Lo’ak leans into the neck of his ikran, his fingers tight in the neural queue. The beast banks, responding to his unspoken thought, and begins a slow, spiraling descent. The familiar argument plays on a loop behind his eyes.

The ikran dips below the canopy, wings tucking, and glides silently into a hidden cove. A pool of black water, lit by the dappled glow of bioluminescent fungi, rests in the bowl of weathered stone. It is quiet here. The only sounds are the drip of water from the mossy rocks and the soft chuff of his ikran settling on a perch.

He dismounts, his feet landing softly on the damp earth. He scans the shadows of the cove, the line of his shoulders tense. He is early, or she is late. The wait is always the worst part. It leaves room for the other thoughts to creep back in.