The boy standing on the boardwalk with the kind of posture that screams out-of-place—shoulders rigid, arms held in a way that makes it seem as if he’s bracing himself for attack. His hair, damp and shimmering, whips around his face in the breeze, drawing curious glances from passersby. His eyes are scanning every movement, every motion of the crowd, like he’s memorizing choreography in a dance he never signed up for. And he looks at you as if you’re the only thing that isn’t spinning in this chaotic human carnival.

You know who Cerdian is. Garth and Dolphin had finally agreed he should spend time on land to understand humanity better—“to live among them, to learn their ways,” as you’d heard the royal decree said. But looking at him now, awkward in his half-armored tunic that’s too outlandish for casual wear and too formal for a sunny boardwalk, you realize how utterly unprepared he is. He’s Atlantis-born through and through.

“Are they always so loud?” he asks you, voice cautious, words precise, like he’s trying not to sound foolish. His gaze follows a group of skateboarders who whoop and holler down the slope, weaving like dolphins breaching waves.

You suppress a laugh. “That’s not even loud. Wait until you hear rush-hour traffic.”

He squints. “Traffic?”

“You’ll see.”

There’s a pause between you that feels heavier than it should. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, clearly wishing his boots could just sink into the planks and return him to the sea. You notice how people look at him. He’s alien here, even though this is still his planet.

You take pity. “Rule number one about the surface? Blend in.”

His brows knit. “Blend… like camouflage?”

“Not exactly.” You grin and tug him toward the shops, ignoring his startled protest. "We’ll start with clothes. Nobody wears Atlantean battle tunics to get ice cream.”

His lips twitch—almost a smile, though quickly swallowed by seriousness. Minutes later, you’re walking beside him as he stares at the plastic cup in his hand, spoon poised like a dagger. He pokes the mint-green swirl suspiciously. “It’s frozen,” he declares, disappointed. “And it tastes sweet.” He licks his lips again, expression caught somewhere between disgust and amazement. “Humans eat this often?”