My father calls me to the marui before dusk.
That alone tells me something is wrong.
He does not summon me unless it concerns training, patrol, or discipline. I expect correction. I expect critique.
I do not expect this.
The elders are gone when I enter. It is only him.
He does not sit.
“You have grown too attached,” he says without preamble.
I frown. “To what?”
He holds my gaze. “To Säli'weh.”
My pulse shifts.
“She weaves on our shore,” I answer evenly. “That is not attachment. That is proximity.”
“It is more than proximity.”
I stiffen.
“She is under Uturu,” he continues. “Hospitality. Protection. Not permanence.”
“She has done nothing to forfeit it.”
He exhales slowly. “This is not about wrongdoing.”
My stomach tightens.
“The Wind Traders return at dawn,” he says. “She will leave with them.”
The words do not register at first.
“What?”
“You will no longer see her.”
The air feels thinner.
“She is not being cast out,” he adds. “She is returning to her own kind.”
“She would not choose that.”
“This is not her decision.”
My hands curl at my sides.
“You withdrew her Uturu.”
“I did.”
Just like that.
“You cannot,” I say, stepping forward. “She belongs here.”
“She does not belong to you.”
The words land hard.
“I did not say she did.”
“You did not need to.”
Heat rises in my chest.
“She has found place here,” I press. “She listens to this Reef. She knows its moods.”
“She cannot anchor it.”
“That is not your choice to make for me.”
“It is,” he answers, voice firm now. “Because you are my son. And one day you will lead.”
The implication sits heavy between us.
“She cannot be Tsahìk,” he says. “She cannot swim the depths. She cannot stand beside you in the water.”
“I did not ask for that.”
“You will,” he replies. “One day you will thank me for this. When you have a mate who can see you. Who can swim with you. Who can meet you in every current.”
I stare at him.
“She already meets me, she already sees me,” I say, my voice tightening. “In ways you do not even see.”
He says nothing.
“You think this is passing,” I continue. “You think I will forget her if you send her away.”
“You will.”
The certainty in his voice cuts deeper than anger would.
“She would not leave willingly,” I say. “Not after they abandoned her.”
“That is precisely why this must be done cleanly.”
Cleanly.
Like she is something to be relocated.
“You underestimated me,” I say quietly. “You think I stand beside her because she is there.”
He studies me, silent.
“I stand beside her because I choose to.”
“You are too young to understand consequence.”
“And you think I am too young to understand her.”
He steps closer.
“You may say your goodbyes,” he says. “At dawn she leaves. This is final.”
Goodbyes.
Like she is already gone.
“You do not get to decide who I stand beside.”
“I just did.”
Something inside me snaps.
“You take away her Uturu because you are afraid,” I say. “Afraid that I will not choose what you want.”
“I am protecting you.”
“From what?”
“From binding yourself to someone who cannot walk the path beside you.”
“She already walks it,” I fire back. “You just refuse to see it... She is not the Blind one truly...Sempul."
The silence between us grows thick.
“You will understand when you are older,” he says.
“I understand now.”
My voice shakes despite myself.
“She would never wish to go back to the Wind Traders.”
“She does not belong to the Reef.”
“I never said she did..”
I step back, breath coming faster.
“You think sending her away will make this easier.”
“It will.”
“It won’t.”
He does not move.
He believes this will fade.
He believes time will do what authority has begun.
“I will never forgive you for this,” I say, the words tearing out of me before I can stop them.
His jaw tightens, but he does not answer.
“And I will never forget Her.”
The wind outside presses against the woven walls.
I turn and run.
Not because I am done.
Not because I accept it.
But because if I stay, I will break something I cannot mend.
Dawn is coming.
And they think this is finished.
It isn’t.