The reef smells like crushed saltleaf and drying kelp.

Which means she is somewhere nearby.

I know this because Mo’kali never walks anywhere without changing the air around her. She forages the way warriors patrol—focused, precise, impossible to interrupt.

Today is the day.

I have decided this.

Rotxo squints at me from where we sit repairing a net along the shallows. “You’ve been staring at the mangroves for ten minutes.”

“I am strategizing.”

Tsireya doesn’t even look up. “You are rehearsing.”

“I do not rehearse.”

“You absolutely rehearse,” she says calmly.

I rise anyway, brushing sand from my thighs and rolling my shoulders once. The tide is cooperative today. The light hits just right. My braids are behaving. This is an excellent day to be impressive.

Across the embankment, Mo’kali moves through the low brush at the edge of the stillwater channel. She kneels, fingers deft and deliberate as she separates root from mud without damaging either. Her satchel rests open at her hip. White braids fall forward over one shoulder, threaded with living moss that refuses to fade even in reef light.

She does not hurry.

She never hurries.

This is fine. I can work with this.

I stride toward the embankment with what I believe is measured confidence.

Rotxo mutters behind me, “We should stop him.”

Tsireya replies, “No. This is educational.”

I clear my throat lightly as I approach.

Nothing.

She continues gathering long salt-resistant fronds, carefully trimming only what she needs.

Good. Calm. I respect calm.

“Beautiful day,” I announce.

She does not look up.

The wind shifts. A small branch snaps somewhere behind me.

I nod as if this was expected. “Perfect weather for foraging. Ideal, actually.”

She adjusts the angle of her blade and frees a root cluster with surgical precision.

I crouch beside her, just outside of what I estimate is respectful distance.

“Need assistance?” I ask smoothly.

She shifts slightly, collecting the roots into her satchel without acknowledging the offer.

Interesting tactic.

I lean closer, lowering my voice as though this is an important negotiation. “I know plants. Very well. Some say I have a natural gift.”

Tsireya makes a sound in the distance that might be laughter.

Mo’kali reaches for another cluster and gently brushes my knee aside when it blocks her access.

She does not speak.

She simply moves me.

This is new.

I recover immediately. “I can identify at least three kinds of sea-moss. Possibly four.”

She rises fluidly, slinging the satchel higher against her hip and stepping around me without interruption.

I pivot and follow.

“This one,” I say confidently, pointing at a thick-leafed vine curling around mangrove roots, “definitely looks medicinal.”

She pauses.

For a moment, I feel victorious.

Then she bends, snips a different plant entirely, and continues walking.

I glance at the vine.

It does look convincing.

Rotxo calls from behind, “That one causes rashes.”

I ignore him.

I catch up again, matching her pace along the edge of the water where stillwater meets tide.

“You know,” I continue, undeterred, “I was thinking we could coordinate efforts. Reef strength combined with Stillwater precision. A very powerful alliance.”

She steps onto a higher root, testing its stability before transferring her weight.

No reaction.

I attempt a different angle.

“I look particularly impressive today.”

Nothing.

I walk backward in front of her now, maintaining eye contact while she calmly sidesteps me without breaking stride.

“I woke up and thought, ‘Today is the day I make a strong impression.’ And here we are.”

She stops.

Finally, I straighten immediately.

She looks at me. Expression neutral. Assessing.

My stomach flips for reasons I do not fully appreciate.

She tilts her head slightly.

Then she steps around me again and continues toward the shallower roots where salt-resistant blossoms grow.

Tsireya’s voice floats across the water. “How’s the strategy going?”

“Perfectly,” I reply, falling back into step beside Mo’kali. “Everything is unfolding as planned."