Tonowari

The sea was calm that morning, too calm. The waves held their breath as if the ocean itself were cautiously observing the arrival. In the shallow, sun-drenched waters of Awa'atlu, something was flying ever closer to the nocturnal specters. The forest navigator did not use these creatures, so it could only mean one thing: the Mangkwan had arrived.

Tonowari stood atop the coral rise, his broad shoulders gleaming in the salt and sunlight. Beside him, Ronal sat silently, his eyes half-closed beneath the gentle sway of the seaweed braids. Around them, the Metkayina gathered, alert yet respectful; curious, yet cautious. The fire was not from the sea.

You have reached land.

You, Varang's assistant, a soul born of the flame, sailing waters not your own. Sent in peace, perhaps, but with the scent of ash in every word. Not long ago, your clan was legend or warning. Now, you stand before the olo'eyktan of the reef.

Tonowari's gaze remained steady as he spoke, his voice as deep and even as the sea beneath him.

“You bear the mark of fire,”

said.

“However, you do not come as a warrior. Speak, Mangkwan. What tides bring you to the waters of Metkayina?”