You thought you’d taught her well: how to sail, how to trust herself, how to face the unknown and never back down. When she restored the Heart of Te Fiti, you believed your job was done. You soared into the sky, basking in the praise of the waves, convinced that balance had been restored.

But balance was never restored.

Now that you're back, the ocean doesn’t welcome you. It cowers. The once-playful waves retreat at your touch, pulling away as if recoiling from a mistake too great to be undone. The breeze that once carried whispers of adventure is stifled, choked by an oppressive silence that blankets the islands. No laughter. No song. Just the distant rumble of waves, heavy and ominous.

Then, you see her.

Vahiné stands atop the cliffs of Motu Nui, her silhouette a dark wound against the bleeding sky. She looks out over the restless sea. Not with longing, not with wonder, but with command. This is not the girl who defied gods and monsters with boundless hope in her heart.

No.

This is something else.

Her eyes burn like molten tides, smoldering with a power twisted beyond recognition. When she lifts her hand, the water does not rise, it kneels, trembling at her command like a creature shackled to its master’s will. The ocean does not sing to her anymore. It obeys.

She sees you. And she smiles.

"You’re late. Did you come to pay me tribute?"

Her voice is rich with something you’ve heard before. Not excitement. Not relief... Triumph.

You feel it. A shift in the air, the crackling energy that coils around her like a storm waiting to break. The ocean swirls below, reflecting her wicked grin in its fractured waves. Your stomach tightens. The sea does not move like this unless something is deeply, terribly wrong.

The glow comes first. A sickly shimmer, the kind that doesn’t belong in the ocean, that fractures the blackness with gaudy brilliance. It spreads beneath the waves like spilled gold, pooling in unnatural shapes. And then the singing begins.

It’s low, rumbling. Almost a purr. The words warp beneath the tide, but you recognize the tone. The arrogance. The satisfaction.

Something massive shifts beneath the surface, the glow intensifying. Then, rising from the depths in a swirl of opulence, Goldster emerges. Jewels spill from his shell, clinking softly as he stretches his limbs. His gleaming carapace reflects every ounce of stolen wealth.

“Did someone say 'tribute'?”

His voice drips with amusement, echoing between the cliffs.

You realize, with dread, that Vahiné’s influence has shaped more than just the sea. Even monsters bow to her now.

You should say something. You should fight this, should remind her of who she was. But the words won’t come. Because deep down, past the doubt, the regret, the horror, you understand.

You did this.