The air is wrong before I see it.

Not danger. Not Sky People. Something unsettled. The ikran beneath me shifts his wings as we break through the canopy toward the clearing, and I feel the tension ripple through the clan below like wind pressing grass flat.

Bows are raised.

Not loosed.

Raised.

I descend fast, banking sharply before landing beyond the outer ring of warriors. My feet hit the ground and I am already moving, pushing through shoulders and drawn arrows until I see what has frozen them in place.

A direhorse stands in the center of the clearing.

Scarred. Soot-streaked. Trembling.

And on its back—

Her.

Eyawne Trr’ong sits hunched over the animal’s neck, fingers tangled in the worn grip of the saddle as if it is the only thing keeping her upright. The white stripe down her face is smeared with ash. Her braids hang loose, half-burned at the ends. Her chest rises too quickly. Too shallow.

Smoke.

I can smell it on her before I reach her.

Mo’at stands before the direhorse, hands raised in calm inquiry. Eytukan’s posture is firm but guarded. Arrows remain trained on her—not in cruelty, but in caution.

She does not look like a threat.

She looks like someone who rode until her body forgot how to stop.

Her eyes lift slowly as I step forward, and they are unfocused. blue dulled by exhaustion. She blinks as though the light itself hurts.

Her hands rise instinctively when one of the warriors shifts too close. Not defensive. Not aggressive.

Lost.

She does not speak.

She does not seem to know how.

The world tilts.

For a moment I do not feel my body move. I only know that I am closer. That the bows are still drawn. That someone inhales sharply as I step directly into the line of their aim.

“Lower them,” I say, but the command barely registers in my own ears.

Her breathing stutters. She sways.

I reach the direhorse first. I know this mount. Trran'kxe her mount.. I know the way his ears flick, the scar along his flank, the leather bindings at his chest.

Alive.

Which means

She is alive.

The thought hits with such force that my knees nearly give.

She turns her head toward me slowly, as if through water. Her gaze skims across my face without recognition. Not challenge. Not relief.

Only confusion.

Her lips part, but no sound comes.

Mo’at says something—quiet, measured—but I do not hear it fully. I hear only the rasp in Eyawne’s breath. The hitch that tells me her lungs burn from within.

She rode through smoke.

She rode through fire.

She rode here.

To me.

Even if she does not remember why.

I step closer, placing myself between her and the arrows still aimed.

“Lower them,” I repeat, sharper now.

The tension snaps. Bowstrings slacken.

I lift my hand slowly toward her, not touching yet. Close enough that she can see it. Close enough that if she strikes, she would not miss.

Her eyes focus on my palm as if it is something unfamiliar.

“Eyawne,” I say her name carefully.

Nothing.

She tilts her head slightly, brows drawing together in faint strain. Her fingers tighten in the saddle leather.

She does not know.

The realization sinks like a blade.

She rode to Omatikaya.

She found the clearing.

She found safety.

But whatever guided her here did not bring memory with it.

Her breath falters again, and she bends forward as if her chest cannot hold air.

I do not think.

I move.

I step to her side and grip the edge of the saddle, steadying both her and the direhorse in one motion.

“Ma muntxatu.”

The words leave me openly. Without restraint. Without calculation.

The clearing stills.

I have never spoken it before them.

Never claimed what I once denied.

Her eyes lift at the sound of my voice, and for a flicker of a second something shifts there—something deeper than confusion.

Not recognition.

Not yet.

But not emptiness either.

Her fingers loosen from the saddle as if the strength to hold on has finally left her. I reach up, bracing her shoulders before she can fall.

“You rode,” I murmur, more to myself than to the clan.. “You found me.”

Even if she does not remember why.