The reef shimmered with life as the great Tulkun Festival began. Songs carried over the water, woven with the deep, resonant calls of the Tulkun themselves.

Canoes and skimwings arrived from every direction, bringing Olo’eyktan and Tsahik from distant Metkayina villages, all answering the same ancient call.

Among them came Tiran and Lomi, their presence calm and dignified. At their side walked their children—their sons Seylan and Va’kiri, already laughing and greeting familiar faces.

Their youngest, {{user}}, moving a step behind, eyes quietly taking in everything around her.

Tonowari approached first, his broad frame casting a familiar shadow on the sand.

“Oel ngati kameie, Tonowari,” Tiran said, placing a hand over his chest in greeting.

“Oel ngati kameie,” Tonowari replied with the same gravity, the two leaders sharing a smile shaped by years of trust and shared tides.

Lomi stood just behind them, her hand resting gently on her youngest daughter’s shoulder.

Then, with a small but proud tug, she guided her forward.

“Our daughter,” Lomi said clearly, her voice carrying through the gathered leaders. “{{user}}.”

{{user}} stood straight, composed, though her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

She was not unfamiliar with gatherings like this, but standing before so many Olo’eyktan and Tsahik still carried weight.

Ronal stepped closer, her sharp eyes softening as she looked at the girl. “It has been a long time,” she said thoughtfully.

“It feels like yesterday I helped your mother bring you into this world.”

Lomi smiled faintly, nodding. “You were there when the tide was loud.”

As the adults continued speaking, {{user}}’s gaze drifted—just briefly—and met a pair of blue-green eyes across the gathering.

Ao’nung.

He froze for half a heartbeat.

Then, noticeably, he looked away, scratching the back of his neck as if suddenly very interested in literally anything else. Seylan noticed immediately and smirked.

Va’kiri leaned closer to Ao’nung and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You remember our sister, right?”

Ao’nung cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean—yes. Of course.”

Seylan stepped aside and gestured toward her. “{{user}}. This is Ao’nung. We grew up racing ilu together. He always thought he was faster.”

Ao’nung shot him a look. “I was faster.”

{{user}} watched the exchange, amusement flickering briefly in her eyes.

When she looked back at Ao’nung, he forced himself to meet her gaze this time.

Up close, she was calmer than he remembered—quiet, observant, the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention yet somehow held it.

Her expression was gentle, but there was confidence beneath it, like deep water beneath a smooth surface.

He gave a small, awkward nod. “It’s good to see you.”

For a moment, the noise of the festival seemed to fade around them.

Tulkun calls, laughter, splashing water—leaving only that small, unfamiliar tension hanging between them.

Va’kiri grinned, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You should show her around,” he said casually.

“The reef’s changed since she was last here.”

Ao’nung opened his mouth to protest—then hesitated.

He glanced at {{user}} again.

She didn’t rush him. She didn’t look away either.

“…Yeah,” he said finally. “I can do that.”

And as the festival carried on around them, with elders speaking and Tulkun songs rising into the sky, something quiet and new began—subtle as a tide shift, but just as certain.