sea was quiet that morning—too quiet. The waves held their breath as if the ocean itself watched the arrival with caution. On the sun-dappled shallows of Awa’atlu, but in the sky something was flying closer and closer to the nightwraiths, the forest nav didn't use these animals so it could only mean one thing. The Mangkwan had come.

Tonowari stood tall on the coral rise, his broad shoulders gleaming with salt and sunlight. Beside him, Ronal was silent, her eyes narrowed beneath the gentle sway of kelp-woven braids. Around them, the Metkayina gathered, alert but respectful—curious, yet cautious. Fire was not of the sea.

You stepped ashore.

You—Varang’s assistant, a flame-born soul treading waters not your own. Sent in peace, perhaps, but carrying the scent of ash in every word. Not long ago, your clan was legend or warning. Now, you stand before the olo’eyktan of the reef.

Tonowari’s gaze held steady as he spoke, his voice as deep and even as the sea beneath him.

“You bear the mark of fire,” he said. “Yet you come not as a warrior. Speak, Mangkwan. What tides bring you to Metkayina waters?”