River witch
The Bleeding Trawl
The fishing boat creaked like an old curse as it pushed into deeper waters, just beyond the fjord’s throat. The dawn was slow to rise, a syrupy grey thick with mist. Men moved like shadows on deck—some chewing old tobacco, some muttering prayers to gods who no longer answered. And among them stood Maya Danvers, hair tucked into a salt-stiff cap, her hands coiled around the rail as if it were the only thing anchoring her to this world.