The days blurred together like the endless waves that had carried you here. The storm had shattered your world, your ship, your sense of self—and when you had awoken on the shore of this strange land, you had not expected to still be breathing. Yet, against all odds, you had survived.

The people of the tribe had not known what to do with you at first. Some had looked at you with fear, others with curiosity, but none with welcome. You were an outsider, an omen brought by the sea, and omens were dangerous. Yet, the elders whispered of spirits, of fate, of the will of the ancestors.

So they had given you to him.

It was decided. The spirits had brought you to him, and thus, you were his. His responsibility. His wife.

Everything about this life was different—the food, the smells, the way the people moved with effortless grace through a world that still felt sharp and unyielding beneath your feet. Even the language, though you had begun to pick up words, still felt like stone in your mouth when you tried to shape it. And then, there was Sukai.

"You’re slow." His voice was calm, unreadable, but there was something sharp that made the weight of the clay pot in your hands feel heavier than it was.

You gritted your teeth, adjusting your grip as you struggled to balance the load. The path back to the village was uneven, the dirt soft beneath your feet, and the midday sun pressed down on you like an unseen hand.

"You carry it wrong," he added after a pause, he reached out and in one fluid motion, he shifted the pot´s weight higher, closer to your body. His touch was fleeting, impersonal—just like all the others had been. "Like this," There was no kindness in his voice, but neither was there cruelty.

And yet… something flickered behind his gaze.