I woke early, my fins aching slightly from yesterday's long shift and the low vibrations of the reef signaling the shift in current. My chest felt tight—not just from fatigue, but from something deeper, a nagging tension I couldn't quite place. My sleeping cot of woven kelp strands unraveled easily as I rose, the cool reef-glow filtering softly across the chamber walls, offering little comfort.
My dwelling sat in one of the outer domes—a modest cluster of coral-grown structures shared among my work rotation pod. A few others were still at rest, drifting in low-hum hums of dream-state.
I gathered my supply satchel, checking the weave pattern to ensure it hadn't frayed. Inside was a shell-cased lightvine spool, my barnacle-scraper, and a folded nutrient wrap. One of the older caretakers—Elya, I thought—had left it clipped to the wall seam. She always remembered my early cycles.
I paused briefly at the communal hearth node, where the tidekeepers would leave notes in color glyphs. Today's pattern glowed soft orange: Tide still irregular. Stay shallow. Rotate east shelf first.
I ran a hand across the message and gave a low exhale through my gills. No direct warning, but they were watching the currents closely. Ever since the body.
I secured the satchel, tapped the doorway glyph to signal my departure, and pushed gently through the coral gate into the flowstream.
The outer reef was quieter than usual. No dartfish scattered through the lightbeams, and the echo-laced coral near the food troughs stayed unusually dim. The tide was sluggish—thick, like it hadn't shaken off sleep.
I arrived at the eastern shelf, where long ropes of algae-drift hung over the edge of the harvesting beds. I checked the trimming glyphs, then flicked my fins, adjusting to the shift in pressure.
I started working—methodical, rhythmic. Trim the rot. Check the buds. Skim the surface. Repeat. It grounded me. And for a while, I let myself get lost in the motion.
Then a shadow passed.
Not a big one. Not threatening. But enough to pull me from the work. My fins went rigid as my gills flared instinctively, drawing deeper breaths of briny water. I glanced up toward the far ridge—just in time to catch a flicker of movement, swift and razor-edged. The coral wall seemed suddenly too close, the currents whispering tension along my spine. My pulse quickened, echoing loudly in my own ears as I scanned the ridge again, straining to pick out details.
I froze. Waited.
Nothing followed. Only the faint glimmers of sun-bent currents dancing gently across the coral surface, as if nothing had changed.
I went back to work.
But my grip was tighter now. My eyes, less sure.
Near midday, the intake runners came through—messengers from the Tide Hall with armfuls of wrapped instructions and water-routed glyphs for the day's second cycle. I waited as they passed through my sector. One stopped briefly to hand me a sealed shard.
I cracked the edge and read the etched mana line:
"Work rotations suspended after next cycle. Mandatory gathering at central coral rise. All planter caste to report."
I let the shard drift in my palm for a moment.
Mandatory gatherings were rare. The last one had been cycles ago, when a breach near the southern ridge had flooded the lower domes. I still remembered the shiver that had passed through the crowd when the elders announced the names of those who hadn't returned. Gatherings like this usually meant loss or danger—and neither was something I wanted to face again.
I finished the last of my cuts, clipped the pouch closed, and began the swim back.
The reef corridors felt tighter than usual.
I passed through the central spiral lane, where tide-lanterns pulsed at half-light and elder routes were marked with crimson glyphs—restricted. None of the usual current-drifters were playing along the arches. No chimefish darted from the shelves. Even the distant nursery chambers stayed dim.
I slowed as I passed the outer wall of the nursery dome. The transparent coral plating shimmered faintly, obscured behind a newly activated glyph net. Inside, rows of hatchlings drifted in curated tide-pods, their small bodies silhouetted against the glow of monitored coral growth.
A caretaker inside the chamber adjusted the glyph flow, narrowing the channels to prevent outer currents from reaching the inner chamber. I could see one of the older hatchlings curled near the edge, pressing a hand to the barrier. Brave, or foolish—soon they'd have to make the journey from the nesting pools to the reef proper. A journey none were guaranteed to survive.
I'd made that journey once.
I didn't remember much of it, only flashes—shadow streaks in the water, sharp rocks near the drop-vents, and the bright flashes of glyphlight as the outer watch guards came to pull survivors free. They said the journey was necessary—that only those strong enough, aware enough, could survive the reef's outer call. It was tradition. It was how you proved you belonged. I didn't question it aloud. No one did.
But I never stopped wondering how many never made it.
I reached the outer edge of the coral rise just as the second chime rang through the flowpaths—one long, two short. Summon tone.
A crowd had already formed in the lower basin. Harvesters. Shapers. Even a few old shellbinders from the artisan levels who rarely left the interior vaults. I found Tiruun near the back wall, fins folded, arms crossed tight.
"They're sealing off the western vents," Tiruun said as I drew close. "Two more patrols didn't report back. Not from the Exiles. Something else."
I kept my face calm, but my stomach turned cold.
Before I could ask more, High Speaker Vonn emerged from the upper column, flanked by two tidewatchers and a pair of lightcasters. His presence silenced the gathering instantly.
"This will be brief," the elder announced. His voice echoed through the chamber with practiced stillness. "All reef-kin are to remain within boundary lanes. Outer channels are no longer safe. Patrol glyphs have gone dark on three fronts."
A quiet ripple of unease passed through the crowd.
"There is no cause for panic," Vonn continued. "Our shields hold. The mana flow is still stable. But until further directive, the egg pools are sealed, and the city moves to defensive posture."
Tiruun exhaled sharply beside me. "It's starting."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Something in Vonn's voice—controlled, but thinner than usual—sent a chill across my gill-line. The kind of fear that didn't shout. It just waited.
"This cycle," the speaker finished, "will define us. We hold. We endure."
He stepped back, and the crowd began to disperse in murmurs and low flicks of fin and tail. Orders would be reshuffled. Chambers reassigned. Defense layers built. I didn't need to be told—I'd be moved from planters' rotation by next tide. Everyone my age would.
Tiruun grabbed my shoulder lightly before heading off.
"Watch the southern tunnels tonight. And keep your eyes open."
I nodded.
Then I turned toward the outer path again, toward home.
The ridgewalks were quieter now. As I made my way back to the outer dome cluster, I passed the watchers laying new sigils along the reefwall—thicker lines, embedded with mana-thread. Defense glyphs. Each glowing line felt like another confirmation that our safety was slipping, and a new, unsettling thought pressed at the edge of my mind: just how prepared were we really?
I paused briefly, watching one of the casters set a flare ward into the coral spine. The light stuttered before stabilizing—a sign of weaker flow beneath the shelf. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to notice.
I pressed onward.
When I reached my chamber, I sank back into the cot, staring upward through the reeflight canopy. The currents swirled above, restless but quiet.
Something was shifting in the deep. But whatever came next, I would face it from within the reef. Among my people. Among the tideborn.
I let my eyes close and listened to the reef sing itself to sleep.