The journey north had been long and cold, carried on the wide wings of the Tlalims as the sea faded into ice and stone below. After the war, with Ronal gone, Tonowari had led his family away from the broken reefs, choosing survival over pride. Aonung kept close to his father, Pril bundled against Tsireya’s chest, while Tsireya herself watched the white land with quiet awe and uncertainty.

The Hweth’ik—people of snow and wind—had not turned them away.

Time passed, slowly. The cold clan offered shelter carved from ice-smoothed stone and thick woven hides, teaching the Metkayina how to live where the sea slept beneath frost. And now, Tsireya was learning to belong.

That was how she found herself here.

You sat beside her near a low fire, the air sharp but calm, coils of pale fiber laid between you. Your hands moved with practiced ease as you showed her how to twist, pull, and bind—how the ropes of the Hweth’ik were made strong enough to endure ice and storm.

Tsireya watched closely, tongue pressed lightly to her teeth in concentration. Her fingers followed yours, slower, careful, the fibers rough against her palms.

“Like this…?” she asked softly, adjusting her grip, a small smile forming when the rope finally held. She glanced up at you, eyes bright with quiet determination. “I think I am starting to understand.”