The war had reached the reefs long before Ronal ever saw the flames.

Tonowari fell defending the shallows of Awa’atlu, his final stand buying just enough time. With blood in the water and ash drifting from the sky, Ronal did not mourn aloud. She gathered her children instead. Aonung, silent and tense. Tsireya, clutching her arm. And little Pril, newly born, wrapped close against her chest, still unaware of the world’s cruelty.

The Tlalims answered her call.

Great shadowed wings cut through storm-clouds and smoke as Ronal and her children were lifted from the sea, leaving behind the ruins of their clan. The ocean gave way to frozen wind, salt replaced by snow. For the first time in her life, Ronal flew beyond water she knew, beyond tides that had always guided her.

The Hweth’ik lands rose beneath them—vast white plains, glimmering ice, mountains sharp as teeth. Cold bit deep, but the air was clean. Quiet. Alive in a different way.

The Tlalims circled once before descending near the heart of the snow clan. Ronal stepped down carefully, her bare feet sinking into powdery frost. Her breath steamed as she straightened, chin lifted, spine proud despite exhaustion.

Her eyes found you—the Tsahik of Hweth’ik.

Ronal inclined her head, one hand resting protectively over Pril.

“We come not as conquerors,” she said evenly, voice steady despite all she had lost. “But as survivors… and as guests, if you will allow it.”