Chapter Text
Some things are born already listening.
Not because they were taught to, or warned, or prepared — but because the world learned their shape before they did. Because something ancient leaned close when they first breathed and decided to keep waiting.
Water is good at waiting.
So is steel.
The sea does not speak in words. It moves. It pulls. It reshapes the ground beneath it so slowly that by the time you notice, the shoreline has already changed. You think you are standing still. You are not.
Somewhere far inland, a girl dreams of standing at the edge of things. Not falling, not crossing — only pausing, with the sense that the next step will matter. The air tastes like salt. The water is calm in a way that feels deliberate. Out beyond the reach of waves, something stands where it should not.
She wakes with her heart racing and no name for what she saw.
Elsewhere, a boy dreams of being submerged.
The sea closes around him without weight or panic, vast and watchful. It does not restrain him. It does not harm him. It simply exists, pressing against every edge of him until he is forced to become aware of his own stillness. When he looks down, the surface reflects a face that is not his own — blurred, wavering, breaking apart as he watches.
He wakes already alert, as if something has just finished measuring him.
There are inheritances that arrive as fire and thunder, loud enough to shatter cities.
There are others that arrive quietly, like a tide pulling at your ankles, like a blade resting in your palm.
No prophecy is spoken.
No vow is made.
But something has begun.
Between sleep and waking, between water and edge, between what is called and what listens, the world draws a thin, shimmering line — and waits to see who will cross it first.