I watch her sometimes, before the sun’s all the way up.
The way her lashes twitch. The way her fingers curl into fists even when she’s resting.
She’s not small anymore. Not like when I first carried her in that smuggler’s hold, her body limp with fever and the whole galaxy on our heels. She’s still little—stillmine—but there’s something big inside her now. Something vast.
And it scares the hell out of me.
The first day she trains with the village’s younglings, she clings to my leg like I’m walking her into a warzone.
“I don’t wanna,” she mutters, half-hiding behind my hip.
I squat beside her, brushing a curl out of her eyes. “You said you wanted to learn how to jump like Vael.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to fall.”
I grin. “Fair. But you’re not gonna fall. You’re gonna fly.”
She scowls. “Don’t lie, Mama.”
“Alright. Maybe you’ll trip. Once. But then you’ll fly.”
She thinks about it, chewing her lip, then nods like she’s made a great and terrible decision.
When Kevari gestures her forward—same matriarch who worked Rynn ragged on her first patrol—Nessa steps up like she’s being summoned to a throne. Back straight, chin up, bottom lip still trembling just a little.
I sit cross-legged on the stone ledge that wraps around the practice ring.
It’s elevated—overlooking the coast—and all the kids move through drills like it’s a dance. Slow, deliberate. Not flashy. Vakutan style is about control first. Showoffs get humbled fast.
Nessa doesn’t try to show off. Not yet.
She watches. Mirrors. Fails.
And when she flubs a movement and lands flat on her back, the entire ringstops—not to laugh, but toacknowledge.
That’s the thing about this place. No one hides from failure here. They meet it. Then move past it.
Kevari offers her a hand.
Nessa slaps it away and stands on her own.
That’s my girl.
The days fall into rhythm.
She trains in the morning, naps after midday meal, then pesters Vael with questions at dusk.
“What’s the word for ‘storm’ in Vakutan?”
“How do you punch without hurting your thumb?”
“Can the oceanreallyremember things?”
He always answers. Patient. Even when she interrupts herself halfway through. Even when she breaks off to chase a drifting shell through the sand.
She still throws tantrums.
Still yells when she’s frustrated.
