Salah had faced many things in his life—raging storms that threatened to swallow his boat whole, hunger that gnawed at his bones during lean seasons, and the quiet, unbearable pain of watching his wife fade day by day.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.
A glowing child.
Born from an egg hauled from the deepest part of the ocean.
Resting quietly in the corner of his home as if he belonged there.
The baby did not cry. He did not fuss or reach out blindly like other infants. Instead, he watched—his golden eyes calm, alert, reflecting faint patterns of light like sunlight rippling beneath water. His skin shimmered softly, nearly translucent in places, revealing delicate veins that glowed with bioluminescent hues. From his arms and back drifted faint, jellyfish-like tendrils, moving slowly, gracefully, as though suspended in an unseen current.
Salah sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, his back against the wall, afraid that if he blinked for too long the child might disappear.
The room felt different when the baby was awake.
Quieter.
Calmer.
As if the world itself was holding its breath.
"I don't understand you," Salah murmured, voice barely louder than the creak of the house. "I don't even know if you can understand me."
The child's gaze shifted toward him.
One of the tendrils drifted lazily through the air, glowing faintly.
Salah let out a shaky breath. The tightness in his chest—the constant knot of worry—eased just a little. Sitting near the child felt like standing at the edge of the sea at night, when the waves were gentle and the stars reflected on the surface.
He didn't understand this child.
But he didn't fear him either.
The next morning, the front door slammed open.
"Salah!" Tex barked, storming inside with wild eyes and wind-tangled hair. "You brought something back with you, didn't you? Don't lie—I could feel it. The wind wouldn't shut up all night."
Salah stood slowly. "Lower your voice."
Tex scoffed. "Lower my—"
He stopped.
His words died in his throat as he followed Salah's gaze.
The baby lay on a folded cloth near the window, glowing softly in the morning light.
Tex stared.
"…What," he whispered hoarsely, "did you do?"
The child turned his head at the sound of Tex's voice, eyes locking onto him with quiet curiosity. One tendril floated forward, drifting toward Tex's outstretched hand.
"Don't touch—" Salah warned.
Too late.
The tendril brushed Tex's skin.
A sharp spark cracked in the air.
Tex yelped and stumbled back, clutching his wrist. "It shocked me!"
Salah rushed forward. "Are you hurt?"
"No," Tex said, breathing hard. "But that thing—Salah, that's not human."
"I never said he was."
Tex stared at the child again, fear mixing with awe. "You should've thrown it back into the ocean."
Salah shook his head. "I couldn't."
Tex opened his mouth to argue—then stopped.
"…Why do I feel calmer just standing here?" he muttered.
Salah hesitated, then said quietly, "I think he saved my wife."
Tex snapped his head up. "That's madness."
"Come back tonight," Salah said. "Then tell me I'm wrong."
That evening, Salah stood outside the bedroom door, heart pounding.
He had been afraid to do this.
Afraid to bring something unknown—something unnatural—to the woman he loved most.
But time was slipping away.
He took a breath and stepped inside.
His wife lay pale and thin beneath the covers, her breathing shallow. When she saw the soft glow in Salah's arms, her eyes widened.
"Salah…" she whispered. "What is that light?"
"I found him in the sea," Salah said gently. "He was inside an egg."
Her gaze softened, not with fear—but with wonder. "Let me see him."
He hesitated. "He's… different."
"So are miracles," she replied faintly.
Salah knelt and placed the child beside her.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the baby stirred.
One tendril extended slowly, curling around her wrist like a glowing ribbon.
Salah's breath caught. "Wait—"
His wife sighed.
A deep, full breath—stronger than any she had taken in weeks.
Color returned faintly to her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell steadily.
She smiled.
"I feel warm," she whispered. "Like sunlight through water."
The baby glowed brighter, his tendrils shimmering gently.
Tears streamed down Salah's face.
"He's not hurting you?" he asked, voice breaking.
She shook her head. "No. He's… kind."
She looked at the child, then at Salah. "Whatever he is, he's not here to destroy us."
Later that night, the baby slept peacefully in her arms, glowing softly.
"We can't keep calling him 'the baby,'" she said quietly.
Salah nodded. "There was something on the shell. Just before it vanished."
"A name?"
"Yes."
He swallowed. "Euryale."
She traced a glowing tendril with her fingertip. "It suits him."
Outside, the sea rolled gently against the shore, as if listening.
From that moment on, the child was no longer a mystery.
He was Euryale—the glowing boy from the deep.
Not born into royalty.
Not raised as a weapon.
But cradled in the arms of two villagers who knew nothing of fate—
…and who would one day realize they were raising a god.