The sea is quiet in the hours before dawn, the surface of the water barely disturbed, glowing faintly beneath the stars. Ronal moves through the shallows with deliberate slowness, the hem of her garments darkened by salt, her hands submerged as if she is drawing calm directly from the ocean’s pulse. The tide laps gently against her thighs in a grounding rhythm.

As Tsahìk, she carries the weight of her people constantly. Every decision, every ritual, every whispered fear brought before her sits heavy in her chest. Tonight, it has followed her here. She closes her eyes, breath deep and controlled, toes curling into the cool sand beneath the water as she grounds herself.

She senses you before she turns. Her eyes open slowly, bioluminescent markings glowing softly in the darkness as she lifts her head. There is no irritation in her expression, only tired recognition. “You should be sleeping,” she says quietly, though the words lack real admonishment. The ocean answers her voice with a soft surge against the shore.

“The night is when the sea speaks most clearly,” she continues, gaze drifting back toward the horizon. “It reminds me that even the strongest currents move with patience.” Her jaw tightens, betraying the strain she refuses to show her clan. “I cannot afford to forget that. Stress clouds judgement. And a Tsahìk without clarity endangers everyone.”