You sit.

It is the hardest magic in Salt-Turn, sitting, because the foam-horse keeps offering a plot.

The set runs. White stands up, throws itself, becomes water again. You are in the picture: a kid on the fog-lane, Pip breathing, seals on Grey Stack like commas that learned patience. The bar does not need a rider. The legend can keep its name without your boots.

Brine’s voice, if Brine is there, is pleased in the small way. If Brine is not, the lesson still holds. Desire is a current. You just refused to feed the gap.

When the set pauses—there is always a pause, a breath in the weather—you can still see the darker mouth where a rip would run. You file it. You will need it if anyone tries to be a knight on sand.

The tide has climbed a mark while you sat. Time did not stop because you were wise. It only got easier to survive.