The wind is wrong.
That is the first thing I notice.
When I return from the hunt, the tide is shifting as it should. Skimwings cut across the horizon. Hunters drag their catches across wet sand.
Everything is as it always is.
Except the wind is wrong.
It does not carry her.
I always hear her before I see her. The soft scrape of fiber. The faint shift of her basket. The rhythm of her breathing when she sits near the weaving shore.
Today—
Nothing.
I slow.
Her place is empty.
The basket lies on its side, reeds spilled across sand. One length of unfinished weave drags toward the waterline. The pattern she was working on is half-formed.
I kneel.
My fingers press into the sand where she always sits.
Still warm.
The wind moves across my shoulders.
But not her.
My eyes shift.
There.
A line carved through sand.
Not reef-made.
Not tide.
A drag path.
Heel marks. Disturbed earth. Deep impressions where metal pressed too hard.
Sky People.
The world narrows.
I do not shout.
I do not call her name.
My breath steadies instead.
They took her.
They took her while she was weaving.
While she wore her basket.
While she sat with her back to the sea, listening to wind.
A blind woman.
Alone.
My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache.
I follow the drag path several paces before I stop myself. It leads inland toward the clearing where their ships sometimes circle.
The sand tells the rest of the story.
Struggle. Minimal.
She would not have seen them coming.
She would have heard engines too late.
My hands curl into fists.
Not rage.
Fear.
She relies on air pressure. Tide vibration. Breath shifts.
If they have sealed her inside metal—
There will be no wind.
No tide.
No reef sound.
Just engines.
Buzzing.
Artificial hum.
She will be truly blind.
For the first time in her life.
My chest tightens.
I rise and move fast.
The marui opens as I step inside. Elders fall quiet. My father looks up immediately.
I do not bow.
“I come to you as my Sempul.”
His expression shifts.
“But also as my Olo’eyktan.”
The room stills.
“They took her.”
He stands slowly.
“Who?”
“Sky People.”
The words are level.
“There are drag marks. Metal impressions. They took her from the weaving shore.”
Understanding settles across his face.
Not just a Tlalim.
Not just a wind trader.
My Muntxatu.
My Blind Wind.
“You will not act alone,” he says.
“And we move at dusk.”
Dusk.
Hours from now.
The thought hits like a blade.
“I cannot wait until dusk.”
The elders stir.
My father’s eyes sharpen.
“You will.”
“No.”
The word is quiet. Certain.
“If the reef waits for dusk, I will go alone.”
A murmur rises, but I continue.
“I cannot stand here and imagine her sitting somewhere without wind. You do not stand beside her as I do. I know how she lives. I know how she exists. She feels wind before she moves. She listens for tide before she steps. If they have sealed her in metal, there will be no air shift, no reef vibration—only engines. I stand by her every morning. I know what guides her. And right now, she has none of it.”
My voice tightens despite control.
“There will be no tide. No shift in air. No familiar sound. She will hear only metal. Engines. Nothing she understands. She will not have me," I say quietly. “Not my breath. Not my shadow beside her. I have stood there since the wind traders left her on our shore. I have been the only constant for her."
My throat burns.
“She will be truly blind.”
The marui is silent.
“I cannot stand here and think of it.”
Not anger. Not rebellion. Truth.
My father studies me for a long moment.
This is not reckless youth.
This is Mated Bond.
This is chosen.
“You will not go alone,” he repeats.
The air between us changes.
“But we do not wait for dusk.”
The words land like thunder contained.
Hunters rise instantly.
Weapons are gathered.
There is no shouting.
No war cry.
Just movement.
Purpose.
I turn toward the opening of the marui.
The wind hits my face.
Wrong.
Too empty.
“They took my Blind Wind,” I say, low enough that only he hears.
And the Reef moves.