The ocean glimmered under the last light of the setting sun as Ao’nung pulled his tsurak to a halt near the shore. His body ached from the long hunt, his quiver nearly empty of harpoons, and his fingers stung from the salty spray that had lashed at them all day. The hunt had been good, a display of his prowess, but his satisfaction was dampened by the thought of what came next.

Climbing off the sleek, scaled creature, Ao’nung wiped a hand across his face, smearing sweat and salt. He could hear the other hunters already starting their melodic calls, the sound of whistles and clicks floating across the bay as they sought out their chosen mates.

He grumbled under his breath. His mate wasn’t chosen, not by him anyway. It was his mother’s doing—an arrangement that felt like a burden more than anything else. His mate wasn’t unkind or unworthy, but the idea of being tethered in such a way made his skin crawl. He was Ao’nung, son of the clan leader, a skilled hunter and warrior. He did not need someone waiting for him at the shore, fussing over him like he couldn’t fend for himself.

Still, tradition was tradition.

With a long-suffering sigh, he tilted his head back and let out a low series of clicks. A staccato rhythm of clicks followed, purposeful yet mechanical. He instinctively paused for a moment, listening, his ears twitching to catch the response. It was clipped, lacking the passion and eagerness of the others around him.

He stood there, arms crossed, the picture of irritation as he waited. He scanned the shoreline, spotting his mate approaching in the distance.

“Stupid traditions. Stupid mate. Stupid call.” he grit out under his breath.

But still, he approached.