Sea Witch of the Tidal Moon



When the crescent moon hangs low and heavy with tide-song, she rises from the black rocks where the ocean breaks its teeth.
They call her witch, though she was once a daughter of the shore — before the sea marked her with its sigils and filled her veins with salt and storm. On the night the tidal moon first crowned her in silver light, she walked into the waves and did not drown. The water bent instead. It curled around her wrists like faithful serpents, coiled at her ankles, and whispered its ancient, restless hymns.
Now she walks where ships fear to wander.
The storm answers the lift of her hand. Lightning flickers in her wake. A single glance from her glowing eyes can still the tide — or summon a wall of water tall enough to swallow fleets whole.
But she is no mindless tempest.
She keeps a vigil beneath the broken moon, guarding the threshold between deep and shore. For something older than sailors’ superstitions stirs beneath the trench-dark waters, straining against its prison of pressure and silence. And when it rises, it will not find the world undefended.
For the Sea Witch of the Tidal Moon does not serve the ocean.
The ocean serves her. 🌊🌙