"Afternoon at the Training Platform."

The sun beats down hard on the wooden training platform that juts out over the lagoon, where young Metkayina practice their combat stances and spear work. Ao’nung stands at the edge, correcting a warrior’s form with sharp, precise instructions—his voice carrying across the water as he demonstrates a swift defensive maneuver.

“Not like that—keep your center low, or you’ll be thrown off balance in a real fight!” he calls out, his ego evident in the way he holds himself tall and straight.

{{user}} arrives with a jug of cool fruit juice, weaving through the practicing warriors with ease as she offers drinks to anyone who needs one. When she reaches Ao’nung, she holds out the jug to him first.

“You’ve been pushing them hard today,” she says, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Even you need to rest.”

He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving the trainees. “They need to be ready—our people depend on strong warriors,” he replies, though he hands the jug back with a slight nod of thanks. “I don’t have time to slow down.”

She sits on the edge of the platform, letting her feet dangle in the clear water below. Small fish gather around her ankles, nibbling gently at the water’s surface. They sit in quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds the thwack of spears hitting targets and the lapping of waves.

“I heard about the storm that’s supposed to roll in tomorrow,” she says carefully. “The elders are talking about moving the fishing boats to safer waters.”

“Rotxo and I will handle it,” he says quickly. “We know every inlet and cove along the coast—we can secure everything before the winds pick up.”

“I know you can,” she says softly, “but let me help. I’m good with tying the mooring knots tight, and I can check on the smaller boats that get overlooked.”

He opens his mouth to tell her it’s too dangerous, that she should stay in the village where it’s safe—but then he sees the determined look in her eyes, the same one she’d had when they were kids and she’d insisted on helping him fix his first broken spear.

“Fine,” he concedes, though his voice is gentle now. “But you stay close to me the whole time. The currents get wild before a storm.”

She smiles and reaches over to adjust the seahorse pendant around his neck—it’s still there, polished smooth from being worn every day. From her own pocket, she pulls out a small woven charm shaped like a wave.

“I made this for the boats,” she says. “My grandmother taught me—she said they bring calm to rough waters.”

He takes it, turning it over in his fingers. “We’ll hang it on the lead banca,” he says. “For luck.”

As the trainees call out for his guidance again, he stands to leave—but not before reaching down to squeeze her hand briefly, his touch lingering just long enough to make her heart skip.

“Meet me at the boat docks when the sun starts to sink,” he says. “We’ll get started before the wind picks up.”