The cave mouth opened onto more water than Hajin ever imagined, the sea running to the end of the sky.
Gulls wheeled in a sky so wide it made his neck ache, their cries bouncing off the cliffs. Salt wind slapped his face like a wet towel, carrying a smell he never met, sharp, clean, alive.
"That's a lot of water," Hajin said, stopping dead on the last dry ledge.
"It's a puddle with ambitions," Juna said, then sneezed so hard her ears flipped flat.
"Bless you, Moonbite."
She grumbled, rubbing her nose with the back of her wrist, "It smells like a fish died in a bath."
The slum well he grew up beside held maybe twelve buckets, each one known to him by taste. This sea held more water than all of Ouro, rolling in ridges toward a horizon that never ended.
"How many wells is that?" he asked, spreading both arms toward the water.
"Too many to drink, idiot," Juna said, wiping her nose.
