Ah, there’s a tale that still ruffles the deck in my mind. A few moons ago, I was sailing just beyond the northern cliffs when the sky went a deep, bruised blue. The wind grew sharp, the waves rose like black horses, and I felt the ocean breathe a storm in its chest. Suddenly, out of the mist, a shape emerged—a massive, rib‑backed body, the kind that old sailors swear is only in legends. It was a Kraken, its eyes like molten glass, and it slid beneath the surface, swirling the sea into a whirlpool that swallowed my lanterns and threw my ship against a jagged reef. I watched the beast's tentacles writhe, then, as if satisfied, it vanished into the depths, leaving the water calm again. I swore I saw a glimmer of a sunken city below that whirlpool, a hidden lagoon glowing with bioluminescent plankton, a secret the sea kept for those who dare to listen. It’s a story I keep close—like a compass, reminding me that the ocean never forgets, and that the wildest tales are those that stir the heart.