The morning after the walk with Luna, Rowan moved through training with a dazed half-smile plastered across his face like a love struck teenager.
Lyra noticed first, of course. She always noticed.
When he stumbled through a Taichii form, she muttered just loud enough for him to hear, "Flailing less, are we?" The smug curve of her mouth made his face burn hotter than the sun.
Mira only gave him a curious look, eyes bright with suspicion, but said nothing. Darin kept his focus on the forms, steady and patient as always. Callen, too caught up in testing his newfound strength, didn't notice anything at all.
Rowan tried to push it aside, but Luna's presence made it impossible. Every time she stepped near to correct his stance, his pulse stumbled. Every time her emerald eyes flicked to his, a spark of the night before came rushing back — the tide pools glowing blue, the silence between them, her lips beneath the stars.
He still couldn't believe it had happened.
---
The days flowed on with the same rhythm. Dawn meant training, afternoons spent in the shallows, evenings feasts beneath lantern light. But Rowan began to notice small changes — first in the Islanders, then in the sea itself.
Children dove for shellfish and came back empty-handed. Garden plots on the edge of the village grew brittle, their leaves wilting no matter how carefully they were watered. Fishermen returned with fewer catches, their nets trailing empty through the surf.
The Islanders whispered, their eyes shadowed.
At first Rowan thought he was imagining it. But Midg darted in strange, anxious circles whenever Rowan waded into the tide. The minnow seemed restless, jittering away from certain reefs as though sensing something Rowan could not.
When Rowan mentioned it to Mira, she only frowned, Todd glimmering silver above her shoulder. "The current feels wrong," she admitted. "Hollow. Like something's missing from it."
That night, Rowan lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling of the hut. In the distance, the sea stretched quiet and still. Too quiet.
---
The next morning, the silence hit him like a stone.
They gathered as always for Taichii on the beach, but there were no dolphins whistling offshore, no whalesong rolling from the deep. The sea lay calm, flat, waiting.
Rowan faltered in his form, his feet sinking into the sand. "Where are they?" he whispered.
Luna's expression tightened, though she tried to hide it. She corrected his stance with her usual grace, but her eyes kept flicking to the horizon, scanning the still waters.
Even Lyra noticed. "Strange," she muttered, arms crossed. "The sea's quieter than usual."
"No," Luna said softly, almost to herself. "Not quieter. Empty."
---
That evening, Rowan found her again by the tide pools. He hadn't meant to — his feet had simply carried him there.
The pools glowed faintly, bioluminescent plankton sparkling beneath the surface. The stars spilled like silver across the sky. For a moment, Rowan wanted to bring up the kiss, to ask what it meant — if it meant anything. But before he could untangle the words, Luna spoke first.
"You hear it, don't you?" she asked.
Rowan frowned. "Hear what?"
"The absence." She gestured toward the black expanse of sea. "No dolphins tonight. No whales singing. No chatter in the current. The water is quiet — too quiet."
Rowan strained his ears. At first he thought she was imagining it, but then he realized she was right. The ocean that had once been alive with sound now lay still. Heavy. Watchful.
His stomach turned. "What does it mean?"
Luna's jaw tightened. "When the sea grows silent, something beneath it has begun to stir."
The words sent a chill down Rowan's spine. He wanted to press her, but the look in her eyes stopped him. She was worried — more worried than she wanted him to see.
---
In the days that followed, the silence deepened.
Rowan helped Islanders mend fishing nets, but the catches dwindled to almost nothing. He joined Mira and Callen in training through the shallows, only to feel the water dead around them, devoid of life. Even Darin, calm as a mountain, admitted, "It feels… wrong. Like the sea itself is holding its breath."
At the evening feasts, Rowan noticed more empty places on the mats, less food piled high. The songs still rose, but they felt subdued, strained.
The Islanders spoke less openly now, their voices lowered to whispers Rowan wasn't always meant to hear.
"The outer islands' crops have failed."
"Whole gardens turning black. The roots brittle."
"My nets come up empty."
"The tides are changing."
Rowan caught pieces of these conversations by the fire, turning them over in his mind until they weighed like stones.
---
One night, restless, Rowan wandered down to the surf. Midg flitted anxiously at his side, darting in tight circles. Rowan crouched, whispering as though the little Soulkin could answer him.
"What's happening, Midg? Why does it feel like the sea is slipping away?"
Midg only flicked his tail and darted out toward the dark horizon before looping back, restless, unhelpful.
Rowan sighed, pressing his forehead to his knees. He thought of Brenner's booming laugh, Ari's calm voice, Ashwyn's nagging wisdom, Nyx's quiet presence, Toren's gentle trust. He missed them with an ache that hollowed his chest.
He wished Brenner were here to steady him, Ari to speak sense, Ashwyn to scold him into focus, Nyx to keep watch in silence, Toren to remind him that the world could still be kind.
But they weren't here. It was just him, fumbling as always, trying to make sense of a silence that felt larger than the sea.
He glanced at Luna's hut in the distance, a lantern glowing faintly within. He thought of her words: When the sea grows silent, something beneath it has begun to stir.
Rowan shivered, staring out into the endless dark water.
Paradise was cracking.
And he feared what would rise through the cracks.