Seven days.
They worked around the clock, sleeping in shifts, eating on the move. The Metkayina knew the ocean—its currents, its creatures, its hidden places. They set traps in the reef, sharpened coral into blades, trained every able body to fight.
The Omaticaya knew the sky—the winds, the clouds, the flight patterns of ikran. They organized aerial patrols, built watchtowers on floating platforms, prepared for an attack from above.
Kaelen moved between both groups, coordinating, planning, remembering everything he knew about human tactics. He had been a soldier. He had fought against insurgents. He knew how the human mind worked in battle—the need for order, the fear of the unknown, the way they relied on technology to solve every problem.
"We use that," he told the war council. "We make the unknown everywhere. We hit them from below and above, from inside and out. We make the ocean itself their enemy."
"And if that fails?" Rial asked.
"Then we die fighting." Kaelen met her eyes. "But we don't die alone."