Ethan's boots crunched over frost-caked gravel as he approached the riverside shack, his breath visible in the frigid air. Three days had passed since the ritual, but the silver veins beneath his skin had spread, branching like frozen rivers across his forearms. Níðhöggr's voice was a constant whisper now, urging him to "drown the world in order".
Grampa Henry sat on the porch, staring at the Thames with hollow eyes. His hands trembled as he lit a cigarette—unusual for the man who'd once wrestled corpses from the current without flinching. "You're changing," he said without turning. "I saw the river obey you… like a god."
Ethan paused. Grampa had avoided him since the kelpie's fall, buried in the loft with his journals. "What aren't you telling me?"
Grampa sighed, tapping an aged leather-bound book on his knee—The Reed Family Codex, its cover embossed with a triskele and a horned skull. "Your great-grandfather made a pact with Cernunnos, the horned god of the wilds," he said. "To protect the village from the kelpie, he swore a geis: every seventh generation, a Reed would become the river's vessel."
Ethan's chest tightened. "Grandma tried to break it."
"Aye." Grampa's voice cracked. "She thought love could outweigh blood. But the horned god demands payment… and he's come for his due."
A low, guttural laugh echoed from the shadows. A figure stepped into the moonlight—a man clad in tattered fur, antlers sprouting from his skull, eyes glowing like embers. Cernunnos, the horned god, grinned, revealing teeth like jagged stones.
"Ethan Reed," he rumbled. "Your family's debt is due. The seventh moon has risen, and the river's balance demands a new keeper."
Ethan's hand went to his pendant, but Cernunnos waved a dismissive hand. "No need for tricks, boy. I offer a bargain: surrender your humanity to the river, and I'll spare the village from Lir's wrath."
Rowan emerged from the mist, her dagger drawn. "Don't listen to him! Cernunnos' bargains are traps. He'll turn you into a mindless thrall."
The god laughed again, louder this time. "And what would you know, daughter of Lir? You've been hiding your own debt—the geis your father swore to the sea."
Rowan froze, her face pale. Ethan stared at her. "What is he talking about?"
She hesitated, then lowered her dagger. "Lir bound my soul to the bridle centuries ago. To break his curse, I must either drown the world… or offer a god's soul in exchange."
Cernunnos nodded. "Precisely. And your dear Ethan here is the perfect vessel—half-mortal, half-kelpie, bound to the river's heart." He turned to Ethan, his voice softer now, almost persuasive. "Imagine it: no more pain, no more choices. Just the cold, sweet certainty of the current."
Ethan's head throbbed. The silver veins pulsed, and Níðhöggr's voice surged, drowning out all else: *"Accept. Become the river."*
Grampa stood, swaying. "Don't do this, lad. Your grandmother died trying to save you from this fate."
But Ethan remembered the boy in the river, the way his corpse had glowed with the triskele mark. He remembered Rowan's tears (had he imagined those?) and the weight of the pendant around his neck.
"I accept," he said, voice steady.
Rowan shouted a warning, but Cernunnos raised a hand. The air thickened with the scent of moss and iron. Ethan's body lifted off the ground, silver veins blazing. The horned god pressed a clawed hand to his chest, and the pendant shattered, releasing a burst of black smoke.
"Now you are mine," Cernunnos hissed. "The river's god, the kelpie's jailer… and my loyal hound."
Ethan's vision blurred. He saw flashes of the future: a drowned London, streets 沦为 canals, citizens bowing to his shadow; Rowan, kneeling at his feet, a trident in her hand; Grampa, an old man weeping by the river, a single silver scale floating on the surface.
Then, silence.
He opened his eyes, standing in the center of the ritual circle, the horned god gone. Rowan gripped his arm, blood trickling from her nose. "You fool," she whispered. "You bound yourself to both the river and the god."
Ethan smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His voice was deeper now, colder: "Balance requires sacrifice. The village is safe… for now."
Rowan stepped back, staring at the silver scales now dotting his skin. "You're not Ethan anymore."
"Ethan was a boy," he said, turning to the Thames. "The river needs a guardian."
As he walked toward the water, Grampa's voice called after him: "What about your humanity?"
Ethan paused, glancing at the old man over his shoulder. "The horned god took it… as payment."
The river surged to meet him, ice cracking beneath his feet. Rowan's scream faded as he submerged, the current pulling him into the depths. Below the surface, Níðhöggr's laughter echoed, but it was distant now, muffled by the weight of centuries.
Some bargains cannot be unmade.
And the river always collects its due.