The Tlalim vessel is already lifting when I notice her.

Its sails stretch wide against the upper currents, canvas flashing pale as it catches wind and drifts from the reef. The traders never linger. They come light and leave lighter.

But she is still on the shore.

Sitting too close to the tide.

White hair falls in long, unbound dreads to her hips, moving softly in the sea breeze. No beads. No shells. No decoration at all. Just wind lifting the strands like pale smoke. A light shawl—woven thin, made for air not water—rests around her shoulders. It is wrong for the reef. Too light. Too exposed. The edges flutter each time the tide breathes in.

Her skin is pale violet, almost silver beneath the sun. Darker stripes curve along her arms and collarbones like soft shadows. She sits with her knees drawn slightly inward, hands resting open on the sand as if feeling its texture.

Her face is turned toward the horizon.

As if watching her clan disappear.

Rotxo snorts. “Did they forget one?”

A few of the younger reef boys drift closer, drawn by curiosity sharpened into something mean.

I stay back at first. Arms crossed. Observing.

Rotxo circles her. “Hey. Wind trader. Your people are leaving.”

She does not react.

Lo’ak waves a hand in front of her face. “Maybe she doesn’t see it.”

I step closer, smirking because that is what I do. “What is it, Blind Wind? Lose the sky?”

It leaves my mouth easy. Thoughtless.

She turns her head then.

Not toward my face.

Toward my breath.

Slow. Exact. Precise.

Her eyes are open.

Milky white.

No pupil. No focus.

Lo’ak waves again, closer this time.

Nothing.

No blink.

No tracking.

The smirk falls from my face.

Rotxo laughs louder. “She doesn’t even know where we are.”

“She can’t see the ocean,” another boy adds.

The tide creeps closer. A thin line of foam inches toward her bare feet. She does not shift back. Does not glance down. Does not adjust the way anyone would when water approaches.

One of the boys kicks sand at her leg.

She flinches—not from the impact.

From the sound.

That is when I move.

I grab the offender’s wrist mid-laugh and shove him back a step, harder than necessary. My hand comes up instinctively, pressing flat against Rotxo’s chest when he leans forward again.

“That’s enough.”

My voice cuts clean through the air.

They stare at me.

Confused.

I step fully between them and her, planting my feet in the sand. My body blocks their angle. My shoulders square. My tail flicks sharply behind me.

“She can hear you,” I say flatly.

“So?” Rotxo mutters.

“So you sound stupid.”

Silence drops heavy.

Lo’ak finally looks properly at her eyes. His expression falters.

The Tlalim vessel is nearly gone now, swallowed by glare.

She does not follow it.

She never was.

“She’s not—” Lo’ak starts.

“No,” I say sharply. “She’s not.”

Another wave rolls in. It brushes the tips of her toes this time.

She still does not move.

I notice now how her fingers press lightly into the sand, feeling the vibration of the water pulling back. Mapping it. Listening.

The boys shift awkwardly.

“Go,” I tell them.

There is something in my tone that makes them obey. One by one they back away, laughter gone thin and uncertain.

I remain.

Between her and them.

Between her and the waterline.

The wind tugs at her shawl, lifting it from one shoulder. It looks too fragile against reef currents. Too unguarded.

Left.

They left her sitting here.

The thought burns.

Another wave rolls in, stronger this time. It reaches higher along the sand.

I step forward without thinking, crouching near her side, my shadow falling across her knees. My hand hovers for a moment to help her up before I remember she will not see the gesture.

Her head shifts slightly toward me.

Not searching.

Not startled.

Simply aware.

The tide pulls back again.

I stay where I am.

Watching the water.

Watching them from a distance.

Guarding the space they thought was harmless to mock.

And I do not say Blind Wind again.