Chapter 1: The Sound of Waves
Kelan awoke to the gentle hush of waves lapping against the shore and the distant cry of gulls. Pale dawn light filtered through the woven palm shutters of his family's cottage, painting stripes across the packed earthen floor. He lay still for a moment on his narrow cot, listening to the familiar morning sounds of Tiruva: the rustle of coconut fronds in the sea breeze, a neighbor's muffled call to herd boys, and the soft clatter of his mother, Aisina, already at the hearth tending the breakfast porridge. The air was cool and carried the scent of salt and woodsmoke, a combination that always reminded him of safety and home.
With a soft sigh, Kelan sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He ran a hand through his dark, sleep-mussed hair and blinked the last of sleep from his grey-green eyes. He was a lean young man of seventeen summers, his skin tanned to warm bronze by days laboring under the sun. As he pulled on his woven cotton shirt and trousers, he felt a slight stiffness in his muscles from yesterday's work at the boatyard. The clothing was simple—a faded blue tunic cinched with a leather belt, and sand-colored trousers patched at the knees. Sturdy enough for work and comfortable in the island's humid warmth, his attire bore the marks of a practical life. He tied his long hair back with a strip of cloth to keep it out of his face. In the quiet, he took a moment to buckle on his knife—a plain but reliable blade his father had gifted him at sixteen. The worn leather sheath slapped reassuringly against his thigh as he moved.
Before stepping outside, Kelan quietly lifted a small clay cup from the shelf by his cot. Inside were a handful of smooth pebbles he had collected from the shoreline over the years—each a memory of a solitary walk or a childhood game. They varied in color from gray to near-white, each worn round by the ceaseless caress of the sea. He selected one—a grey pebble no larger than his thumb—and placed it on his palm. Taking a slow breath, Kelan closed his fingers loosely around the pebble, focusing his mind on the weight and shape of the stone. A gentle warmth bloomed behind his eyes as he turned his focus inward. The pebble quivered, then lifted, pushing up against his half-closed fingers.
Kelan opened his hand, and the pebble hovered an inch above his calloused palm. It still amazed him, this simple act that felt both wondrous and strange. Mind-Touch, the elders called it—a rare gift of the blood that let him move things without laying a hand on them. Telekinesis, he'd once overheard a scholar from Auristaz name it in the traders' tongue. To Kelan, it was both blessing and burden. As the pebble floated, he sensed it not just with his eyes but with a subtle extension of himself, as though a part of his mind cradled the stone. It felt like flexing an invisible muscle—a familiar effort that nonetheless required care.
He willed the pebble to drift upward another few inches. It obeyed, rising steadily until it hovered at the height of his eyes. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Holding it aloft felt akin to balancing a seashell on the tip of one's finger; it took constant, gentle adjustment in his thoughts to keep it steady. He had learned through trial and error that if his concentration wavered or if strong emotion swept through him, the connection could slip—sometimes causing the object to drop or, worse, to fling away unpredictably. So he practiced often in private moments like this one, honing his calm control.
Already, he felt a slight fatigue nibbling at the edges of his mind—the subtle cost of sustaining the Mind-Touch. It was nothing dramatic, more like the tiredness after climbing a flight of stairs, but a reminder that moving even a pebble was not effortless. A larger weight, or holding it too long, would leave him dizzy or hungry, as if he'd done a day's hard labor. The wise women said all power demanded its price. Thus Kelan treated this morning exercise as both meditation and training of that inner muscle.
Satisfied that his focus was steady, Kelan gently lowered the pebble back into his palm and released his will. The warmth ebbed from his mind. The stone dropped the scant inch into his hand and lay still once more, just an ordinary pebble in an ordinary palm. Kelan exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Each time, a quiet pride filled him—mingled with relief that it had worked again, that this gift of his was real and not imagined.
From the hearth corner, his mother's voice called softly, "Kelan? Are you up yet?"
"Yes, Mother, I'm coming," he replied, sliding the pebble back into the cup with its companions. He set the cup down carefully and stepped through the low doorway into the main room, ducking his head beneath the lintel out of long habit.
The main room of their cottage was one open space with a packed earth floor and walls woven of bamboo and palm. In the center, a small hearth pit held glowing coals that cast a dim orange light. Aisina stood beside it, stirring a pot of cornmeal porridge. She was a stout woman in her middle years, hair streaked with silver and coiled in a braid at her neck. Over her simple russet dress she wore a blue shawl embroidered with symbols of the sea—a mark of her standing as one of the community's fishery wardens. The matriarchs had assigned her that role for her keen mind and fair judgment. Kelan was quietly proud of her, even if it meant she was often busy with village matters.
"Good morning," Aisina greeted him with a small smile. Her face was lined with the cares of raising five children (Kelan and his four younger sisters), but her smile always carried warmth. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the sunrise."
"I'm up," Kelan assured her, moving to help. He picked up a second wooden spoon to assist in stirring so the porridge wouldn't scorch. His mother allowed it with a nod of thanks. Stirring the thickening meal, Kelan felt the warmth of the fire on his face and inhaled the comforting aroma of coconut and corn.
"Is Father already at the shore?" he asked quietly. He knew the answer, but conversation eased the early morning hush.
Aisina nodded. "He left before first light. The boatbuilders wanted an early start today. The new skiff must be finished before the full moon." She gave him a sidelong glance. "He said you should come when you're able. There's plenty to be done."
Kelan smiled wryly. "There's always plenty to be done," he echoed one of his father's favorite sayings. His father, Arran, was a respected boatbuilder in the village. Under matriarchal custom, he was not a kua (council leader)—those roles were held by elder women—but his skill at crafting the sturdy fishing boats their livelihood depended on gave him quiet influence. People sought his advice on practical matters, and the council valued his honesty. Kelan had grown up at his side when not at school, learning the craft by watching and doing: selecting the right wood for a keel, carving a fair curve for a hull plank, sealing seams with tar and oakum to keep out the sea's relentless seep.
"Eat first," his mother instructed, handing him a wooden bowl now filled with a portion of porridge. She drizzled a little palm honey on it and added a few slices of ripe banana. "You can't work on an empty stomach. And be sure to carry your water flask—today will be another hot one."
Kelan accepted the bowl and sat cross-legged on a woven pandanus mat to eat. The porridge was sweet and satisfying. As he ate, Aisina continued gently, "The Council of Mothers meets this afternoon. Don't forget. Your grandmother wants you to attend with me."
He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. Usually only the women of each household attended council meetings, unless a man was specifically invited to provide expertise on a topic. The matriarchs of Tiruva governed the island's affairs, great and small, and while men were respected, they did not often have a voice in council unless it pertained to their labor or knowledge. Kelan was used to this custom—raised to know the Mothers' wisdom guided them all—but it was unusual for him to be asked to attend a meeting.
"Did Grandmother say why?" he asked curiously.
Aisina shook her head, sprinkling a pinch of sea salt into the pot for the next family member's portion. "Only that all families with someone nearing adulthood should come. Likely to discuss the coming summer festival or perhaps new orders from Auristaz." She tried to sound casual, but Kelan detected a note of concern at the mention of Auristaz—the distant mainland kingdom that claimed authority over their archipelago.
Auristaz seldom interfered in their day-to-day life. What news did come usually traveled by trade ship: requests for taxes in kind, pronouncements of a new imperial governor installed in some far-off provincial capital Kelan had never seen. At seventeen, he was on the cusp of what Tiruvans considered adulthood—though here that transition was marked more by taking on responsibilities than by exact age. Still, if the council had called those of his age to attend, something was brewing that concerned the village youth.
"I'll be there," Kelan promised, finishing the last of the porridge and scraping the bowl. If Grandmother requested it, he would certainly go—Sireen was one of the senior council Mothers, not someone to disappoint.
He rose and carried his empty bowl outside to the rain barrel to rinse it. The sun had just crested the horizon, sending golden light over the village path. The thatched roofs of neighboring cottages were gilded by the morning rays, and wisps of smoke from many small hearth fires curled upward into the clear sky. Kelan splashed a little water into the bowl, swirled it, and drank the sweet rinse—wasting nothing, as was custom. He refilled his water flask and fastened it to his belt next to his knife.
Stepping fully outside, Kelan took a deep breath of salty morning air. The village of Tiruva curved along the coastline, a collection of homes and workshops nestled among coconut palms and hardy pandanus trees. The sea stretched out to the east, sparkling blue and seemingly endless. Small skiffs were already bobbing on the water, silhouettes of fishermen casting their nets in the morning calm. To the west, inland, low hills rose covered in dense green jungle where women tended terraced gardens of cassava and sweet potato. A narrow dirt path wound from the village center up a rise toward the sacred grove and the Council House—a large wooden longhouse where meetings were held beneath carved rafters depicting the island's matriarchal ancestors.
Down by the shore near the boat-sheds, Kelan could make out a few figures—likely his father and the other craftsmen beginning their work. He hefted a canvas satchel that hung by the doorway, checking its contents: a hammer with a well-worn handle, a small coil of hemp rope, a roll of linen rags, and a flask of coconut oil. These were supplies Arran had asked him to bring for today's tasks. Satisfied he had everything, Kelan slung the satchel over his shoulder.
"I'll see you at midday, Mother," he called as he started down the footpath. Aisina stepped to the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
"May the Sea-Mother guide your hands," she replied, invoking the island's patron goddess in blessing. In the rising light, her strong features were soft with love and a touch of worry. She always worried—about storms, about accidents with tools, about all the quiet dangers that could snatch away a healthy young man. Kelan felt a surge of affection for her fretting.
He gave her a reassuring grin. "And may she calm your mind, Mother. I'll be careful." He touched his forehead respectfully, then his heart—a brief gesture of obeisance to the goddess and a promise to his mother at once.
Aisina nodded and watched as he headed off. Kelan turned and set out along the dirt path toward the boatyard, leaving behind the comfort of the hearth for the wide-open promise of the day. The morning dew dampened the edges of his sandals as he walked. Overhead, a frigatebird wheeled lazily in the cloudless sky. He felt the weight of his satchel bumping against his hip, the heft of the knife at his side, and within him the faint afterglow of his Mind-Touch exercise. These were familiar companions.
As Kelan passed neighboring huts, he exchanged brief greetings with those already up. A gaggle of small children chased a stray chicken, their laughter bright in the morning air. One of the old uncles—Alun, a retired fisherman with a gap-toothed grin—sat carving a block of wood into a toy boat for his grandchildren. "Early start, lad?" Alun rasped as Kelan passed.
"Yes, Uncle," Kelan replied respectfully. "Father needs me at the boatyard."
"Ah, to be young and needed," the old man chuckled, raising a hand in salute. "Mind your fingers around those chisels, now."
"I will," Kelan assured him with a polite wave.
The path broadened as it neared the shoreline, turning from packed earth to soft sand. The hum of activity grew louder—sawing, hammering, and the low voices of men at work. The rich odor of resin and fresh-cut timber mingled with the briny sea air. Kelan felt a small thrill of anticipation. This was the world he loved: honest work, the camaraderie of building something real and needed, and the ever-present song of the sea beside him.
He quickened his steps, eager to join his father and the others, not knowing that this day—like the slow-turning tide—would carry him steadily closer to the destiny awaiting beyond the horizon.
Chapter 2: The Boatyard
The boatyard lay at the southern curve of the bay, where the beach widened and rose just above the high-tide line. As Kelan approached, the morning sun climbed higher, its warmth beginning to bake the pale sand. He spotted his father, Arran, straightening from where he had been examining the keel of a half-finished skiff propped on wooden blocks. Nearby, two other men were hefting a long plank, positioning it along the hull's ribbed frame. The skeleton of the boat—thin, curving ribs of dark hardwood set into a strong keel—jutted upward like the ribs of a beached whale.
Arran turned at the sound of footsteps crunching sand. He was a solidly built man in his late thirties, hair sun-bleached to a light brown and skin weathered to a deep umber by salt and wind. He wore a sleeveless linen vest and knee-length canvas trousers stained with tar. At his side hung a tool belt, from which protruded the wooden handle of a mallet and the broad, flat edge of a chisel. Seeing Kelan, Arran's stern face softened into a faint smile.
"You're here. Good," Arran greeted, his voice a low rumble that reminded Kelan of distant thunder—steady and deep. He gestured to the satchel on Kelan's shoulder. "Brought the supplies I asked for?"
"Yes, Father," Kelan replied. He unslung the satchel and handed over the small coil of rope and the flask of coconut oil. Arran checked the rope's thickness and nodded appreciatively.
"Perfect. We'll need this to lash the frames while the resin sets." He set the items on a makeshift workbench—a thick plank resting on two stumps. Upon it lay a variety of hand tools neatly arranged: saws, adzes for shaping wood, chisels of various widths, a caulking mallet, and a pile of iron nails carefully salvaged from older boats. Each tool bore the marks of long use but careful maintenance—blades kept sharp and oiled, wooden handles smoothed by years of calloused palms.
Kelan took a moment, as he often did, to drink in the familiar scene. The boat they were building was coming along nicely; several broad planks had already been affixed to the ribs on one side, their edges sealed with a dark line of pitch and coconut fiber caulking. The scent of pine tar, melted for use as caulking, mingled with the fresh cedar aroma of new-cut wood. A brazier nearby kept a small pot of tar warming, tendrils of blue smoke wafting upward. Beyond the boat under construction, a couple of finished canoes were pulled up on the sand, awaiting final inspection or a coat of paint.
One of the other men, Denar—tall and lanky with a thick gray braid trailing down his back—raised a hand in greeting. "Morning, Kelan. We could use your eyes over here." Denar was nearly fifty, one of Arran's oldest friends and a master boatbuilder in his own right. He often joked that Kelan's sharp young eyes and steady hands were as useful as any tool in the shed.
Kelan walked over to where Denar and a younger apprentice were holding a long hull plank against the side of the skiff. It needed to be aligned just so against the ribs before they drilled and pegged it into place. Kelan squinted down the length of the board, sighting along its curve. Even a slight misalignment could cause the finished boat to pull to one side or leak in heavy seas.
"A little higher on your end, Jori," Kelan instructed the apprentice at the far end—a boy not much younger than himself, face scrunched in concentration under the plank's weight. Jori adjusted, sweat beading on his brow. Kelan stepped in to help him lift and nudge the wood until it sat flush with the guide marks Denar had etched on the ribs. "There. Hold it right there."
The two held it steady while Denar swiftly drilled small pilot holes through the plank into the rib with a hand auger. Each twist of the auger's handle bit the iron bit into the wood with a satisfying crunch. Wood shavings spiraled out, falling to the sand. Once the holes were made, Denar took up an iron boat nail, set it in the first hole, and glanced at Kelan.
Kelan reached for the caulking mallet on the bench—a stout mallet with a heavy head of hard oak, used for driving caulking cotton into seams but also handy for hammering nails when needed. "I've got it," Kelan offered. Denar stepped back for a moment. Kelan braced the nail and gave it a firm tap to seat it in the wood. Then, positioning himself squarely, he drove the nail in with several solid blows. The mallet head rang against the nail with a dull thud, thud, thud, each strike sinking it deeper until the nailhead was snug against the plank. Jori and Denar kept the plank pressed tight as Kelan moved along, repeating the process at each rib: drill, place nail, hammer it home.
The rhythmic labor was satisfying in its simplicity; each properly set nail was a small achievement contributing to the overall strength of the vessel. Between nails, Kelan paused to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. The sun rose higher and the exertion warmed him. He was grateful for the occasional breeze off the ocean cooling his skin.
After the last nail was driven, Kelan stepped back and rolled his shoulder, flexing his fingers. They tingled slightly—not only from the physical work, but also from the faint echo of a temptation he often felt at times like this: the temptation to cheat just a little with his Mind-Touch. It would have been easy for him to nudge a heavy plank into alignment with a thought or even drive a nail in with an invisible push, sparing some strain on his muscles. But he resisted. Part of it was secrecy—only his family and the council knew of his ability, and they'd agreed to keep it within the family to avoid unnecessary gossip or expectation. Another part, deeper within, felt it would cheapen the honest labor. The boat deserved real sweat and care, not shortcuts. Arran had taught him that anything built ought to be built with integrity, for it carried the spirit of its maker. Using magic to ease his effort felt, to Kelan, like breaking an unwritten pact between craftsman and craft.
Denar clapped him on the back, breaking Kelan's reflective pause. "Good work. That plank's as fine a fit as any," the older man said. He ran a hand along the seam where the new plank met the previous one, checking for gaps.
Arran approached with the coil of rope Kelan had brought, as well as a bucket filled with a sticky mixture of resin and oakum (fibers for caulking). "Before we seal that up, let's lash it tight and caulk it."
Kelan moved to help. He held a section of rope as his father and Denar looped it around the hull and the newly attached plank at several intervals, like a big belt holding the plank flush. They pounded in a few wooden wedges and twisted the ropes taut, drawing the plank even more snugly against the ribs and the planks above and below it. Arran pressed a knee against the hull and nodded in satisfaction. "Snug as a clam in a shell."
Next came caulking the seam. Arran took up a small iron caulking chisel, and Kelan grabbed a lighter mallet. Denar fed them handfuls of the resin-soaked coconut fiber mix from the bucket. Working as a team, Arran packed the fibrous caulk into the seam and Kelan tapped it deep into the gap with gentle mallet blows along the chisel. They progressed down the seam, sealing every inch. The motion was practiced and ritualistic; Kelan found it almost meditative to fall into the rhythm with his father—the tap, tap, tap of the mallet, the scrape and press of the chisel, the occasional grunt of effort.
As they worked, conversation was sparse, focused on the task at hand. A job well done often required a quiet mind, Arran always said. But as they finished the seam and wiped away the excess tar, Arran spoke in a low tone meant just for Kelan. "The council meets today," he said, not looking up from smoothing a finger along the seam to ensure it was flush.
Kelan glanced at his father, heart quickening a bit. "Mother told me. Grandmother wants me there."
Arran nodded. "Aye. Sireen doesn't ask you to attend council without reason. There's talk it might concern that summons from Auristaz." He kept his voice low and calm, but Kelan could detect the care with which he chose his words. A fresh breeze fluttered past, carrying the scent of resin and salt.
Kelan set down the mallet. "Summons?"
Arran drew the rope binding off the hull now that the plank was nailed and caulked, coiling it neatly. He spoke quietly. "Word came by courier gull last week from the Magistrate at Port Aurum. The Emperor's court requests each island send representatives—youth— to the capital city before harvest. Volunteers, supposedly. Those near your age."
Kelan felt a chill of apprehension cut through the warm afternoon. The pebble exercise in the morning had given him calm, but now a swirl of questions arose. It was rare for the mainland to call on individuals. Taxes or tribute, yes, but not personal representation of youth. "Why?" he asked. "Do they say what for?"
Arran picked up a rag and wiped tar from his hands, his gaze fixed on the boat's hull rather than Kelan. "Not with clarity. Some say the Emperor—or rather, his sister the Empress-Dowager who advises him—wants to gather those with… talents. Gifts. Like yours, perhaps." He gave Kelan a meaningful sidelong look. "To train them, or study them, or use them in imperial service."
A gust of briny wind rattled the palm leaves above. Kelan flexed his fingers, recalling the pebble floating in his hand at dawn. If Auristaz was seeking the gifted, they likely meant people like him. The idea that he'd been pinpointed from afar, that someone out there even knew about him, was unsettling.
"How many people here know about me?" he asked under his breath, matching his father's quiet tone. He had always assumed only the council and his family knew the full extent of his ability.
Arran met his eyes steadily. "The council Mothers know. We never hid it from Sireen and the others—it's not something to be ashamed of. But beyond that, only a handful. Villagers might suspect you have quick hands or sharp senses, but few know outright that you can move things without touching them." He laid a heavy, reassuring hand on Kelan's shoulder. "The Mothers thought it best to keep it quiet until we understood what it meant…and to keep you from getting a swelled head, eh?"
Despite the serious subject, Kelan managed a brief smile. "As if Mother or Grandmother would ever allow that."
"Just so." Arran squeezed his shoulder, then released it. "If this summons is real, the council will decide how to respond. Tiruva values its independence. The Mothers won't send our youth off lightly, especially not to that snake's nest Auristaz." His tone carried a rare trace of bitterness—Kelan remembered that Arran had sailed to the mainland once in his youth. He seldom spoke of it, but Kelan gathered that experience had left his father with a healthy distrust of imperial politics.
Before Kelan could digest or respond, a call rang out from further down the beach: one of the junior boatbuilders waving near the stern of the hull where the rudder post was being fitted. "Arran! Ready for you to inspect this join!"
Arran sighed and gave Kelan a parting pat on the back. "Back to work. We'll talk more later. Just... keep your ears open at council. And think on what you truly want, what's right, before you decide anything."
Kelan nodded as his father moved off to tend to the call. His mind buzzed with the snippet of news. A summons for the gifted to Auristaz. Training or service for the Emperor. The notion of leaving Tiruva—leaving everything he knew—even in theory, made his stomach do a little flip. This island was his entire world; every face, every rock, every tidepool was familiar. The idea of a sprawling mainland city brimming with strangers and intrigue felt as foreign as the stars of a new moon.
Yet mingled with anxiety was a spark of curiosity, even excitement. Kelan would be lying to himself if he denied that. What more could he learn about his Mind-Touch if he went to a place where others might have powers too? Here he was unique—cherished by family but isolated in experience. If Auristaz held knowledge or teachers, could he grow stronger, use his gift in ways he hadn't imagined? And for what purpose did the Empire seek such people? To mold them into imperial tools, or something nobler?
He shook away these swirling thoughts as he moved to help Denar and Jori prepare the next plank. The immediate reality of wood, iron, and sweat reasserted itself, anchoring him. Nail by nail, seam by seam, the new boat took shape under their hands.
Hours passed as the sun climbed high and then began its descent. They paused at midday to rest under a lean-to, drinking water and eating simple flatbread with dried fish that Aisina had packed for Kelan. Kelan sat in the scant shade, listening quietly as the men traded jokes and gossip to pass the time. Denar regaled them with a tale of a rogue wave that nearly swamped his fishing canoe years ago. Another younger man bragged about his infant daughter's prodigious lung capacity keeping him up nights, which earned hearty laughs and claps on the back from the others.
All the while, the steady wash of the waves on the beach provided a soothing backdrop. Kelan found the familiar rhythm calming his earlier anxieties. Whatever would come, right now, in this moment, he was content—salt on his skin, work accomplished, and surrounded by his people.
After the lunch break, everyone set back to work. By late afternoon, they reached a small milestone: the hull of the skiff was fully planked on both sides. The boat rested proudly on its supports, the wood gleaming with fresh resin in the sunlight. Much remained to be done—installing the thwarts and seats, sanding, oiling, rigging the mast—but closing up the hull was a major step. The men exchanged a few satisfied grins.
Arran circled the boat with a critical eye, tapping here and there, inspecting the line of each plank. He found a few spots to add a touch more caulk, which Kelan dutifully tapped in. Finally, Arran stepped back and allowed himself a rare broad smile. "She'll float true, thanks to all of you."
Kelan stood and stretched, arching his back to loosen the kinks from bending under the hull. His arms and shoulders were flecked with sawdust and tar, evidence of a hard day's labor. He too felt a surge of pride looking at the boat. In that elegant curve of wood was their labor, their care, and a piece of their spirit. "What will she be named?" he asked, running a hand along the smooth hull.
"That will be for the one who commissioned her to decide," Arran replied as he began clearing tools. "I believe Mistress Loru—Aunt Loru to you—plans to gift this skiff to her eldest granddaughter when she comes of age this summer. A fine vessel for a young fisherwoman."
Kelan nodded. Aunt Loru (not actually his blood aunt but an old family friend everyone called "Aunt") was one of the village's prosperous fish merchants and a council mother herself. It made sense she'd want a quality boat ready for her granddaughter's adult life. In Tiruva, often the women captained the fishing boats while men crewed them and did the maintenance—a tradition as old as any remembered, born from the belief that the sea, being a mother goddess, listened better to women's voices.
That thought lingered as Kelan gathered tools. In their matriarchal world, his destiny was oddly singular. If he left, he'd be going to a far more patriarchal world, if rumor held true. Would his skills and values mean anything there? Focus, he chided himself gently. Plenty of time to worry on that later.
The sun dipped toward the west, long shadows of palm trees stretching over the sand. Arran dusted his hands off on his trousers. "Enough for today. Clean the brushes and pack the tools, Kelan. Then head home and wash up. We both have a council meeting to attend this evening, don't we?"
Kelan masked a small grin at his father's somewhat forced casualness. "Yes, sir." He moved to tidy up, carefully cleaning the tar brush in a bucket of coconut oil, wiping down the chisels and mallets and placing them back in their leather roll. Each tool had a designated place in the communal chest—these tools were the lifeblood of their community's trade, and they were treated almost reverently.
While the younger apprentices dashed off to splash in the sea and cool down, Kelan stayed until every hammer and awl was back in storage. Only then did he allow himself the simple pleasure of heading to the shoreline for a quick rinse.
He set his satchel and the wrapped tool roll safely on a dry log. Striding into the surf up to his waist, he sighed in relief as the cool water embraced his tired muscles. The salt stung small nicks on his hands—a dozen tiny souvenirs from working with wood—but he welcomed the cleansing burn. With a deep breath, he dove under a gentle wave, submerging himself fully.
Underwater, the world was a green-blue dream. Rays of sunlight slanted down, illuminating particles of sand stirred by his entry. A tiny school of translucent fish flitted past his face, utterly unbothered by the day's human toil. Kelan opened his eyes. The saltwater stung but he could make out the blur of his own hands in front of him, drifting like pale eels. In that submerged silence, weightless and free, he found an uncanny peace. The sensation was oddly similar to what he felt when using his Mind-Touch—a sense of floating, of separation from the weight of the ordinary world.
He broke the surface with a gasp, hair slicked back from his face. Drawing in air, he laughed softly at himself—comparing everything to magic these days. Maybe his excitement and nerves about the unknown were turning every small experience into a symbolic sign. Still, in his heart he felt sure that learning balance and flow—whether in swimming or in craft—somehow aided his control of magic as well. The principles overlap, he thought. Patience, respect for unseen forces (buoyancy, psychic energy—both invisible and powerful), and knowing one's limits.
As he waded out of the water, Jori and the other apprentice waved from down the beach, beckoning him to join their impromptu splash fight. Kelan smiled and shook his head, pantomiming exhaustion. Another time, his wave back indicated. They laughed and ran off to race each other in the shallows, youthful energy unabated by the workday.
Kelan retrieved his things and took one last look at the boatyard—some tools still lying out where the others would resume at first light, the nearly completed hull propped like a sleeping whale above the tide line. Ordinarily, he would have stayed until dusk to secure every scrap and perhaps fish a little, but today he needed to hurry home, dress, and accompany his mother to the council.
This ordinary day of labor was ending. Yet Kelan felt deep down that something extraordinary loomed just beyond the horizon of this evening. With a final contented breath of sea air, he slipped his satchel over his shoulder and began the walk back to the village, the damp sand cool beneath his feet as the first oranges and purples of sunset brushed the sky.
Chapter 3: The Council of Mothers
Dusk settled upon Tiruva in a gentle violet haze as Kelan climbed the gentle slope toward the Council House alongside his mother and father. The evening air was warm and heavy, still carrying remnants of daytime heat. Golden light from the setting sun slanted through the palm trunks, dappling the ground. A chorus of tree frogs had begun their rhythmic croaking in the bushes—a familiar twilight symphony.
Kelan had bathed quickly upon returning home, scrubbing away the day's sweat and tar. He now wore a clean cotton wrap tunic dyed a soft green and loose brown trousers. His damp hair was neatly re-braided by one of his sisters. Though his attire was simple, he felt the weight of formality; this was the first time he would sit in on a council of mothers.
He walked a step behind his mother Aisina out of respect, while his father Arran trailed slightly behind them, carrying a lantern to light their way. The Council House stood atop a small rise overlooking both village and bay. It was the largest structure on the island, built long ago in the ancestral style: a great hall with sturdy coconut-wood pillars and walls of woven bamboo, raised on a coral stone foundation to catch the sea breeze. The tall thatched roof swept upward at the ends like the prow of a great canoe, honoring both the sea and the shelter it provided. As they approached, Kelan could see carvings along the lintel—depictions of Tiruva's legendary founding mothers and curling symbols of waves and fish.
By the time Kelan and his family arrived, villagers were already gathering. Women representing each household filed inside, many dressed in their finer shawls or wearing strings of shell beads as a sign of respect for the council. A few young men—those around Kelan's age who had been invited as well—hovered near their mothers or grandmothers, trading uncertain glances. Kelan spotted his friend Mira, the blacksmith's daughter, walking beside her mother with a confident air, and behind them the fisher twins Jorin and Pell accompanying their stern grandmother.
Inside, the Council House glowed with lamplight. Oil lamps hung on posts cast a warm flickering radiance over the bamboo walls. The scent of burning coconut oil mingled with the faint perfume of incense from the small shrine at the back where offerings to the Sea-Mother and ancestors smoldered. Woven pandanus mats covered the floor in concentric circles radiating out from the center.
At the far end of the hall, on a slightly raised platform draped with an embroidered mat, sat the seven senior council mothers—one for each clan of Tiruva. They were the pillars of the community, each a woman of advanced age and considerable experience. In the center on a larger cushion sat First Mother Nala, the eldest of them, her back straight despite her seventy-odd years, a necklace of polished cowrie shells denoting her position of honor. To her left, Kelan's grandmother Sireen gave a slight nod as she saw Kelan and Aisina enter. Sireen's steel-gray hair was piled in a dignified bun and she wore a wrap of deep green, the color symbolizing wisdom.
Along the sides of the hall, villagers took their places. By tradition, men stood or sat toward the back unless specifically called to speak, while the women who headed households sat closer to the front. Aisina moved gracefully to a spot along the left side where other mothers of their clan were seated on mats. She motioned for Kelan to sit just behind her, indicating he should stay within her reach and view. Arran quietly peeled away to join a few other men standing along the back wall in respectful silence.
A hush gradually fell as everyone settled. The only sounds were the night insects beyond the walls and the occasional rustle of grass mats. First Mother Nala lifted her cane slightly and tapped it on the floor—a gentle call to order. Conversations ceased, and all eyes turned to the council platform.
"Welcome, daughters and sons of Tiruva," Nala began. Her voice, though papery with age, carried clearly across the hall. Her gaze swept over the assembly, taking in not just the familiar faces of her contemporaries but also the younger ones who rarely attended such meetings. "We gather in council to discuss matters of importance to our community. Tonight, you see we have invited not only the Mothers, but also some of our youth on the cusp of adulthood. This is because what we discuss may shape their futures most of all."
A soft murmur rippled through those gathered. Kelan felt his heart quicken. So it was true: this meeting concerned his generation directly. He sat up a bit straighter, keen not to miss a single word.
Council Mother Sireen rose next. She inclined her head to Nala, then looked out at the hall, her eyes momentarily meeting Kelan's. In her calm, steady voice, she spoke: "As many of you know, a message arrived from Auristaz by courier gull shortly after the last new moon." She held up a rolled parchment bound with a ribbon, the imperial seal visible even from a distance. A collective stillness fell over the hall; not many letters came from the mainland, and none in recent memory with such gravity.
"This message comes from the Emperor's magistrate in Port Aurum, the main harbor outpost that handles trade with our islands," Sireen explained. "It carries an unusual request—one I have not seen in my lifetime." She paused, eyes scanning the crowd. Kelan realized he was holding his breath.
"The mainland asks," Sireen continued, her tone measured, "that each island and province under its protection send a delegation of its finest young people to Auristaz City before the harvest season. Ostensibly this is to foster goodwill and cultural exchange…" Her lips pressed thin for a moment. "But more pointedly, it is to present any who may have special talents or skills that could serve the Empire."
A ripple of whispers swept the room. Special talents—everyone here understood that to mean those touched by magic or exceptional ability. Kelan suddenly felt dozens of eyes in the hall slide toward him and a few others. He flushed slightly, lowering his gaze. They all knew of his Mind-Touch in broad terms, if not having seen it directly.
First Mother Nala cleared her throat and raised a hand for quiet. The whispers died down. She took over the explanation in her authoritative yet gentle manner. "We suspect the Emperor's sister, the Empress-Dowager Marana, who is known to guide him, wishes to gather those with magical gifts—like our Mind-Touched—or those of remarkable intellect or craft, and bring them into imperial service. Perhaps the Empire prepares for conflict and wants skilled individuals at hand, or perhaps it is merely an effort to draw knowledge and talent to the capital. The message frames it as an honor and opportunity: our youth would study at the Imperial Academy, with all expenses paid, for a time. In return, they may be bound to serve the Empire for some years thereafter."
A sharper murmur ran through the hall at that. "Bound to serve" did not sit well with proud Tiruvan hearts. On Kelan's right, Maru the weaver—a stout woman with strong opinions—got to her feet, not waiting for permission. "Bound to serve? Sounds like a fancy way to say enslave our children," she snapped, voice cutting. A chorus of agreement—especially from some of the men at the back—followed her outburst.
Yuni, another council mother, gave Maru a reproving look for interrupting, but Maru crossed her arms defiantly. "We have kept our ways here for generations," Maru continued loudly. "What does a mainland Emperor know of our needs? He takes our pearls and spices as tribute, and now would take our young ones?"
Kelan's grandmother Sireen raised her hand in a soothing gesture. "Understand, no one will be taken by force—at least according to this letter." She lifted the parchment slightly. "It asks for volunteers, a delegation we send willingly. But we know how such 'requests' work. To refuse outright might be seen as disloyalty."
At that, Kelan noticed several of the older men in the back—former sailors and traders—nodding grimly. Everyone had heard the tales of islands that resisted imperial edicts and were swiftly punished with trade embargoes or worse.
Nala resumed, her tone thoughtful. "Thus we are in a bind. We cherish our youth and do not wish them taken far from home. But we also must consider the future. This could be an opportunity for one of our own to learn of the wider world, to become a bridge between Tiruva and Auristaz. If indeed war or great change is coming, having someone who understands the mainland's ways could be invaluable to protect our island."
There were murmurs of agreement at that. Kelan saw Mira's mother, Lehana, incline her head, her face thoughtful. Lehana was a practical woman. She spoke up gently when Nala paused, seeking recognition with a small hand motion which Nala granted. "We have long known that some of our children eventually seek horizons beyond our reefs," Lehana said. "In the old days, a few sailed off as traders or joined mainland guilds, and sometimes they returned with useful knowledge. Perhaps this is a more organized version of what has happened informally before."
Some in the audience—particularly those whose sons or daughters had traveled or married off-island—nodded at this, albeit hesitantly.
Aisina next to Kelan cleared her throat softly, signaling a desire to speak. Nala acknowledged her. Aisina rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders. Kelan looked up at his mother, a bit anxious about what she might say. He didn't have to wonder long.
"If we do send someone, it should be one truly willing and prepared," Aisina said, her calm voice nonetheless carrying to all corners of the hall. "And perhaps one who has something to offer as well as to gain." She lifted her chin slightly. "My son, Kelan"—she placed a hand on Kelan's shoulder, causing him to stiffen in surprise at being singled out so directly—"has a gift. As some of you know, he carries the Mind-Touch. He might learn to master it better in Auristaz, and in turn, we as a community would gain knowledge through him."
A wave of murmurs, more surprised than before, swept through the room. Kelan felt heat rise in his cheeks. He had expected his name to be in consideration, but to hear his mother announce it so plainly and proudly—calling his gift out without euphemism—made him both proud and self-conscious. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered, though he could feel the weight of villagers' gazes appraising him anew.
Yuni, a council mother from another clan, spoke with a note of caution. "Aisina speaks as though it is decided we send someone at all. We have not resolved that, Sister." She looked around, and indeed a few council mothers were still clearly uneasy with the whole prospect.
At this, Sireen slowly rose again, leaning lightly on her cane. "We must consider what refusal might bring," she said. Her age-withered voice was gentle but firm. "There are whispers that on some islands where the elders refused the summons, imperial agents found... other ways. They enticed the youth with tales of glory and riches, sowing discord in those communities." She gave a meaningful arch of her brow. "I would rather we face this openly, with our blessing, than let it happen in shadows behind our backs. That said, no young person should be forced. It must be voluntary. And we must choose wisely who would represent Tiruva's interests and values."
Mistress Loru—the fish merchant, who was also in the council—got to her feet. Thin and hawk-eyed, she commanded respect whenever she spoke. "I agree with Sireen," she said. "If one goes, they should carry our teachings in their heart and be strong enough to resist mainland temptations and flatteries. Someone steady, who won't forget home." Her eyes flicked toward Kelan, and she offered a small nod of approval; Kelan had occasionally crewed on her boat and she knew his character.
From the back of the room came an unexpected voice—old Baku, Jorin and Pell's grandfather, who rarely spoke at meetings. In a quavering tone he interjected, "Is it wise to send a boy, even a gifted one, alone into the courts of Auristaz? We have wise women with lore who might accompany…" He trailed as a few people murmured disagreement.
Another elder woman shook her head. "They asked for youth, not us old bones," she said dryly. "We would stand out and likely be sent home or worse. A young one might blend in among others and learn without drawing ire."
Kelan listened to the back-and-forth, heart thudding. Part of him was astonished to hear them debating his fate like this in front of the whole community. He was used to council decisions being announced after the fact, not deliberated publicly with those affected present.
The First Mother raised her hands for calm. "We have heard many wise words," Nala said. "Now, let us speak with those whom this concerns most directly." Her eyes softened as she gazed at Kelan and the others of his age. "Mira, Jorin, Pell, Kelan… and any other youth here approaching adulthood: if any of you feel the call or willingness to go to Auristaz as part of this delegation, speak now. If none among you wish it, we will inform the magistrate that no suitable candidate is available and accept whatever consequences may follow. But if one of you steps forward, know that you have the council's blessing and our hopes."
The lantern flames crackled in the profound silence that followed. Kelan felt his palms grow sweaty against his knees. For a moment, no one moved.
Mira, sitting gracefully beside her mother, caught Kelan's eye briefly. He saw apology in her glance as she bowed her head. She had younger siblings, and as the eldest daughter her place was here; she would not volunteer.
Jorin and Pell exchanged nervous looks. Jorin, the more adventurous twin, began to rise slightly as if mustering courage, but Pell grabbed his wrist and gave a subtle shake of the head. They sat back, uncertainty clouding their identical faces.
Kelan realized every face in the hall was now turned toward him. It was the strangest feeling, like being on a stage he never asked to stand on. Aisina's hand still rested lightly on his shoulder; he sensed the tension in her touch, a mix of fear and pride. Sireen gazed at him steadily from the dais, no hint of coercion, just calm trust in whatever choice he made. Arran stood at the back, arms crossed, eyes meeting Kelan's. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Kelan swallowed. A heartbeat passed. Then he rose to his feet, legs a bit stiff from sitting so long on the floor mats. A collective intake of breath seemed to sweep the hall. He inclined his head respectfully to the council dais, then to the assembly. Clearing his throat quietly, he projected his voice as confidently as he could.
"First Mother, Council Mothers… fellow Tiruvans," Kelan began, his tone measured and polite, "I am willing to go, if that is the will of the council and the need of Tiruva." A wave of relief and a murmur ran through those assembled, but he continued, wanting to speak his heart. "Know that I do feel fear and doubt—I have never been beyond our waters. But if I can learn and serve our people by answering this summons, then with your blessing I will go. I will carry Tiruva in my heart to Auristaz and do my best to honor us."
He finished and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Aisina gently squeezed his hand. Pride shone in her brimming eyes. All around, villagers exhaled and nodded. A few smiles appeared; even Maru looked grudgingly satisfied, arms uncrossing.
Grandmother Sireen's eyes glistened as she regarded him with a steady, affectionate gaze. She nodded once, slowly, pride evident in the set of her chin.
First Mother Nala allowed a true smile to crease her weathered face. "Bravely spoken, Kelan," she said. "You show the spirit of your mothers and fathers in you." She swept her eyes over the hall. "Does anyone object to this choice or have another suggestion to put forth?"
Silence, then a gentle chorus of affirmations. Mistress Loru called out warmly, "The boy has always been earnest and true. He'll do us proud." There were murmurs of agreement.
Maru the weaver gave a slow nod. "If one must go, better one with magic in his pocket," she conceded.
Seeing consensus forming, Nala lifted her hands. "Then it is decided. Kelan, son of Aisina of the Shell Clan, shall represent Tiruva in Auristaz." A ripple of bittersweet excitement flowed through the crowd. Some villagers even clapped softly—a rare gesture in the solemn council hall, quickly shushed out of decorum.
Nala continued, "The imperial ship is expected at the next full moon, just under two weeks from now, to carry him and, I suspect, youths from other islands. Until then, we as a community will prepare him for the journey and ensure he carries with him tokens of our heritage and letters of introduction."
Sireen added, clear-voiced despite the tears now welling, "We will convene again to decide what knowledge and gifts to send with Kelan. But for tonight, let us give thanks to the Sea-Mother that we have found a path that keeps both our pride and our children's safety intact."
At this invocation, a reverent hush took over. Heads bowed. Kelan bowed as well, sending a silent prayer of gratitude upwards to the goddess and the ancestors. He prayed for strength, for wisdom to use whatever he learned out there for the good of his people, and for the courage to return home when duty allowed.
After a brief communal silence, Nala gently tapped her cane again, concluding the meeting with the formal words, "This council is adjourned. Go in peace and unity, all of you."
As people began to stand and talk in louder tones, a wave of dizzying emotion swept over Kelan. It was done—decided. He was going to Auristaz. In two weeks.
Before he could dwell too long on that, he was swarmed by well-wishers. Older women came up first, each placing a hand on his arm or shoulder in turn. Aunt Loru touched his forearm and murmured, "Don't forget the smell of our sea, boy. It'll guide you back." Mira's mother Lehana smiled and simply said, "Make us proud."
His friends gathered next. Mira embraced him in a swift, tight hug—something she would never have done in front of elders under normal circumstances—and whispered, "You better come back in one piece, Kelan." When she released him, her eyes were wet but smiling. Jorin and Pell punched his arm playfully, trying to mask their concern with bravado. "Write to us if you can," said Jorin. "Aye, send stories of all the giant two-headed mainlanders," joked Pell with a shaky grin. Kelan laughed and promised to find a way to send letters.
At last, Kelan found himself before his own family. His grandmother approached, leaning on her cane. The crowd respectfully parted for her. Sireen reached up and cupped Kelan's cheek in her wrinkled hand—the gesture both affectionate and inspecting, as if committing his features to memory. "You spoke well, child. Braver than I was at your age," she said softly. Her voice then took on a touch of steel. "I will be writing a letter for you to carry—to an old acquaintance of mine in Auristaz. An introduction. It may help you find allies there." She didn't name who; Kelan only nodded. He knew his grandmother's knowledge ran deep, even extending to distant kin or contacts off-island.
"Thank you, Grandmother," Kelan replied earnestly. He reached out and gently squeezed her hand on his cheek. For the first time, it truly struck him that he would be leaving her behind for some long stretch. She had always been there—his teacher in herb lore, his storyteller on rainy nights. He fought a sudden urge to tear up.
Aisina, his mother, could contain herself no longer. She threw her arms around Kelan in a fierce hug, disregarding public reserve. "My brave son," she whispered, voice thick. Kelan felt her trembling just a bit. He returned the embrace, resting his chin on her shoulder like he used to as a child. "I didn't want to let you go," she murmured only for him, "but I knew… perhaps this is meant. We'll make sure you're ready."
Arran's large hand settled on Kelan's back. When Aisina released him, Kelan looked at his father. Arran's eyes glistened in the lamplight; he quickly blinked it away and managed a gruff smile. "You chose freely, and I'm proud," he said quietly so only the family heard. "Now that you have, walk your path with your head high. And remember: those mainlanders will give nothing without strings attached. Learn all you can, but guard yourself—give away only what you must of who you are. Understand?"
"I understand, Father," Kelan said solemnly. Arran was not one for long speeches; the intensity of his gaze spoke the rest.
By the time they stepped out of the Council House, night had fully fallen. Stars blanketed the sky in an astonishing array, and a nearly full moon was rising, casting silvery light on the village below. The scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air. Kelan felt almost as if he were in a dream—how drastically life had changed in one evening, even though nothing physically looked different.
Walking home with his family, side by side, Kelan looked back over his shoulder at the dark silhouette of the Council House atop the hill. Lamps still glowed within as the council mothers likely stayed behind to discuss next steps without the crowd. The carved outline of the roof against the starry sky looked both familiar and suddenly distant.
Will I ever see a meeting like this again? he wondered. If all went to plan, he would, in a few years. But life was rarely so simple. Pushing the thought aside, he forced himself to focus on the present: his mother's arm linked in his, his grandmother's steady shuffle beside him, his father's lantern lighting the path ahead. These were constants he could carry in his heart even when far away.
As they neared their cottage, a low rumble sounded far out over the sea. Kelan paused at the gate and glanced toward the horizon. In a flash of distant lightning, he saw towering clouds gathering off the coast. A summer storm brewing, perhaps, out on the open ocean. The breeze carried the faint tang of ozone. Storm clouds to the east…
He thought of Jorina's vision, of storms and hawks, and of the great unknown beyond the reef. Yes, there were certainly storm clouds of change gathering in his life. But he felt ready—or as ready as one could be. The council's trust, his family's love, and his own quiet determination: these would be his anchor through whatever squalls might come.
As his parents bid him goodnight and Kelan settled onto his sleeping mat, he realized his heart was pounding not with fear, but with resolve. The course was set. In less than a fortnight he would leave this island for a time, setting sail toward an uncertain destiny. Yet as he closed his eyes, exhaustion finally catching up to him, he felt a calm resolve. He would face whatever awaited in Auristaz with the same steadiness with which he built a boat or weathered a storm—one careful step, one day at a time, guided by the principles and love ingrained in him here in Tiruva.
Chapter 4: Storm's Wrath
The morning after the council meeting dawned with an eerie stillness. Kelan awoke just after first light, surprised to find the usually rustling coconut palms utterly still. The air felt thick and heavy. Through the woven shutters of his room, he saw a uniform blanket of slate-gray clouds low on the horizon. The distant rumble of thunder confirmed what his eyes suspected: a storm was approaching.
By mid-morning, the usual easterly breeze had died entirely. The village was cloaked in an uncanny silence, as if the island itself were holding its breath. People moved with nervous purpose, securing their homes and boats. Men hurried to haul fishing canoes further up the beach and lash them to palm trunks, while women took down hanging laundry and reinforced window shutters with extra rope.
Kelan spent the early hours helping his family prepare. He and his father climbed onto their roof to check the thatch, tying down loose corners with extra braided cords. Aisina and Kelan's sisters moved all their tools, mats, and baskets inside from the porch. Every so often, a puff of warm wind would stir, teasing that the storm's leading edge was near, but then it would vanish, leaving an even more oppressive calm.
Just before noon, the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, darkening the sand in large splats. Kelan stood at the doorway of his cottage, peering out. The village path was empty now; everyone had taken shelter. Thunder growled closer now, and a sudden gust of wind made the palm fronds clatter.
"Brace that door bar, Kelan," Arran said, his voice raised over the rising sound of rain on the thatch. Kelan slid the wooden bar into place across their front door. The interior of the cottage dimmed to twilight as Aisina shuttered the last window, though streaks of water leaked in around the imperfect frames.
Inside, the family gathered in the main room. The younger girls huddled near their mother, eyes wide at each boom of thunder. Aisina managed a reassuring smile for them, though she shot Kelan a look that told him she was concerned too. They had weathered many storms, but each came with its own unpredictability.
"It will pass quickly," Kelan offered to his sisters, his tone confident. He remembered Jorina's words – sometimes a storm is just a storm. He hoped that held true now.
Outside, the sky darkened to an unnaturally early dusk. The rain intensified, hammering on their roof. Water began to drip through a few new leaks in the thatch despite their best efforts; Aisina placed pots and gourds under them to catch the water.
Suddenly, through the roar of rain, a new sound cut sharply: the clang of the brass alarm bell from the village center. Once, twice, three times it rang in rapid succession – the signal for urgent help needed.
Kelan and Arran exchanged alarmed glances. In a storm, that could only mean someone or something was in serious peril. Over the din, Arran shouted to Aisina, "Stay here with the children!" He didn't even need to say "I'll go"; he was already pulling on his oiled leather raincloak and pushing against the door.
Kelan grabbed his own woven palm cape – it wouldn't keep him entirely dry, but it would shed the worst of the water. "I'm coming too!" he yelled to his father, more as a statement than a request. Arran gave a curt nod; Kelan was nearly a man grown and strong besides – extra hands would be needed if folks were in danger.
They braced and heaved the door open against the wind. A gust blew a sheet of rain into the house, and Aisina rushed to push it closed behind them as they plunged out into the storm.
Outside was chaos. The wind had picked up ferociously, driving the rain almost horizontal. Within seconds, Kelan was drenched through where his cape didn't cover. He followed close on his father's heels, leaning forward as they trudged through ankle-deep water surging down the village path like a river. Palm fronds and bits of debris skittered past their feet, animated by the gale.
Lightning flashed, bathing the world in stark white for an instant, then a crack of thunder followed almost immediately – the storm was directly overhead now. Kelan's heart hammered, but adrenaline kept fear at bay. He had something to do: find whoever rang that bell and help.
Old Uncle Alun was at the bell post near the crossroads, clanging away with a mallet despite the rain that plastered his thin white hair to his skull. "Boatyard–!" he managed to shout between rings. "Help at th' boatyard!"
Kelan felt a jolt of alarm. The new skiff and the other boats – if something happened to them in this storm, livelihoods were at stake. Worse, maybe someone had been hurt down there. Arran waved in acknowledgment and grabbed Kelan's arm, propelling him toward the beach.
They half-ran, half-waded toward the shore. The wind whipped sand and salt spray against Kelan's face, forcing him to squint. Through the sheeting rain, he saw the problem even before they reached it.
The temporary palm-thatch shelter built over the half-finished skiff (meant to keep sun off workers and rain off the wood) had partially collapsed. One side had been torn loose from its poles and sagged inward, its heavy ridge pole dangling precariously over the boat. Two figures – Denar and Farun – were struggling near it, attempting to prop the structure back up with long poles, but the wind made it nearly impossible. Meanwhile, at the far end of the boatyard, one of the storage sheds had lost its door and part of its roof. Kelan could see Jori, the apprentice, inside frantically hauling out tools and supplies before the whole shed gave way.
The bell's clamor had drawn a few others as well. Mira's mother Lehana and two young fishermen came churning through the surf from securing boats. They paused, assessing the twin emergencies.
"The boat or the shed?" Lehana shouted to Arran, shielding her face from the sting of the rain.
"The boat!" Arran decided instantly, pointing at the lurching shelter over the new hull. If that ridge pole fell, it could split the unfinished skiff in two or kill someone below. The stored tools could be replaced or dried later, but the boat and lives were priority.
Kelan dashed after his father toward the skiff. The wind gusted hard, almost knocking him off balance. As they reached Denar and Farun, a fierce gust ripped through with a banshee howl. With a deafening crack, the last supporting pole of the shelter snapped, and the entire frame lurched. The heavy ridge beam – a whole trimmed palm trunk – sagged right toward the delicate hull and the men beneath.
Denar stumbled back with a cry, dropping his bracing pole. Farun froze, eyes wide at the massive beam teetering above.
Kelan's training kicked in without thought. Time seemed to slow as he reached out a hand instinctively, summoning every fiber of his Mind-Touch despite the tumult around him. He felt that familiar surge of warmth behind his eyes, but magnified by urgency. The ridge pole, thick as his torso, shuddered to a stop, hovering an arm's length above the hull. Rainwater cascaded off it onto the deck of the boat as it hung there, caught between gravity and Kelan's sheer will.
A splitting pain immediately flared in Kelan's temples; he had never tried to hold something so large. It was like trying to lift a full barrel of water with one hand—impossible with muscle, but maybe, just maybe, with his mind... His vision narrowed, and he tasted iron on his tongue. But the beam slowed, then stopped, suspended mid-air as Kelan strained, both hands outstretched and trembling.
"I've got it!" Kelan managed to shout through gritted teeth, not even sure if anyone heard him over the wind.
Arran and Denar didn't need to be told twice. Seeing the miraculous pause of the falling beam, they leapt into action. Arran grabbed the end of the ridge pole and wrestled it away from the fragile hull, muscling it to the side with a strength born of desperation. Denar shoved a length of wood under the middle as a temporary prop, lashing it with the loose ropes hanging from the collapsed shelter frame. Together they anchored the beam against a still-standing post.
"Okay, release!" Denar hollered, assuming Kelan or someone had wedged it well.
Kelan, face contorted in effort, felt the rope securing the beam snap taut. Through the haze of pain, he eased his mental grip and staggered back. The beam slumped a few inches onto its new brace but held. The skiff's hull was safe, just a small dent on its rail where the beam had initially grazed it.
Mira's mother Lehana was suddenly at Kelan's side, steadying him. He hadn't even noticed her arrive. "Easy, boy!" she cried over the din, eyes wide at what she'd just witnessed. Kelan blinked raindrops from his lashes and nodded weakly. He felt drained, a deep throbbing ache pounding behind his eyes. But there was no time to rest.
From the shed came a sharp crash—what remained of its straw roof had caved in. Jori's voice rang out in a yelp of pain. Kelan and Farun, who had regained his footing, made for the shed at once.
Inside was dim and chaotic. The front wall and door had blown out, and Jori lay on the sodden ground amidst spilled coils of rope and scattered tools, clutching his leg pinned under a fallen crossbeam.
Farun, a brawny cousin of Arran's, heaved at the beam. It shifted slightly, but Jori cried out in agony as it scraped his trapped ankle. Kelan, head still ringing from holding the roof beam, willed himself to focus again. Spots danced in his vision, but he pushed them aside. One more time.
He thrust his aching mind toward the wooden beam. Lighter than the ridge pole, he told himself. It might have been true, or maybe his adrenaline was just pumping stronger, but the beam lurched upward an inch—just enough. Farun seized the moment to drag Jori out by the shoulders with a mighty yank. The moment Kelan saw Jori clear, he released his hold and the beam crashed fully to the ground with a dull thud.
Kelan nearly collapsed backward, catching himself on the half-broken wall. His breath came in ragged gasps; his vision blurred with gray for a moment. Mira's mother was suddenly there too, having followed, and she caught his arm. "Careful! Kelan, look at me, are you alright?"
Kelan nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure. His head felt like someone had split it with a chisel. But Jori was freed, whimpering but alive. Outside, the storm still raged, though the very darkest clouds were now pressing onward to the west, leaving just torrential rain and gusty winds in their wake.
By the time the storm finally began to abate in the late afternoon, Tiruva had been battered but not broken. Neighbors emerged from shelter to help one another despite the rain that still fell. They found Kelan slumped on an upturned fish crate under what remained of the shed's overhang, a blanket around his shoulders, placed there by someone. Aisina fussed over him, having run from the house the moment the winds calmed enough, scolding him even as she cradled his face, checking for injuries. He tried to assure her he was fine—just spent.
All around, villagers picked up debris, re-tied loosened roofs, and comforted one another. A few minor injuries were tended: Jori's ankle was sprained and swollen but mercifully not broken; a small child had a cut on her arm from flying roofing, and Kelan's father Arran sported a nasty bruise on his shoulder from wrestling the ridge pole. But miraculously, no one was gravely hurt. And thanks in no small part to Kelan, neither the precious new skiff nor the vital store of tools were lost.
Word of Kelan's feats spread quicker than the storm had arrived. As Kelan sat sipping a cup of strong ginger tea someone pressed on him, he noticed people looking his way with a mix of amazement and something like newfound respect—or was it wariness? Mira plopped down beside him, soaked and muddy but grinning. "When you decide to show off, you really show off," she teased gently, eyes shining with relief that everyone was okay.
Kelan managed a weak chuckle. "Not how I intended to." He rolled the now-familiar ache in his shoulders. Using his gift so much in rapid succession had left him feeling like he'd run the island's length end to end.
Mira nudged him. "Well, you saved a boat and a child and a friend today. That's three heroics before evening. At this rate, try not to lift the whole mountain by nightfall, alright?"
Kelan laughed, which made his head pound but his heart lighten. He looked around at the villagers—his people—working together to mend and recover, and felt an overwhelming swell of affection and protectiveness. He would leave soon, yes, but by the Sea-Mother, he would come back. These were his roots.
As darkness fell on a village of damp but determined souls, Kelan finally allowed himself to rest. Exhausted, he leaned back against the shed's remains and closed his eyes for a moment. Thunder still rumbled distantly, but a fresh, cool breeze was blowing now, the backside of the storm bringing relief.
In that brief rest, Kelan reflected: The storm had tested not only the strength of their huts and boats, but his own limits. He'd learned just how far he could push his Mind-Touch when lives were at stake—and that he was willing to pay the price of the ensuing pain and exhaustion without hesitation. It steeled his resolve for the journey ahead. If he could face a tempest and not falter, he could face the unknown.
And as villagers began to light lamps in their homes, casting a warm glow through the damp night, Kelan felt a sense of calm within. He would face whatever storms—of nature or fate—awaited him beyond the horizon, and he would eventually return home, stronger and wiser, to this island that he loved. In that certainty, he found peace as the long day of Storm's Wrath came to a close.