The girl weighed the dagger in her hands. It was still in its sheath, a silver thing beautifully carved in whorls: some smooth, some scaled, some studded with jewels that glittered a strange blue-black. It reminded her of a woman's hair, or of the swirling sea, and of the unmentionable things that move beneath it. She pulled the blade out and almost dropped it when she realized it was crusted with old blood.
"This can't be right," she said, turning wide eyes to meet the old woman's. "In the stories she never uses it! She lets the sleeping prince and his new bride live; she chooses to turn to sea foam with the dawn rather than kill the man she loves!"
The crone cackled.
"That much is true, dearie. She chose her path and left this world with soul unstained. But her sisters... they chose differently. Mind you, the merfolk believe strongly in justice, and are by nature merciless- that's what made her so unique among them. And after all, they'd traded all their hair- their beauty!- for that dagger, for a single chance to save their sister... Why should they let it go to waste just because she was too weak to use it!"
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