“Bait of the Below”
A tale from the deep, told by Fennel, son of the shadowscale.

They say there are places no gill-born should go.
Tunnels beneath the trench, older than reef or root.
The Catacombs.

I wasn’t born brave. But I was born hungry. And when you're small in a world of big teeth, hunger gets clever.

That’s how I ended up chasing shimmer-trails down a fissure I wasn’t supposed to know existed. Past the black coral thickets. Past the bones of things I didn’t recognize. Even the water felt heavier there, thick like syrup and humming with old magic.

That’s where I saw it.

The bait.

It didn’t wriggle. Didn’t float. Just glowed — pulsing with cold, perfect light, like moonfire frozen in a raindrop.

They called it Crystal Worm Bait in whispers — a lure forged by surface-dwellers who fish for sport, not hunger. Who don’t eat what they catch… just take, and leave silence behind.

But I didn’t know that. Not really. I just saw the shine, and my belly answered.

I struck.

And the world turned wrong.

Pain like lightning. A sharp pull skyward. The Catacombs spun around me like a maelstrom of teeth and memory. My mouth burned cold. My fins thrashed. I saw shadows watching from the cracks in the stone, silent things with hollow eyes, and I swear I heard one of them laugh.

Then — a snap. A release.
The line broke.

I dropped like a stone into blackwater, heart hammering like a crab shell in a current.

I don’t remember much after that. Just cold. Just whispers. Just the glow of the crystal, dimming as it drifted down past me… deeper still… like it was looking for someone else.

I don’t chase shimmer anymore.

I stay close to the floor, where the light can't trick me and the bones keep quiet.

But sometimes, late at tide-turn, I swear I see that glow again.
Faint. Patient. Waiting.

For the next fool who thinks hunger is worth the price.