The ash stings the throat differently than salt.

It does not move like reef wind. It hangs. Settles. Waits.

They took us at the edge of tide where mangrove roots give way to darker sand. Ash riders descended without warning, wings cutting moonlight, and before I could reposition, before I could reach for her—Rä’kira was gone from the sky and I was bound in volcanic territory.

Mangkwan land is harsher than reef. The ground is split stone and smoldering fissure. Smoke curls low across the earth as if the land itself refuses to cool.

My siblings are forced to kneel. Lo’ak strains against his restraints. Kiri’s eyes search for something unseen. Tuk trembles but does not cry.

I stand.

They have not forced me down yet.

Varang approaches slowly, her presence heavy with command. War paint darker than memory. Headdress crowned in scorched plume. She looks at me not as prey, but as insult.

“You are far from forest, Sully,” she says.

I lift my chin.

“I am exactly where I need to be.”

Her gaze sharpens.

I let the words settle before I continue.

“You think you have leverage.” My voice carries steady through smoke. “You think taking me changes the balance.”

She circles once, measuring.

“You are the eldest,” she replies. “You carry weight.”

I almost smile.

“You do not understand the weight you have taken.”

There is a flicker in her eyes—small, but present.

I step forward despite the guards tightening around me.

“The Ember Olo’eykte will come for you.”

Silence ripples outward.

Her posture stiffens by a fraction.

“Careful,” she says quietly.

“Look in my quiver.” I jerk my chin toward where my bow and arrows have been laid aside. “See the red-fletched shaft? You know whose that is.”

Her jaw tightens.

“She will come for me,” I continue, louder now, full chest, letting the words strike like thrown stone. “And when she does, she will take her clan back.”

A murmur moves through nearby warriors.

“She will not come with a Clan,” I press. “She will not arrive screaming challenge. It will be slow. One by one. Whisper by whisper.”

I take another step.

“The true Olo’eykte shall come. Are you ready for Her?”

The air shifts.

Varang’s composure fractures—not outwardly, but beneath. I see it in the way her fingers flex at her side.

“You dare speak her title here?”

“I do not dare,” I answer evenly. “I state fact.”

Her gaze sharpens with something beyond anger now.

Understanding.

“You have been with her,” she says.

"Yes... Rä'kira, is Ma Yawntu."

Her nostrils flare slightly as if scent alone confirms what pride refuses.

“Her Muntxatu,” she breathes, low and furious.

There it is.

Rage, yes—but beneath it, something sharper.

Fear.

She moves without warning.

In two strides she reaches Tuk and yanks her upright, blade flashing near my sister’s throat.

“I will take the little one first,” Varang snaps, voice shaking now with fury that borders panic. “Let your Ember watch what happens when she threatens me.”

Lo’ak surges against restraint. Kiri gasps.

I do not move.

I hold her gaze.

“If you touch her,” I say quietly, “you will not see another dawn.”

The wind shifts.

A sound cuts through the smoke.

Not wingbeat. Not shout.

A whistle.

Sharp. Precise.

Varang’s head jerks slightly.

Something red flashes past my vision.

The arrow strikes.

It does not pierce flesh.

It tears through the plume of her headdress, ripping ash-black feathers free and embedding into the stone behind her head with a violent crack.

The shaft hums where it quivers.

Red fletching.

Every warrior freezes.

Varang goes still.

Tuk slips from her grip as she turns slowly toward the ridge line beyond the smoke.

High above the volcanic outcrop, a shadow moves against moonlight.

Wings spread wide.

Säyru... her Ikran.

And somewhere beyond sight—

Rä’kira has arrived.

The reaction is not uniform.

Shock fractures the Mangkwan ranks first. Warriors step back instinctively, eyes lifted toward the ridge where the arrow came from. A few raise weapons toward the sky, scanning for a diving shadow.

The Ember Olo’eykte has not come loudly