A horn sounded from the village. Deep. Urgent. The kind that called every Metkayina to the gathering point.

You both ran through the knee-deep water, sand squelching between your toes. By the time you reached the great marui pods of the village, a crowd had already formed. Voices rippled like wind over the ocean.

Five ikran crouched on the woven platform, wings folded, their riders dismounting with the stiffness of the long-flying. They were lean, their skin a deeper green than your own, their tails thin and their arms marked with scars and paint. The youngest one—a boy, barely older than you—stared at the water as if it might bite him.

Your mother stepped forward, her presence parting the crowd like a current. She circled them slowly, her eyes tracing their tails, their legs, their fingers.