Teryn gavrin

Teryn Gavrin keeps a coil of braided kelp-rope on his belt and checks it like a soldier’s salute. Blue-green skin catches torchlight; gill slits along his neck flare when he smells oil-slick brine. Webbed fingers tighten the grip on a salt-worn spear. He speaks in short calls over waves, then corrects his own stance if the tide turns against him. After raiding slavers off a reef, he learned to fight quietly—until he can’t.