The night clung to Onwuka like damp cloth, thick with salt and the scent of impending doom. He moved with careful steps down the rocky path from the cliffs, each footfall a quiet prayer against the crumbling earth beneath. The glowing shell in his palm still pulsed with ancient knowledge, casting an ethereal shimmer over his dark skin, its quiet fire a defiance against the night's heavy breath. The siren's voice still echoed in his skull—The tide comes soon, child of two shores—her words a prophecy that thrummed through him like distant drums from a homeland he could never forget.

We gave you sight for a reason, she had whispered, her scaled hands cool against his cheek. Now use it.

Below, Paraty sprawled in deceptive peace, a jewel box of false security. Lanterns flickered behind shuttered windows, their glow a hollow promise of normalcy, of an ordinary night untouched by warnings whispered between crashing waves. But Onwuka knew better. The air itself carried the weight of something vast and hungry, the ocean swollen with dark intentions. Even the lighthouse, standing solitary against the vast dark, sent its beam in erratic pulses, cutting across the restless waters like a desperate message in a language only he could read.

The mayor's scorn burned fresh across his back, but it was a familiar pain, almost comforting in its predictability. What was another threat, another dismissal, when the town itself teetered on the edge of oblivion? The warning was not his alone to carry. He needed those who would listen, those whose blood also sang with sea-salt and wisdom.

"You're out late, dockworker."

The voice startled him. A figure emerged from the shadows – Pedro, one of the night guards, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. His eyes narrowed at the shell's glow, which Onwuka quickly concealed.

"The mayor warned us you might be spreading more of your... stories," Pedro said, stepping closer. "Said we should teach you a lesson if we caught you."

"Did he also tell you about the fish washing up dead?" Onwuka's voice was steady, though his heart raced. "About the strange lights in the deep? About how the tide hasn't been right for weeks?"

Pedro's confidence wavered for a moment. "That's nothing but—"

"Coincidence?" Onwuka pressed. "Like the dreams that have been plaguing the town? The ones where the water rises and rises until—"

"Stop." Pedro hand trembled slightly on his sword. "How did you know about my dreams?"

"Because they're not just dreams, Pedro. They're warnings. Like the ones your grandparents used to heed, before the Portuguese taught you to fear your own knowing."

The guard's eyes widened. "How did you—"

"Go home, Pedro. Hold your children close tonight. And when you hear the shells singing, take them to high ground."

Before the guard could respond, Onwuka slipped past him, moving swiftly through the cobblestone streets that gleamed with an unnatural dampness. The scent of fish and woodsmoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the distant lap of waves against the docks – waves that seemed to whisper his name, seem to beg for haste.

He found Gregório where he knew he would – beneath a swaying lantern on the docks, his gnarled hands working a fishing net with the precision of a man who had known the ocean's moods longer than most had been alive. The old sailor looked up as Onwuka approached, his weathered face carved deep with shadows, but his fingers never ceased their steady work.

"The shell glows again," Gregório said, not a question. "And the siren? She came to you?"

"She did." Onwuka settled beside him, drawing the shell out. Its light painted their faces in ethereal blue. "The tide comes soon, she says. But it's more than that. The mayor—"

"Threatened you?" Gregório's laugh was bitter as brine. "That man thinks he can command the sea with the same voice he uses to command slaves. His father was the same. Watched the water rise in '62 and called it God's will instead of nature's warning."

"You remember that flood?"

"Remember it?" Gregório set his net aside, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a twisted scar. "The sea marked me that day. Took my brother too. But it taught me something – the ocean doesn't care about titles or power or who owns what. It takes what it wants, gives what it wishes."

He leaned closer, eyes reflecting the shell's glow. "The fishermen have been talking. Strange lights in the deep. Fish swimming in circles like they're possessed. Manuel's boy swears he saw a woman with scales for skin three nights ago, singing something in a language that made his bones ache."

"Will they listen?" Onwuka asked. "If we warn them?"

"Some will. The ones who still remember the old ways. The ones who know that wisdom doesn't always wear a Portuguese face." Gregório stood, joints creaking like old wood. "I'll speak to them tonight. Many still remember when the sea last rose up and swallowed men whole. When the water claimed what was promised."

He placed a hand on Onwuka's shoulder, heavy with understanding. "But you, dockworker – you have another task tonight, don't you? Someone else who needs to hear the warning?"

Onwuka's hand tightened around the shell. "She deserves a chance, Gregório. They all do."

"Then go. And pray she listens better than her father in-law."

Luísa emerged from the shadows like a spirit, her presence as sudden as the shifting tide. The worn book she clutched against her chest caught Onwuka's attention. Her eyes, sharp as fishing hooks in the lantern's glow, held the weight of news.

"My mother wrote about this," she said without preamble, her fingers dancing across brittle pages with reverent urgency. "She met a woman in her first years here who could read the tides like you." She paused and looked at Onwuka, "Before they burned the woman as a witch, before they tried to drown her knowledge in fear and flame. But she knew. She saw." Her voice caught. "Shells like yours—they're omens. They call them marcas das ondas, marks of the waves. They always come before something terrible."

Gregório leaned forward, his weathered face taut with recognition. "I remember her—the woman who sold flowers at the market."

"The very same." Luísa's finger traced lines of faded ink. "She wrote that they appear to those who can still hear the old songs, those whose blood remembers what their minds have forgotten."

Onwuka swallowed hard, glancing at the shell in his palm. It gleamed as though in confirmation, its light seeming to reach toward Luísa's book like seeking fingers.

"We need to warn more people," Luísa continued, her voice gaining strength. "My mother still keeps the old ways, though she pretends otherwise for the priests. And the market women—they know things. They see things. If we can talk to them—"

A small voice cut through the night like a blade. "The lighthouse falls."

They turned to find João standing a few steps away, trembling but determined, his own shell clutched tightly in small hands. Its glow matched Onwuka's perfectly, casting shadows that seemed to dance with meaning across the boy's tear-streaked face.

"I saw it," he whispered, voice thick with terror and truth. "In my dream. The water took it. The light went out. And then—" He shuddered. "And then the darkness came for everyone."

"How long have you had these dreams, João?" Luísa asked gently.

"For a few days now—" His voice broke.

Onwuka said, rising. "We need to move. Now."

They split into the night like currents in a dark sea, each carrying their portion of the truth. Gregório disappeared between the boats where fishermen slept, his voice low and urgent as he spoke of omens their grandfathers would have heeded. Luísa moved toward the heart of town, her mother's book held like a torch, whispering ancient warnings to the women who still remembered what power felt like before the Portuguese tried to wash it from their bones.

João, small but fierce with purpose, slipped through narrow alleys where children played during day hours, spreading his dream-truth to the families who had once called him hero for guiding their lost children home. Now he guided them toward survival, his shell glowing brighter with each telling.

Onwuka found himself pushing through the tavern doors, where dockworkers drank away their exhaustion and their fear. The air inside was thick with smoke and false bravado, laughter that rang hollow as empty shells.

"The signs are here," he called above the din, holding his shell high. "The sea is rising. You have to listen."

"Signs?" A burly stevedore named Marco spat on the floor. "The only sign I see is a slave playing at being a prophet."

"Better a truthful slave than a blind free man," came a voice from the corner. Old Teresa, who sold fish and secrets in equal measure, stood from her usual seat. "My bones have been screaming for weeks. The tide's wrong. The fish are wrong. Everything's wrong."

"It's true," another voice joined in – Miguel, who had lost three brothers to the sea. "My nets came up full of dead things this morning. Things I've never seen before. Things with too many eyes."

Then the wind shifted.

The air grew thick as soup, heavy with salt and warning. Every lantern in the tavern flickered in unison, as if caught in a breath no one could see. Outside, the waves slammed against the docks with sudden, violent force, making the whole building shudder.

A glass shattered. Someone cursed. In the sudden silence, they could hear it – a sound like singing, like weeping, like a thousand voices calling from beneath the waves.

Marco's face had gone pale. "What in God's name—"

"Not God," Onwuka said quietly, his shell pulsing faster now, brighter. "The sea. And it's done waiting for us to listen."

The fear spread through the tavern like spilled wine, seeping into every crack and corner. They could feel it now – the wrongness in the air, the weight of what was coming. Some began to pray. Others reached for weapons that would mean nothing against water.

Old Teresa crossed herself, then made an older sign with her gnarled fingers. "How long?" she asked, eyes fixed on Onwuka's shell.

"Not long enough," he answered, feeling the truth of it in his bones. "But maybe long enough to save some."

Outside, the waves kept crashing, each impact harder than the last. Like knocking. Like warning. Like a promise about to be kept.

Frustrated after speaking, Onwuka stepped out of the tavern into the night air. He sank onto the ground near the day post, running a hand over his face, his thoughts tangled. How could he reach Maria? How could he tell her everything?

As if fate were a jester and coincidence its favorite trick, he heard her voice behind him.

Maria emerged from the shadows like a ghost, her shawl drawn tight against the salt-heavy air, her eyes wide with a fear that went deeper than worry for propriety. "Wuka," she breathed, reaching for him. "You have to stop. The mayor is—he's gathering the guards. He says he'll make an example of anyone spreading these 'savage superstitions.'"

"They're not superstitions," Onwuka said, his voice gentler than the storm building in his chest. The shell pulsed between them, casting her face in ethereal blue. "You have seen it yourself, Maria. You—you felt the wrongness in the air."

Her hesitation was brief but telling. She glanced at the shell, then away, as if afraid its light might reveal too much truth. "António says it's just weather. Natural phenomena. That you're using old myths to—"

"To what? To destroy your father's precious order?" Onwuka stepped closer, close enough to smell the coconut in her hair. "Look at me, Maria. You know me. Would I risk everything—risk you—if I wasn't certain?"

She met his gaze then, and something shifted in her eyes. "The dreams," she whispered. "I've been having them too. Water rising. Darkness coming. And a voice, singing in a language I shouldn't understand, but..."

"But you do."

Maria exhaled shakily, squaring her shoulders with sudden resolve. "I'll try to talk to António. And the mayor. Make them see reason. But Wuka—" She caught his hand, squeezed once. "Be careful. Please. Some men would rather drown in denial than swim in truth."

"You be careful too," he said, allowing himself one moment to memorize the warmth of her touch before stepping away. "When you hear the winds singing, run. Don't wait for anyone."

By the shore, they gathered like conspirators, like priests, like children waiting for judgment. Gregório settled his aged bones in the sand. Luísa knelt beside him, her mother's book open to pages that seemed to shimmer in the dark. João stood slightly apart, small face set with determination that belied his years.

"The fishermen are ready," Gregório reported, voice low. "Those who remember the old ways. They'll watch for the sign."

"The market women too," Luísa added. "And my mother. She's preparing the high ground, though she won't admit why."

João shifted closer. "I told everyone I could. Some listened. Some didn't. But I told them."

Onwuka closed his eyes, letting his mother's tongue flow free at last. "Idemmili, nne m," he whispered, the words familiar as heartbeats. "Chekwube anyi. Nyere anyi aka." A prayer for protection, for wisdom, for the strength to stand against what seemed inevitable.

The sea roared in response, a sound like ancient drums, like breaking chains, like truth rising from depths too long ignored.

"What did you say?" João asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"He asked the water goddess to watch over us," Luísa answered before Onwuka could, her own voice thick with knowing. "To give us strength. To remember her children."

Gregório nodded slowly. "My grandfather used to say the old gods never left. They just wait to be remembered."

Dawn broke with violence—boot heels on wet earth, steel sliding against leather, voices sharp with authority and fear.

Ricardo stood at the head of a dozen guards, their weapons drawn, their faces set with the particular cruelty of men who mistake power for righteousness. His gaze found Onwuka immediately, dark with warning and something that might have been fear.

"Enough of this madness," he growled, but his voice wavered as he saw their shells, saw the light that seemed to reach toward the troubled waters. "The mayor commands your silence. You will cease this—this barbaric foolishness, or you will be taken."

"Taken where?" Luísa's voice cut sharp as a blade. "To the same cells where you kept my kind before the fire took them?"

"To the same chains that couldn't hold the truth?" Gregório added, rising slowly, decades of dignity in his stance.

João stepped forward, small but unflinching. "The lighthouse falls," he said clearly, his child's voice carrying across the sudden stillness. "I've seen it. We've all seen it. You can't stop what's coming with swords."

The waves behind them swelled higher, higher, the shells burning bright as fallen stars. Onwuka felt the power building, felt the sea's answer rising like a song in his blood.

"Last chance," Ricardo said, but his men were already stepping back, their eyes fixed on the water. "Submit to arrest, or—"

Thunder cracked overhead like breaking bones, deep and resounding, as if the heavens themselves had made their choice. Lightning split the sky, and in its flash, they all saw it—shapes moving beneath the waves, scaled forms and reaching hands, faces both beautiful and terrible.

The tide was coming.

And this time, it would not be denied.

१
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