The disagreement is not supposed to escalate.

It begins because I open my mouth.

Kiri is standing a little too still for my liking, staring at something none of us can see. Again. The air feels strange around her, like it always does.

“She is strange,” I say, louder than necessary.

Lo’ak rounds on me immediately. “Watch it.”

I shrug, sand shifting under my feet. “What? She talks to air. The reef does not answer her.”

Neteyam steps forward then, calm but tight. “That is my sister.”

“And?” I spread my hands, careless. “If she wishes to be reef, she must learn reef.”

Lo’ak shoves me before I finish.

That is when it turns wrong.

We collide hard, no elegance, no discipline—just pride and salt spray. He swings first.

I answer harder.

The sand gives way beneath us as we crash into the shallows, fists and shoulders and spray exploding upward. Tsireya shouts something sharp behind me, but I am too focused on proving I will not be corrected.

Neteyam moves to separate us, controlled even in anger.

“You will not mock her,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

I grin through saltwater. “Then make me stop.”

The argument mutates from Kiri to strength, from words to territory—who stands firm, who backs down, who commands respect on this shore.

And then—

The air changes.

It is subtle. The wind quiets. The tide steadies.

Lo’ak falters for half a breath.

Neteyam, who had stepped forward to separate us, goes still.

I do not look immediately. I am too busy attempting to pin Lo’ak’s arm behind his back.

Then Neteyam inhales sharply.

I follow his gaze.

And there she is.

Standing just beyond the waterline.

Pale against the shore. Hair like white tide-foam falling in controlled waves over her shoulders. The shellwork across her arches catch the light in soft, deliberate lines. She is not moving. Not speaking.

Just watching.

Neteyam’s mouth parts slightly.

“Holy—” he breathes under his breath, eyes wide. “Moon spirit…”

Something hot and territorial flares in my chest.

Before I can stop myself—before logic even attempts to intervene—I snap, “Nah.”

My fist connects with Lo’ak’s shoulder as punctuation.

“That’s Ma Muntxatu.”

The words leave me too quickly.

Too loud.

The moment stretches.

Neteyam’s head jerks toward me, disbelief flashing across his face. “Your what?”

Lo’ak shoves me off with a bark of incredulous laughter.

But I am not looking at them anymore.

I am looking at her.

She has not flinched.

She has not reacted.

Her expression is unreadable—calm, almost distant, as though she is observing a minor disturbance in the tide rather than two nearly grown warriors arguing like hatchlings.

And suddenly—

The disagreement feels small.

The shouting feels childish.

The sand clinging to my forearms feels ridiculous.

Without her saying a single word, my spine straightens.

Lo’ak adjusts his stance.

Even Neteyam, who had looked seconds away from joining in, lowers his hands slowly.

It is not command.

It is not fear.

It is something about the way the water seems to settle around her ankles.

The tide listens.

And so do we.

Neteyam clears his throat first, recovering composure with irritating grace. “I could not let him mock my sister,” he says evenly, as though he has not just been staring at her like a stunned fish.

I bristle.

I open my mouth to retort—

And then I see it.

Her eyes widen slightly.

Not at me.

At him.

The shift is subtle, but I catch it.

Surprise.

Assessment.

Realization.

Oh.

He was defending Kiri.

For a heartbeat, I see the calculation in her gaze.

Golden Forest Heir.

Protective.

Disciplined.

The comparison hits me like a rogue wave.

I am dripping sand and salt.

He stands straight and controlled.

The jealousy burns so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

I step forward instinctively, as if proximity alone could reclaim something unspoken.

The tide shifts again.

Her gaze flicks to me.

And in that look—

Not anger.

Not admiration.

But disappointment.

It strikes harder than any punch Lo’ak managed.

The chaos drains out of me all at once.

And Nilume'tsa says nothing