The late morning tide had reached right up to the line of palms, and the flat sheet of turquoise covered her feet.

  It was the same every day, had been so for some time, a steady rhythm, as the ocean obeyed the cycles of the sun and the moon.

  She continued her walk, leaving traces soon to be erased by the waves that struck her legs, cold yet invigorating.

  A wrap lay around her hips, and only a band of cloth crossed her chest, simple and practical in the heat. She would never have dressed this way in her old life, or even in the circles she was now a part of, but she was beyond the rules, the norms, when she was with her.

  The tour was on hold; her Lady had made it so.

  She was allowed this pause.

  This indulgence.

  There was not only rest; she also had to hunt her food, move as a feral cat in the wilds, swim in the oceans like a denizen of the deep.

  To make the tools. To strike the prey.

  Kill. Eat.

  Share.

  With her Lady.

  She stood there atop a cliff; in the distance, a length of patterned cloth hung around her hip, knotted at one side, silk wrapped tight across her chest and over one shoulder, shades shielding her from the sun.

  Proper as always.

  No lectures. No instruction was given. Only talks during meals, of simple things.

  Socia was being shaped by herself.

  Tide by tide.

  The tide had receded; the shore had extended; the sun was high, and from distant waters, a man appeared.

  Closer he came. Silver tattoos covered sun-kissed skin. Wiry and lithe, only a simple cloth wrapped around his loins.

  He waved. Her Lady waved back.

  Socia’s eyes moved between them too, one atop the cliff, unmoving. Another approached her like the morning tide.

  Who was he?

  The tide arrived, and he spoke.

  “So, you are my Lady’s student, aren’t you?” the man said.

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  His Lady?

  “I am my Lady’s Socia, her companion,” she said.

  Her feet sank into the wet sand, her mind adrift.

  “Well then let’s start,” he said.

  What?

  Her face went blank.

  “Your training,” he said.

  Her eyes turned from the man, toward her Lady.

  A small wave, and then her Lady looked away.

  “In Flowing Tide,” he said.

  “You may address me as master.”

  “Disciple.”

  What?

  It had been many days; too many she felt.

  The waters had retreated from the shore, returned to the sea, as dusk fell.

  The dark pressed on the land, and a weight equally so on Socia.

  “Stop flopping like a fish on dry land, yield,” he said.

  Socia buckled — thrashed, even — but she could not free herself from his pressure. She used her hips — to no avail. He moved but was not removed.

  Their sweat mingled, their bodies intertwined, she could not free herself from him.

  “Yield to it, but do not surrender,” he said.

  She shifted, only one shoulder against the sand, his pressure gone.

  Free.

  Slipped away only for him to flow, to crash into her again.

  Pressure.

  She was stronger, younger. He was weaker, older.

  Not a god, not a Scion, only Kin.

  It didn’t matter, as he wrapped his arms around her, shifted his mass, and continued to coil around her like a snake.

  She powered through, broke loose, pushed him away, stood up.

  Free.

  Arms hooked, a hip under hers. She flew, the ground welcomed her again, sand against skin, his flesh above again, forcing her down, holding her in place.

  Pressure.

  “Don’t be a rock, it will not work,” he said.

  She panted, fought for breath.

  “Flow,” he said.

  She tried. Failed.

  He shifted, allowed her to breathe, to feel.

  A gap, she pushed, moved, flowed into it.

  He moved and closed it.

  Legs around her arm, hands pulled and there was pain.

  She surrendered.

  The man stood up, looked down on her, his disciple.

  “Good,” he said.

  No movement, only breath, she remained in the sand.

  The man moved away, towards where they camped, deeper inland.

  “I’ll start the fire, you go get some fish,” he said.

  Socia stared at the stars, tried to get up, and finally did so.

  She picked up her spear, walked out into the sea and dove into it.

  The dark and the cold were welcomed.

  A fish, pierced and brought back to a man by a fire.

  “It will do,” he said.

  The master ate first. Socia after. He burped.

  Savage.

  So, unlike the Kin she knew, sophisticated, ancient.

  Proper.

  He burped again.

  “What are the tenets of Flowing Tide, disciple?” he said.

  Back straightened; the words were heeded.

  “Water yields.”

  “Good.”

  “It flows around, slips through, seeps in.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  He spat out a piece of bone and Socia stopped, her face aghast.

  “Continue,” he said, and gesticulated, his arms in the air.

  “It takes its time. It wears down.”

  The man laughed.

  “Even a stubborn rock like you,” he said.

  She looked away.

  Why had her Lady done this to her?

  Given her to this.

  Brute.

  “Do you feel it, godling?” he said.

  Her eyes fell on him. A stern face — they found.

  “The tide.”

  What was he rambling about?

  “She taught you well, you can take a beating and not sulk… too much.”

  “Feel the shore first, the waves hitting it, wearing it down.”

  “Like I did you.”

  “And then…”

  Waves struck the shore; it rippled in her bones.

  They raked the shore; stroked her skin.

  “Yield,” her master said.

  She could feel the ocean and the moon.

  Connected.

  Her hand slipped from the log she sat on and fell onto the sand below, and she felt it.

  The cycles, the push and pull.

  The ocean, ever the same, but always changing, never alone, always connected.

  “It’s alive. I can feel it,” she said.

  The man smiled and showed his teeth — white like moon.

  “I can feel it. The moon.”

  The man grinned.

  “The sun too,” she said.

  Her master was solemn again, the grin gone, his teeth hidden.

  “Tomorrow your proper training begins,” he said.

  What?