The sea was not content to let me rest. I awoke to the slap of cold rain on my face, each drop a sharp sting against my skin. The sky above had turned to iron, dark clouds rolling like mountains across the heavens. Lightning forked in the distance, illuminating the jagged line of the horizon in brief, blinding flashes.
I gripped the driftwood tighter, my fingers white against its slick surface. The water around me heaved and twisted, waves rising like walls of glass that threatened to swallow me whole. My breath came in short, ragged bursts, the air tasting of salt and cold.
Each wave was a test, a trial that demanded every ounce of my focus. I felt the water beneath me, alive and merciless, its power a song that thrummed in my bones. My arms trembled with the effort of holding on, my legs braced against the ceaseless motion.
The storm was a living thing—each gust of wind a hand that tore at my balance, each wave a hammer that drove me closer to the edge. I called on the water, my voice lost in the roar of the wind. The power within me rose, answering in a slow, reluctant surge. I bent the waves around me, each motion an act of will that burned in my chest.
But the water was no servant. It yielded only for a moment, then slipped away like smoke in the wind. Each time I shaped it, it pushed back harder, testing the limits of my strength and the edges of my resolve.
I thought of the code—the quiet discipline that had guided every breath of my old life. I thought of the elders of the Tsahìk'an, their songs of the sea's patience and its fury. In those memories, I found a stillness that steadied my hands.
Yield when you must. Stand when you can.
I bent the water again, my breath deep and steady. The waves parted, just enough to lift me higher, to keep me from slipping into the cold embrace below. But each motion took more from me, each breath a thread pulled taut.
As the night deepened, the storm showed no mercy. The sky split with lightning, the thunder rolling across the sea in great, shuddering waves. I clung to the driftwood, my body a single point of balance in the endless tumult.
The rain beat against my face, cold and relentless. My hair clung to my skin, each drop a needle that tested my focus. My hands ached with the effort of holding on, my knuckles raw and slick with salt.
The world had narrowed to the storm and the breath in my chest. I did not think of the shore or the village I had left behind. I did not think of the horizon that had vanished in the darkness. There was only the sea, the endless song of the waves and the quiet, stubborn voice within me that refused to let go.
My power grew with each struggle, each moment of balance and loss. I felt the water's shape more clearly, its currents a living dance beneath my hands. I shaped it without thought, each motion a conversation with the sea itself.
But power has its cost. Each wave I bent took more of my strength, each moment of calm a fragile island in the storm. My limbs grew heavy, my breath shallow. The cold seeped into my bones, a slow, patient chill that numbed even my will.
As the night stretched on, I felt the last of my energy slip away. My hands slipped from the wood, the waves tearing it from my grasp. I reached for it, but the water closed over my head in a single, final surge.
The cold of the ocean swallowed me, the weight of the water pressing against my chest. I reached for my power, but it was spent—each breath a ragged gasp that filled my lungs with salt. My vision blurred, the darkness at the edges of my sight growing until it was all I knew.
I let the last of my breath slip from my lips, my body surrendering to the pull of the sea. The world fell away, a quiet hush that was neither pain nor peace.
And then, in the silence of the deep, I let go.