Filed To Story: The Saltwater Curse Book PDF Free
I grunt from an impact to the back of my head. I whip around, chest expanding and tentacles rising, ready to strike my attacker. Vasz swings around, suddenly pawing at the sand casually, avoiding eye contact just as the offending coconut floats down to the coral beside me.
“Vasz,” I growl.
The annoying pup innocently lifts his snout, sniffing the air before digging at the sand. His big ears worked fine earlier when I asked if he wanted to go to the mainland.
Like me, Vasz is a violation of nature, a cross between three different species, another witch’s sick experiment.
The elders have never seen such a thing—hence their inclination to kill him when he was first seen with me.
Two fins line his back, elongating into a tail. If he swims close to the surface, he could be mistaken for a shark if not for his brownish-red coloring and yellow-tipped ears. From the side, his four legs are visible, his body shaped like a dog with his shoulders and knees. White suckers dot the back of his front legs and along his chest and stomach. His face is somewhere between a shark and canine, with the yellow coloring of the native octopus species around his eyes, ears, and feet.
Able to walk on land and cross the sea, he’s a hunter far more intelligent than any I’ve ever encountered. He is one of the few lesser beings krakens can properly communicate with. My only companion.
A tentacle wraps around the offending coconut to crush it into pieces. His head whips my way, and he bares his sharp teeth at me for desecrating his precious toy.
Serves him right.
It’s rare for the currents to carry such fruit this deep into my territory. They are aplenty on the mainland—much to Vasz’s utter joy and my displeasure. I can’t stand it. My den is littered with husks.
I hold his stare, crushing the coconut until it splinters in my grip. He snaps his maw at me, and I release it. The last time I didn’t heed the crazy mutt’s warning, I almost lost a limb, and I’m rather fond of my limbs. Regrowing one is much too tedious.
Sand clouds around me as I shoot upward, siphoning water before contracting the muscles in my tentacles to blast it. I propel forward without waiting for Vasz to follow.
“Wanker,” I catch him muttering, scurrying for his toy. The human tongue is rubbing off on him.
I scowl, leaving him behind. I may be faster than the creature, but there is nowhere I can go where he won’t sniff me out.
An odd sensation starts in my chest. It’s the barest tug, like an itch. I head toward the mainland to hunt, reverting to my instincts. Scents. Changes in temperature. The flow of tides. As I pass empty homes and deserted seas, the only color comes from the offerings of the Sea Goddess, Edea. The quiet festers, burrowing deeper into my bones.
My territory used to be revered. We were attacked from all sides because others wanted our bountiful lands for themselves. Many sentries died protecting our land from those who wished to take it. My siblings led many into battle. But after the Curse, the attacks slowly lessened until eventually, they stopped altogether. All that remains is waste from the humans and the husk of our once-bountiful lands. I can’t remember the last time I had to fight creatures off at the border.
Why would anyone want unviable land? Land that leaves its people starved and sick from the poor water quality.
The Kingdom of Aletia. That’s the official name. Now, it is known as the Dead Lands.
If any of my family rose from the dead, they’d be so disappointed in the state of it. The Curse sped up after Yannig died twenty years ago.
It is the reason why the passing stones are arid; they were once brightly covered with corals of every color. Fish would swim between arches, scattering when a predator came too close. Sharks used to hunt these lands. Eels, manta rays, turtles, octopuses—it was impossible to leave my den without seeing life.
The Curse the Witch cast was to destroy all kraken territory by pushing out game and turning the water sickly so kraken may die from either starvation or illness.
My suckers bristle, on alert for any shift in the current that might indicate disturbance from another kraken. The darkest recesses of my being are pleased the Curse is reaching its peak. That alone is proof it was me who should have died in my brother’s place.
Kraken-kind used to hunt in these lands. Without game in the area, krakens have had no choice but to risk their lives to travel close to the mainland or rely on the few strong hunters remaining to travel far to bring back food.
They can no longer rely on Krokant for game. It’s the one parcel of my territory with vegetation, and it’s shrinking by the day. Many krakens have left in an attempt to find sanctuary, but I have heard no news as to whether they’ve succeeded, or perished by foe or incompatible climates.
Others have risked moving closer to where there is game at the risk of bandits and exposure to humans, but the majority of krakens have little choice when they are neither good hunters nor strong enough to make the swim to the mainland and back. I, however, am strong enough, leaving me alone in my corner of the territory.
It’s…freeing.
My people are starving, and I…I couldn’t care less for their suffering. They deserve it.
With fewer creatures in the area, the chances of seeing one of my kind are growing slimmer, and the whispers of my unsavory crossbreeding have minimized to zero.
It has been years since anyone dared comment on the human influence on my appearance; hair, claws, an extra finger, no webbing between my arms and ribs. It sets me apart from every kraken in existence.
I speed up when I reach a patrol path, cautious not to intercept any of my subjects, lest I want to add to the kraken death toll.
Some have left simply because they would rather live without protection than be ruled by an abomination they’ve failed to kill.
My lungs and ribs ache at the reminder. My mother and my siblings were the only ones who did not care about my appearance—they saw me as family, not as a monstrosity. They were my only friends. And now, they’re dead.
Many mutinies formed following my brother’s death and my ascension to the throne. My reign, and continued existence, remains only due to the royal blood in my veins, giving us a fighting chance to break the Curse. It allows me to shift into two legs and walk amongst the humans, as well as stay above land for more than a handful of minutes.
They can protest and seethe all they wish; I am the only hope they have of ending the blight that plagues our land.
My mother died because of the Witch. Chlaena killed herself and utilized every resource we had to bring an end to the Curse. When Yannig died, the last words he spoke to me were his wish I return life to our sea.
As much as I loathe krakens, their deaths cannot be for nothing. My territory will be restored in my family’s honor if it is the last thing I do.
For Chlaena. For Yannig.
For my future bride.
If not for my family’s sacrifice, I question the level of devotion I would have to bonding myself with whomever I am destined to be with, as the Witch said this is required to bring an end to the Curse and save those who find me deplorable.
Chlaena took a husband, and the first kraken died from the Waste.
Yannig took a bride, and half the territory became a graveyard.
The only person I will marry is my fated mate.
That is who I believe will be the one to end the Curse. My destined bride, as she called it.
I have prayed to the Sea Goddess for my mate since I learned such a thing existed—a being created to be perfectly compatible in body, mind, and soul.
My siblings and the Council called me foolish for falling for the make believe. They claim it is a tale told to children to help them sleep at night, but some elders believe such a thing exists. It has been written into our tomes many times.
I rub at my chest where the subtle itch has turned into a tug. I navigate through stone arches, thinking about the empty den I’ll return to after my hunt. No mate, no cubs, no one who will look at me without disgust.
I’ve dreamt of finding my mate since I was a cub, longed for it with every part of my being, because my mate would not hate me for having hair instead of a mantle. She would never leave or ignore me, or call me unworthy for my appearance. My mate would love me. She would pick me.
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