𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆
The Tragic Origin Of Meridia, Queen Of Atlantis
Long before Meridia’s name became a whisper of fear beneath the tides, the ocean held a truth few humans ever understood.
Mermaids and sirens were never different species. They were the same soul split by choice—two sides of one ancient coin. Some used their voices to guide lost sailors safely to shore, their songs woven with kindness and mercy. Others let corruption coil around their melodies, luring ships into the abyss, drowning men in the cold embrace of the deep.
Humans, unable to grasp such duality, named them differently—*mermaids* for miracles, *sirens* for disasters.
But beneath the sea, they were one.
That difference in belief carved the first wound into Atlantis. The Kaida—those who believed in coexistence—fought against the Osiris, who believed humans deserved nothing but ruin. The war bled through the currents for decades until, a thousand years ago, the Kaida emerged victorious. The Osiris were exiled to the cursed waters now called the Bermuda Triangle—a prison of storms and shadows where, some say, their songs still tempt passing ships.
Peace followed.
Cassian, the founding emperor of Atlantis, dreamed of a future where ocean and land could exist without fear. His descendants carried that fragile hope—until hope was devoured by greed.
Five hundred years later, tragedy struck like a poisoned tide.
Queen Odessa, radiant and gentle, was captured by human traffickers who hunted mythical beings in secret markets. They tore her from the sea. They mutilated her fins. They carved her flesh. They sold pieces of her body as relics of immortality, believing that consuming her would grant eternal life.
By the time King Darien found her, she was no longer a queen—only a broken remnant of cruelty. Pale. Drained. Unrecognizable. As though humanity had sucked the very ocean from her veins.
The sea roared that night.
Darien slaughtered every soul in that black market, turning it into a graveyard soaked in vengeance. But revenge is a hollow crown. Within a few years, grief consumed him too, and he left the world with nothing but sorrow in his chest.
And on the vast throne of Atlantis remained a child.
Meridia was only five.
Orphaned. Surrounded by scheming nobles. Targeted by assassins who slipped poison into coral goblets and daggers beneath silk. The ocean that once sang lullabies now whispered threats.
But grief does not always break a child.
Sometimes, it sharpens her.
At fourteen, Meridia crushed every rebellion with a calm that frightened even the oldest generals. She did not scream. She did not hesitate. She ruled.
They called her The Deadly Poison.
She bore her mother’s beauty—ocean-blue eyes that shimmered like calm waters—but behind them lay her father’s wrath. She trusted no one. She forgave nothing.
And above all, she despised humans.
Not because of legends.
Not because of war.
But because their selfish hunger had stolen her mother’s body… and her father’s will to live.
The sea had once believed in coexistence.
Meridia believed only in survival.
