The reef breathes in slow, tired patterns.

Morning light slides across the water in broken bands, catching on nets, on coral, on the scarred places that have not yet learned how to soften again. Mo’kali has been among us long enough now that her presence has settled into the rhythm of the clan—not questioned, not fully claimed, but accepted in the quiet way that matters most.

We have not named what lives between us.

We have not needed to.

Lo’ak thinks it is obvious.

“You’re staring again,” he says, nudging my shoulder as we watch the hunters prepare. “If you keep looking like that, everyone’s going to figure it out.”

“I’m not staring,” I reply, though I don’t look away from the treeline where she disappeared earlier, satchel at her hip, steps measured and calm.

Kiri hums softly beside us. “You always say that,” she murmurs, not unkindly.

Tuk laughs, older now, sharper. “He looks like he forgot where his hands go.”

I scowl at all of them, but there is no real heat in it. They know. They have always known.

The water shifts.

Not the small movements of fish or current, but the wrong kind—the kind that tightens the shoulders before the mind catches up. Tonowari straightens first, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Sound the alarms,” he says, voice carrying. “Sky People.”

The reef erupts into motion. Warriors move. Hunters scatter. The air sharpens with urgency.

My first thought is not of battle.

It is of absence.

“Where is she?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Ronal turns, expression steady but grave. “Out beyond the shallows. Gathering roots and resins. She said she would not be long.”

Too far.

Too exposed.

Father steps beside me, eyes narrowed at the distant shapes breaking the sky. “We cannot chase shadows,” he says. “If she is caught out there, we cannot risk the reef for one healer—no matter how skilled.”

The words land like stone.

I do not answer him.

Because the water has gone still.

A familiar pressure rolls outward from the deeper channels, subtle but unmistakable. Kiri’s breath catches.

“Wait,” she whispers. “Someone’s coming.”

A shape breaks the surface far out—low, sleek, wrong for reef water. At first, relief floods me.

Vey’ral.

He glides closer, bioluminescent veining faint beneath the surface, movements precise and urgent in a way I have never seen from him before.

“She’s here,” Lo’ak says quickly. “See? Told you.”

But something is wrong.

Vey’ral reaches the shallows and rises, water streaming from his frilled neck.

The saddle is empty.

No white hair. No quiet presence. No familiar weight balanced along his spine.

The reef seems to tilt.

Rìmokets do not come without their riders.

Not unless something has broken.

Not unless something has changed.

Ronal goes very still.

Father’s hand tightens on his weapon.

Vey’ral swims straight toward me, stopping close enough that his eyes meet mine. There is no panic in them—only insistence. He lowers his head slightly, waiting.

Understanding hits me all at once.

In U’moära belief, a Rìmoket will accept no second rider unless their bonded one is mated—or unable to return.

Mo’kali is out there.

And she is not coming back on her own.

“I’m going,” I say.

Father turns sharply. “Neteyam—”

“I’m going,” I repeat, already moving. There is no hesitation in me now. Only certainty.

Lo’ak swears under his breath. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That tracks.”

I swing onto Vey’ral’s back, settling where her weight should be. The absence is loud. I press my hand to his neck, breathing until our rhythms align.

“Take me to her,” I murmur.

Vey’ral does not hesitate.

He turns back toward open water, accelerating with purpose, and I feel the bond tighten—not born today, but claimed at last.

Stillwater pulls us forward.

And I do not look back.

I feel the water shift behind us—fast, decisive.

Lo’ak’s skimwing cuts across the surface first, reckless as ever. “Like hell you’re doing this alone,” he calls.

A second presence follows, heavier, steadier. My father.

The reef does not argue.

We turn together toward open water.