The reef is calm in the way it lies.

It looks harmless when the tide is low. Open sandbars. Shallow channels. Coral ribs rising like bones beneath clear water.

That is how it gets you.

I am halfway across an exposed stretch chasing a glint of metal tangled in reef—Sky People debris, probably—when the current shifts wrong.

Not strong.

Wrong.

The sand beneath my feet gives way without warning. What looked like shallow channel collapses into a sink pocket carved by tide. My leg plunges through and wedges between coral spines.

I swear and twist hard.

That makes it worse.

The coral bites deeper along my calf. Water rushes back in as the tide turns, fast and cold. The channel fills quicker than I expected. My balance goes with it.

I brace both hands against stone and try to yank free, but the more I pull, the more it grinds.

The tide does not care.

It surges.

Within seconds the water climbs from knee to waist. The current presses sideways, forcing my trapped leg at an angle it does not like.

I grit my teeth and reach down to snap the coral tips off manually.

That is when the shadow crosses me.

Not cloud.

Wings.

I look up through glare and see it descending—dark against the light, striped in ash and ember red. Not reef-patterned. Not forest-marked.

An ash-striped Ikran.

It banks once and drops lower than any rider with sense would over exposed coral.

The rider slides down before it fully lands, feet hitting wet stone with controlled impact. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

I open my mouth to say I have it handled.

She ignores me entirely.

She crouches, grips my trapped leg without asking, and studies the angle in a single glance. One hand reaches to her belt. A narrow blade wedges between coral and bone. A precise twist fractures the structure just enough.

Before I can protest, she yanks my leg free.

I stagger as the current surges harder. She catches my arm automatically—not to comfort, but to stabilize. Her grip tightens when another wave crashes sideways.

I try to pull away out of pride.

She pulls back harder.

Her eyes meet mine for the first time.

Flat.

Assessing.

Not impressed.

She shifts her stance, placing herself between me and the direction of the strongest current without comment. The tide slams into her first instead of me.

I blink.

She angles her body subtly, redirecting force so I regain footing.

The water recedes slightly. Enough to move.

She releases me only when I am stable. Then she steps back one pace—but not far.

Her gaze drags over my stance. My footing. The cut along my calf.

Disapproval settles across her face like smoke.

She looks at the sink pocket. Then back at me. Then at the horizon.

I realize with uncomfortable clarity that she is recalculating the entire reef around my existence.

I expect her to leave.

She does not.

Instead she adjusts my shoulder with two fingers, rotating it slightly. Not gentle. Not harsh. Corrective.

I wasn’t asking for help.

She folds her arms after, watching. Not protective. Evaluative.

As if waiting to see if I will immediately fall into another hole.

The ikran behind her shifts its wings once, ember stripes catching sunlight.

She glances at it briefly, then back to me.

Her jaw tightens.

Annoyance flickers there.

At me.

Or at herself.

She looks toward the reef edge where the tide continues to turn, then back to me again.

Measuring.

I shift my weight just to prove I can.

Her eyes narrow instantly.

She steps forward half a pace.

Not close enough to touch.

Close enough to intervene.

I realize something then. She is not here for me. She is here for Sky People.

And somehow, in less than two minutes, she has decided I cannot be left unattended.

The thought should irritate me.

It does.

But when the current surges again, her body shifts without hesitation to block it.

And I cannot ignore the fact that she moved before I did.