You squinted down at the slate of readings on your device. Numbers blinked. Vibrations registered. Atmospheric patterns logged themselves in tidy little graphs.

“According to this,” you said, waving it like a badge of logic, “there’s no consistent pulse. It’s reactive—wind, fauna movement, heat shifts. There’s no actual rhythm. Just… environmental noise.”

Behind you, Ravan exhaled slowly, like someone watching a child try to explain fire with water.

“The world is not a number,” he muttered, circling you with the grace of a hunting cat. His accent stretched the vowels like a melody shaped in smoke. “It does not answer because you ask it. You must feel it.”

You turned. “I’m trying to understand it. Not imagine it.”

Ravan raised a brow, lips twitching. “Then you will understand nothing.”

“I’m literally recording data—”

“You are recording echoes,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You do not listen. You wait for proof, like the forest owes you permission.”

A tense beat. You opened your mouth to respond, defensive, frustrated.

But Ravan just stood there, annoyed but not angry, arms crossed and head tilted—half exasperation, half challenge.

Then he did something unexpected.

He strode forward, plucked the device from your hand, and dropped it gently into a pouch on the ground. You gasped.

“Don’t worry,” he said, finally smiling. “The earth will not erase your science.”

He tugged you by the wrist. “Come. We dance.”

“What? Wait—I don’t—”

But Ravan had already pulled you toward a sun-drenched hollow, dappled with shadow and flecks of green light. Around the edges, tall-stemmed plants bowed in slow rhythm to a wind that didn’t seem to move.

He stepped onto a flat stone ringed by moss and held out both hands.

“No logic here,” he said. “Just this.”

You hesitated.

Then Ravan laughed—really laughed, like wind through trees, like hooves hitting wet earth. It was a wild, open sound. Joyful.

“You are thinking again,” he teased, tapping your forehead with two fingers. “You think so much your feet are asleep.”

You blinked at him. Ravan’s face, lit by sunlight, looked almost younger in that moment—unburdened.

He took your hands and placed them on his shoulders.

“Let the body learn first,” he whispered, “then let the mind follow.”

Then he moved.

It wasn’t a dance in any formal sense. He just swayed, bare feet pressing into earth in slow, sure rhythm. Every part of him flowed with purpose—shoulders, hips, the lines of his arms. It was like watching water remember how to walk.

And he waited until you followed.

Awkward at first. Laughable. You stepped on his foot twice. Nearly fell into him once.

But Ravan didn’t scold.

He laughed again. Deep, delighted. “There. You see? The world stumbles too.”

Your fingers slipped from his shoulder, and he caught your wrist—gently—guiding it down to his chest. His heartbeat was steady, strong.

“This is rhythm,” he said, eyes locked with yours. “This is where you begin.”

And suddenly, you felt it.

The wind curled through the trees like melody. Leaves shivered in layered rhythm, the ground pulsed with footsteps—old, forgotten steps still echoing. Even your own breath began to slow, syncing without thought.

Ravan smiled. Not sly this time. Soft. Grateful.

“You hear it now.”

You didn’t answer. You just nodded—eyes wide, overwhelmed.

He moved closer, his forehead lowering to yours. A sacred Orukai gesture. Not romantic. Not yet. Just… truth.

“I see you. I hear your rhythm,” he whispered. “I feel it in mine. Kahl’kaen.”