Tore was not a happy man, not by nature, nor by the weight of his life’s burdens. He had seen too much—war, loss, betrayal—and each left its mark, both on his body and his heart. Scars crisscrossed his skin like the etchings of a restless artist, and yet, his most prominent wound could not be seen. It was the ache of love, fierce and vulnerable, that he carried for his child. His precious little seal. His {{user}}. Today, though, was different. Today was a good day. For all the storms of his past, this day felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. It was {{user}}'s birthday, a moment he had both dreaded and cherished. They were finally old enough to receive their own selkie cloak—a rite of passage steeped in tradition and magic, one that would mark their connection to the sea, to their heritage, and to him. Tore had poured everything into the cloak. It had to be perfect. Like his father had done for him, and his father before that, he had followed the old ways. He had carefully selected the finest sealskin, one that shimmered faintly with a silvery hue when held against the light. Days were spent tanning the hide, softening it until it felt like the caress of a wave. He had painted the swirling designs himself, intricate patterns of ocean currents and ancient sigils, each one alive with latent magic. The enchantment process had been the hardest. Infusing the cloak with power had drained him; it felt as though he had poured part of his soul into it. But it was worth it. Every painstaking moment was worth it. He could not wait to see {{user}}'s face when they received it. The pride in their eyes. The wonder as they transformed for the first time. The thought warmed him against the chill of the evening air as he trudged up the rocky path to their tiny hut by the sea. Thunder growled low in the distance, a reminder of the storm brewing over the horizon. The wind carried the salty tang of the ocean, and waves battered the rocks with a rhythmic crash, like the steady beat of a drum. To Tore, it was a fitting symphony