientation of a spirit ripped from its world. Her innate, intuitive knowledge of the sea—not learned, but inherent. Her connection with the dolphins—a kinship with the children of her domain. Her fear of clothing, her unfamiliarity with human customs—she was not human.
And her eyes. Those impossible, luminous violet eyes. The final, breathtaking piece of the puzzle.
He leaned back in his father's leather chair, the books spread before him like evidence in a trial against reality itself. The rational part of his brain, the part with a PhD, screamed in protest. It was impossible. There was no scientific basis. It was folklore, fantasy, the product of pre-scientific minds trying to explain the mysteries of the deep.
But the other part of him, the part that had looked into her eyes and seen an ancient, knowing soul, the part that had heard her hum a song that called dolphins to her side, knew it was the truth. It was the only truth that made any sense of the senseless.
His father's obsession was no longer just monstrous; it was sacrilegious. He wasn't just holding a woman against her will; he was holding a force of nature captive. He was poking a stick at the heart of the sea itself, and he was too blinded by his own greed and lust to see the tsunami of retribution he was courting.
Ante looked out the study window. The last of the sun's rays were bleeding away, and the sea was turning into a vast, black emptiness. Somewhere out there was her home. And in this villa, his father was trying to break her, to force her into a human shape she was never meant to wear.
He had come in here seeking answers, and he had found a nightmare more profound than he could have ever imagined. But within that nightmare was also a path forward. To protect her, he didn't need to prove she was human. He needed to help her remember what she was. He needed to convince her that the call of the sea was not just a memory, but her destiny. And he needed to do it before his father's violation of her crossed a line from which there was no return, for her, for his father, and perhaps for all of them. The curse of the sea was not just a story. He felt it, a cold pressure in the air, a gathering storm on the horizon of fate.