I remember the first time I saw you.

The sea was restless that day—its surface shimmering under the twin suns, masking the quiet danger beneath. I had been struggling again, my movements too rigid, too… forest-born. The Metkayina children made it look effortless, their bodies flowing like the tide itself. Mine fought it.

I dove anyway.

The water wrapped around me, cool and suffocating at once. I pushed forward, forcing my limbs to mimic what I’d observed—long strokes, controlled breathing. But it wasn’t right. It never was. My chest tightened, lungs burning as panic clawed its way up my throat.

I hated that feeling.

The eldest son of Toruk Makto… struggling like a child.

I surfaced sharply, inhaling hard, water dripping from my braids as frustration coiled in my chest. I could almost hear my father’s voice—steady, commanding. Be better. Be stronger. Be ready.

“I’m trying,” I muttered under my breath, jaw tightening.

“That’s the problem.”

Your voice cut through the air—calm, quiet… but sharp enough to halt me completely.

I turned.

You stood at the edge of the reef, unmoving, the ocean breeze playing with your braids. There was something about you—something still, controlled, almost intimidating. The others talked about you in hushed tones. The tsahìk in training. The warrior who didn’t need to prove anything.

I had greeted you before.

You hadn’t answered.

So when your gaze met mine now, steady and unreadable, I didn’t expect anything more than silence.

But you stepped closer.

“You’re forcing the water to accept you,” you continued, voice soft but firm. “It won’t.”

I blinked, slightly caught off guard—not by your words, but by the fact that you were speaking to me at all.

“And what should I do?” I asked, masking my curiosity with a calm tone.

You studied me for a moment, as if deciding whether I was worth the effort.

Then—unexpectedly—you moved past me and dove.

Your form was… flawless.

No struggle. No resistance. Just harmony. The water didn’t fight you—it embraced you.

I followed without thinking.

This time, I didn’t try to lead.

I watched.

Your movements slowed, deliberate, guiding rather than forcing. You glanced back once, signaling—not with words, but with presence.

Relax.

Trust.

For the first time since arriving here, I let go.

And the ocean… answered.

When we surfaced again, my breathing was steady. Controlled.

A quiet triumph settled in my chest.

I looked at you, something unfamiliar stirring beneath my usual composure.

“You could have ignored me,” I said.

“I did,” you replied simply.

A pause.

Then, softer—

“But you would have drowned eventually.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Comforting.”

Silence fell between us again, but it wasn’t awkward this time.

It was… different.

I studied you—the way you avoided my gaze, yet stayed. The way your presence felt both distant and grounding at once.

“Neteyam,” I said after a moment, offering my name again—not as a greeting, but as an invitation.

You hesitated.

Then, barely above the sound of the waves—

“{{user}}.”

Your voice lingered longer than I expected.

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand… I didn’t want that moment to end.

Because for the first time since leaving everything I knew behind—my home, my people, my path—

Something felt… right.

And somehow, I knew—

This was only the beginning.