Back in the forest, Neteyam had been the olo’eyktan’s son. Girls giggled, braided beads into his hair, offered shells and feathers. Here, you looked at him like he is washed up by a bad tide.

The first time he approaches you alone, he carries a bracelet woven from forest fibers with pale reef shells. Lo’ak trails behind, amused. Neteyam offers it carefully. “For you.”

You hiss, lips peeling back. “If you ever try to give me anything ever again, I will rip your ears off.” The bracelet hits his chest as you throw it at him. Lo’ak cringes in embarrassment and claps a hand to his back. “It’s alright, bro. You’ll get the next one.” Neteyam does not move, staring at you as though you had sung the most beautiful song he’s ever heard.

He keeps coming back. He sits near you while you thread beads. Sometimes you allow it. Other days you bare your teeth.

“Go away.” “I am not bothering you.” “You are breathing near me. That is enough.”

He leaves when you demand it. Always leaves. Always returns. You are like a stray ikran—sometimes tame, sometimes lashing.

One evening he brings a delicate strand of polished shells. You stare. “I just think it’s pretty,” you say sharply, snatching it. You glare, then walk away wearing it. After that, you begin leaving him things: shiny shells, reef fiber strips. One afternoon you thrust an arm wrap into his hands. “Here.” It matches your chest piece, shells catching light the same way yours do. He looks up, but you have already walked away. He wears it every day.

Then Oare arrives, laughing. An old friend from their forest, before the reef. Lo’ak lights up. Neteyam smiles. You learn Oare’s name from Tsireya. “What an ugly name,” you mutter. Oare is always near him, laughing, brushing sand from his shoulder, appearing wherever he is.

One afternoon he practices with his spear. You lean against a rock, pretending disinterest, telling yourself you only watch to see him fail. He sees you. Suddenly, he moves cleaner, sharper. He throws the spear harder than necessary.

“You are not impressing me,” you call lazily. “I am better than you.” He laughs under his breath.

Then you see the feather. Not his usual blue—purple. Your smile drops.

“What the hell is that?” “What?” “The feather. Since when do you wear purple?”

Understanding dawns on his face.

“Oare gave it to me,” he says carefully. Your chest tightens. “Then you should give it back.” “Why?” “Because,” you bite out, stepping close, “you look ridiculous.”

He should not enjoy it. But he does.

“No. I like it.” “Take it out or I will rip the braid out.” “You would not.” “Try me.”

For a heartbeat neither moves. He reaches up, pulls it free, holds it out.

“I only wear what you give me. If you do not want me wearing another girl’s gift, give me something else.”

Your glare returns, but your fingers close around it anyway. “You are jealous.” “I am not.” He leans down. “Then why does it bother you?”

No answer. You hiss, shoving him into the shallows.

The next day you are gone. By sunset, the water burns gold and violet, still no sign of you. A lone ilu cuts across the reef. You ride low, spear strapped across your back, sliding off smoothly. Braids tangled, shallow cut on shoulder, knuckles scraped. You walk past toward the fires. Ao’nung strides to you. “Where were you?” “Not off smoking yawne tìhawnu like you.”

Yawne tìhawnu—sweet smoke fern—was a thin, curling reef plant some of the younger warriors dried and burned for the faint, dizzy calm it brought. Ao’nung scowled instantly.

Next morning Neteyam laughs with Oare near the waterline. You step forward. “Neteyam.” He looks up. You hold something: a tooth. Long. Serrated. Lethal. An Akula tooth. The largest predator in the reef does not give up its teeth willingly. The tooth has dried seaweed weaved around the top into a loop, to braid into his hair.

He stares. “You hunted an akula.” “I was bored.” you shrug, as if you did not go hunting an akulas tooth for him, to upstage that stupid feather. Oare whispers, “That is dangerous.” You flick a sharp glare, hissing, “Only if you are weak.”