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love on the brain ᰔᩚ neteyam x reader

ᰔᩚ synopsis: the man who burns your world to ash is the same one who keeps you alive. trapped inside your captor's home with your little brother's life hanging in the balance, you learn that survival is far crueler than dying, especially when that mercy starts to look frighteningly similar to affection.

ᰔᩚ content warningsﾉtags: NSFWﾉ18+ (MDNI), explicit smut, dubcon, fem!reader, mangkwan au, clan swap, morally corrupt neteyam, war, colonization, genocide, violence, kidnapping, slavery, coercion, forced feeding, panic attacks, injuries & blood, psychological trauma, power imbalance, stockholm syndrome, gaslighting, p in v, grinding, fingering, spanking, creampie, biting, slight blood play, prince albert piercing, neteyam rlly is a creep, slightly proofread

ᰔᩚ author's note: i started this back in april, and i finally got around to finishing it. i have so many thoughts abt this piece, i might have to make a separate post about it. this is my longest work i've published yet, (i actually had to delete some parts cause it was so fing long) and to think there's a part 2 to this is insanity (prolly won't post p2 tbh) LMAO but thank you guys for all the support!! srsly, it means so so much to me, and sorry this is slop 🥹🩷😭

ᰔᩚ word count: 39.4k

Neteyam thinks himself a good man.

He repeats this truth silently when the smoke from the lowlands creeps up into the high ridges, carrying the heavy, sweet scent of burning wood and charred moss. He is the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, a warrior sworn to protect the survival of his people, and every action he takes is anchored to that singular duty. His mother, Neytiri, carries the scars of a past where the sky people tore their old home to ash while the Great Mother remained silent, offering no salvation to her fallen children. When the world shattered, it was his father, Jake, who bridged the gap between the RDA and the desperate remnants of the Omatikaya clan, ensuring they had weapons, medicine, and power. To Neteyam, the Alliance is a necessary spine of steel that keeps his family upright in a hostile world, a pragmatic choice made by leaders who refused to lie down and die.

Other clans call them traitors, whispers of their cruelty echoing through the deeper rivers of Pandora, but Neteyam dismisses the judgment as the naivety of the weak. What choice did his mother have when the old trees burned? The world changed, and the Omatikaya changed with it, trading ancient prayers for the cold efficiency of supply lines and automated rifles.

The forest floor crackles under his heavy footsteps, a sharp contrast to the silent treading of the victims running through the underbrush. Yellow light dances across his skin as the surrounding village burns, the air thick with the suffocating stench of kerosene and scorched foliage. His father’s human associates call these pacification actions, necessary sweeps to clear out hostile elements that threaten the expansion of the mining sectors. Neteyam watches a pair of Omatikaya warriors overturn a storage basket, scattering dried fruit into the dirt before dragging a chest of refined tools toward the extraction transport. A sense of detached calm settles over him; this is simply the tax of progress, the price another clan must pay because they chose to resist the future his father is building.

He moves deeper into the haze, the assault rifle slung across his chest clicking against his ceremonial necklace. His mind drifts to the training drills scheduled for the next morning, wondering if his brother Lo'ak will finally master the tracking patterns his father insisted upon. It is a mundane thought, a meditation on family dynamics while the world around him screams in agony. He does not see the cruelty in his actions, only the execution of a necessary strategy, a routine patrol through a dying settlement that failed to adapt to the new order.

A sharp, fractured noise breaks through the crackle of the fires, catching his attention.

It is a high, fragile sound, a young child weeping beneath the collapsed framework of a woven canopy. Neteyam turns his head, his ears twitching toward the source as a second voice filters through the smoke, low and frantic, murmuring desperate words of comfort to quiet the youngin. His instincts flare, the trained hunter overriding the distracted son as he shifts his weight, sliding past a burning pillar of timber to investigate the debris.

The weeping stops instantly when his shadow falls over the gap.

Neteyam lifts his weapon, the black barrel clearing the smoke just as he forces his way through the hanging vines. His breath hitches, his fingers freezing against the cold metal of the trigger guard.

You stand in the narrow space between two fallen logs, your teeth bared in a snarl, a heavy hunting bow pulled back to its absolute limit. Your eyes blaze with a mixture of terror and lethal intent, fixed entirely on his chest. Behind your legs, a small child cowers, clutching at your wrap with trembling hands.

He has never known a moment of stillness like this. His life is a sequence of orders, patrols, and survival, but looking at you, the gears of his world grind to a violent halt. You are beautiful in a way that terrifies him—like a wild, breathtaking force that looks like Eywa herself took form within the wreckage.

A strange, treasonous thought blooms in the quietest corner of his mind. For a single, fleeting heartbeat, he imagines an entirely different existence—one where the old forests never burned, where his family never struck their pact with the sky people, and where he might have met you under the shade of an uninjured canopy. He envisions a life free from the weight of the Omatikaya crest, free from the coldness of the RDA rifles, where he could simply exist in the warmth of your gaze rather than its terror. It is a phantom future, a beautiful impossibility that makes his throat tighten with a sudden, suffocating grief for a life he never even knew he wanted.

"Pey (wait)," Neteyam says, the word slipping past his lips in a low, placating murmur. He drops his gaze to your hands, consciously relaxing the muscles in his arms as he begins to lower the barrel of his assault rifle toward the ash-covered earth. He genuinely believes, with a naive desperation that surprises him, that he can speak to you, that he can offer safety, or perhaps just buy a few more seconds to look at you before the world tears you apart.

The bowstring releases with a wooden snap.

The illusion shatters instantly. Pain explodes through his right shoulder, a violent, tearing force that violently drives him backward into the dirt as the iron tip buries itself deep into his flesh. A guttural gasp escapes his throat, his fingers instantly losing their grip on his weapon as his back hits the forest floor.

Through the sudden, white-hot blur of agony, his vision swims, but he forces his eyes to track your movement. The child cries out in panic, a sound that is immediately swallowed by the roar of the surrounding flames. You do not hesitate for a fraction of a second; you scoop the small form tightly against your chest, turning on your heel to sprint directly into the blinding white smoke of the burning valley, leaving the firstborn son of the Omatikaya bleeding alone in the ash.

You thought yourself a fool.

The heavy iron-reinforced bars of the enclosure press cold against your bare shoulder blades, the metal smelling sharply of sulfur and old rust.Through the vertical slats of your cage, the world opens up into a nightmare of black rock and jagged stone, a village built directly into the shadow of the smoking volcano. Yurts made of thick, treated animal hides cling to the volcanic terraces, their surfaces dark with soot and oil. Bleached bones, cracked predator skulls, and jagged woven totems rattle against one another in the hot updrafts, hung from every lintel and post like warnings to the dead.

The sight that truly freezes the blood in your veins is the presence of the sky people's machines. Great, metallic dragonflies with spinning black rotors sit crouched upon the leveled stone platforms, their dull gray hulls bearing the sharp, angular markings of the RDA. Human personnel in heavy tactical vests move between the Na'vi warriors, trading metal crates and long, black rifles as if they belong here among the trees and the magma.

You truly were a complete fool for letting even a single spark of hope flicker in your chest during that desperate run through the burning brush. Your mind replays the image of your parents standing before your home, bows drawn against your enemy, their bodies falling into the ash before you could even scream for them. There had been no time to process the loss, no quiet space to mourn or scream into the wind. Your chest feels entirely hollow now, a dry cavity where your heart hammers like a trapped bird, and you find yourself wondering if you even possess the capacity to weep anymore.

A shuddering sniffle escapes your nose despite your numbness. You blink rapidly, forcing back the burning tears that threaten to obscure your vision as you tighten your arms around your younger brother's small, trembling body. He has finally collapsed into a fitful sleep against your lap, his chest rising and falling in uneven, ragged jerks. His tiny fingers remain tightly knotted into the coarse fabric of your waist wrap, seeking a security that you know you can no longer provide.

Nothing explicitly cruel has happened to the two of you since the hands closed around your throat in the forest, dragging you out of the smoke. After the capture, they shoved both of you into the dark, vibrating belly of one of those metal flying beasts, the terrifying roar of the engines drowning out your brother's frantic screams. When the machine touched down on the volcanic rock, heavy hands dragged you out, escorting you through the crowded village with the muzzles of tactical rifles pressed firmly between your shoulder blades. Your brother wept until his voice cracked into a hoarse whisper, his young mind fully understanding the reputation of the people who now held his life in their hands. He knows what the Omatikaya are. Every child in the river valleys knows the stories of the clan that traded their connection to the Great Mother for the weapons of the sky people.

The rumors always drift through the outer forests like a foul wind, whispers of how the Omatikaya systematically absorb the remnants of the villages they break. They take the survivors to swell their own numbers, forcing them into submission until the old ways are entirely forgotten. The tales of those kept as property are far worse, spoken only in low murmurs around dying campfires—stories of proud hunters stripped of their names, forced to labor in the heavy sulfur mines until their skin sloughs off from the acidic dust. The old women used to whisper about the young ones, the survivors who were kept merely for the pleasure of the high-ranking warriors, their bodies broken to serve the desires of men who no longer recognize the sacred bond of the True People.

A sharp, pained cry tears itself from your throat before you can stop it. You instantly slam your palm over your mouth, your teeth biting hard into the flesh of your hand to stifle the sound, your eyes darting down to ensure the sudden noise hasn't disturbed your brother's fragile slumber.

"Keep your mouth shut, rat!"

The harsh unintelligible shout comes from the perimeter of the enclosure, accompanied by the dry, metallic clack of a rifle bolt being pulled back. One of the RDA sentries stands a few paces away, his face half-hidden by a strange mask, his eyes glaring at you with utter indifference as he raises the barrel of his weapon toward your chest. You stare back at him, your jaw tight, your body trembling with a volatile mixture of fury and absolute helplessness. You desperately wish you possessed the reckless bravery required to scream a curse back at him, to spit at his feet and curse his lineage, but the sight of the sleeping child in your lap keeps you pinned to the stone floor in silent compliance.

The sky above the volcanic peaks has deepened into a bruised, violet twilight while you sat lost in the dark maze of your thoughts. Hours must have slipped away into the smoke, the temperature dropping slightly as the sun dips below the horizon, though the ambient heat from the magma vents still keeps the air stiflingly warm. You look around the small perimeter of the iron cage, forcing your mind to analyze the structure, desperately searching for a loose bar, a weak weld, or a blind spot in the guard rotation that might offer a path to freedom. The effort feels utterly pointless; the camp is alive with activity, the distant chatter of warriors shouting over the crackle of cooking fires filling the air, and it is entirely clear that no rescuer is coming to find you in this fortress of ash.

Your intense focus on the iron floor prevents you from noticing the figure approaching the cage until his long shadow falls directly across your legs.

You jerk your head upward, your muscles instantly locking in terror as you recognize the tall warrior standing on the other side of the bars.

the very man you shot through the shoulder back in the burning ruins of your village. Your sudden, violent flinch rouses your brother from his sleep, the small boy letting out a whimpering cry of pure fright as he scrambles backward against your chest, his eyes wide as he stares at the towering Na'vi.

The man does not look angry. He does not wear the snarl of a warrior seeking vengeance for his wound, nor does he carry the cold malice of the guards patrolling the terraces. He looks remarkably relaxed, his posture easy as he leans slightly against one of the structural wooden posts beside the cage. His right shoulder is tightly wrapped in clean, white medical linen, the fabric stark against his deep blue skin. In his left hand, he holds a wooden tray containing several strips of dark, dried meat and a hollowed-out gourd filled to the brim with clear, cool water.

He stands perfectly still in the twilight, his eyes fixed on your face with that same intense, unblinking focus that had frozen him in the forest, watching your heavy breaths as you press your brother firmly behind your back.

You blink rapidly at him, your eyelashes catching the fine grit drifting from the volcanic peaks. The silence between you stretches punctuated only by the distant thrum of an RDA chopper blades idling on a lower terrace. A wave of cold dread washes over you as the silence deepens.

Is he here to end you? To make your younger brother watch the final strike as retribution for the arrow currently binding his shoulder in bandages? You shrink back against the iron bars, your spine pressing hard into the unyielding metal until the rivets bite into your skin.

Neteyam notices the subtle retreat.

A slow smile spreads across his lips, but it holds no warmth, curving with a cruel, mocking edge that makes your stomach drop. He drops his weight, crouching down until his face is exactly eye level with yours on the other side of the thick iron slats, the movement fluid despite the heavy bandage anchoring his right shoulder. Up close, the details of his skin are jarring. The thick, dark blue of his complexion is dusted with fine gray ash, yet the sharp crimson war paint stretching across his cheekbones remains perfectly intact, uncracked and pristine despite the chaos of the raid. Strands of braided hair frame a sharp, angular visage, and various polished bones and carved wooden tokens clink softly against his chest, suspended by fine leather cords. His heavy loincloth rests low on his hips, secured by a tightly woven, wide cummerband that accentuates the lean, dangerous power of his frame. What catches the flickering orange light of the camp fires—and what terrifies you the most—are the heavy metal studs piercing both of his ears, a glaring mark of the sky people’s influence woven directly into his flesh.

She looks at me like I am a monster, yet she is the one who left iron in my flesh.

The Omatikayan prince doesn't seem to mind your intense, terrified scrutiny. He clears his throat, the sound low and raspy from the ambient smoke, and speaks with an eerie, casual ease, his tone mimicking the lighthearted banter of old friends meeting on a forest path.

"Are the two of you hungry?" he asks, his voice smooth, completely untethered from the horror of the burning village he left behind.

No response comes from the cage. You lock your jaw, your fingers gripping the fabric of your brother’s wrap so tightly your knuckles turn a pale, bloodless blue. Beside you, the young boy buries his face completely into your side, his small shoulders shaking as he stares at the crouching warrior with wide, fluid eyes.

Neteyam lets out a loud, booming laugh that echoes off the iron enclosure, the sound rich and vibrant, completely out of place in the grim twilight of the volcanic camp. "Where was all this silence when we met in the brush?" he asks, leaning an inch closer, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Where is the fire that guided your hand when you drew that heavy bowstring back?"

Your skin pricks with a sudden, volatile heat at the mockery. The raw grief and terror in your chest morphs into a sharp, burning annoyance, a desperate spark of the defiance that had driven you to defend your family in the ruins.

"What do you want from us?" you bark out, your voice cracking slightly but carrying enough venom to make his smile falter for a fraction of a second. "Who are you?"

The warrior offers no answer to your demands. Instead, his left hand moves with deliberate slowness, sliding the dark wooden tray through the narrow gap beneath the bottom iron bar. The rich, savory scent of dried hexaped meat and fresh water immediately cuts through the sulfurous air. Almost instantly, a loud, betrayal of a rumble echoes from your brother’s empty stomach. The boy makes a instinctive move forward, his small hand reaching out toward the tray, but your arm shoots out like a whip, snapping across his chest to pin him back against your torso.

Your eyes glare down at the meat; the food could easily be laced with something to break your spirit, or worse, a slow poison meant to dispose of the weak.

Neteyam raises a single non-existent eyebrow at your fierce resistance, his gaze tracking your defensive posture before shifting entirely to the trembling child behind you. The cruel smirk fades from his face, replaced by a sudden, unexpected mask of patience as he softens his voice, addressing the boy directly.

"It is not poisoned, ‘evi (little one)," Neteyam says softly, his tone shifting into a gentle, reassuring murmur that catches you completely off guard. "Your tsmuke (sister) is brave, but you need your strength. Eat. My family does not waste food on the dead."

The sudden display of kindness catches you completely off guard, the stark contrast in his behavior leaving you momentarily stunned. Your brother, driven by the raw desperation of hunger and the soft cadence of the warrior's voice, looks past your arm, a tiny, tentative smile touching his lips as he steps forward and grabs a piece of the dried meat, tearing into it with famished hunger. Neteyam lets out a low, satisfied hum at the sight, his eyes tracking the boy's movements before slowly rising to lock onto your face once more, his body remaining coiled in that low crouch.

"And what of the tsmuke?" he asks quietly, the bars the only barrier keeping his sharp features from pressing into your personal space. "What is your name?"

You press your lips into a thin, stubborn line, tearing your gaze away from his to look at the dark, smoking peak of the volcano behind him.

The silence does not deter him. Neteyam leans forward, his chest nearly brushing against the cold iron slats, his breath warm against your skin as he forces you to feel the sheer gravity of his presence. "You can hide behind your silence for now," he whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, silken promise that sends a shiver straight down your spine. "But I have many ways to make a captive talk. Some are painful. Some are much more... intimate."

The heavy subtext hangs thick in the air between you, the weight of the rumors regarding the sex slaves crashing into your mind with terrifying clarity. Fear overrides your pride, and you rudely splutter out your name, the syllables sharp and clumsy as they leave your dry throat. "What do you want with us?" you demand again, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to maintain a veneer of strength.

Neteyam simply stands up in one fluid, towering motion, the casual grace of his movement emphasizing the massive height difference between you. He looks down through the bars, his golden eyes holding yours for one final, lingering heartbeat.

"I wanted to see the woman who managed to break my skin," he says softly, a small, enigmatic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I am Neteyam."

Without another word, he turns on his heel, his long tail sweeping across the dark volcanic ash as he walks away into the bustling shadows of the camp, leaving you shivering in the cold iron cage.

“Neteyam has a crush!!” Tuk chanting and teasing him, bouncing up and down on her heels as she clings to his arm.

It is a completely inappropriate setting for Tuk to be teasing him. A few yards away on the stone dais, Neytiri is currently sacrificing yesterday’s captives, the ones who did not surrender to the Omatikaya vanguard during the raid. The heavy, copper stench of blood fills the air, mixing with the sulfurous fumes rising from the volcanic fissures. With cold, practiced precision, his mother’s blade flashes in the firelight as she cuts off their kuru’s, severing their connection to the world before ending their lives. Agonized screams ring out across the plaza, echoing off the black rock faces, but the gathered crowd stands completely unphased.

Neteyam rolls his eyes and fake pouts at Tuk, his left hand reaching down to ruffle her dark hair in an attempt to keep her quiet. Beside them, Kiri stands with her arms crossed over her chest, chewing on a piece of dried reed while trying desperately not to laugh at his obvious discomfort. Neteyam places a hand directly over Tuk’s face, gently pushing her away as she continues to muffle her singsong teasing against his palm. He glances over his shoulder, looking for any sign of his brother, but Lo’ak is nowhere to be seen, likely sulking about the lower hangar decks after getting reprimanded by their father earlier.

His family found out how he took some food to you and your brother yesterday night; word travels fast among the guards. Kiri had immediately cornered him by the weapon racks, asking with a sharp, mocking grin if he was keeping you as a pet. Neteyam had merely shrugged it off then, offering a vague answer about evaluating a potential laborer, but now, watching the execution blade drop again, he is certain he has to keep you. He cannot let you end up on that stone altar.

Whoops and cries ring out throughout the village as another dissident falls, Neytiri lifting her blood-stained knife to the dark sky while cutting off another kuru. Neteyam blinks against the rising smoke, and for a terrifying, sudden second, his mind plays a trick on him, imagining the broken body on the altar as yours. A cold spike of adrenaline hits his chest, wiping the feigned amusement entirely from his face.

Neteyam suddenly walks off, his abrupt movement surprising Tuk and Kiri as he leaves them near the edge of the crowd without a word of explanation. His jaw clenches as he strides past the glowing embers of the central fire pits, his long tail twitching with tightly coiled tension. He stops beside the head perimeter guard, a burly warrior scarred from old battles with the reef clans. Neteyam fixes him with a hard, unyielding stare, his voice dropping into a low, commanding tone that leaves no room for debate. He orders the guard to take a detachment, bring you shackled directly to his personal yurt, and send your younger brother to live with the rest of the orphaned clan children in the communal longhouses.

Neteyam doesn’t stay to personally escort you, he has much more pressing matters to attend to. His father requires his presence at the secondary fuel depot where the RDA technicians are mounting heavy machine gun pods onto the newly arrived Samson helis. But as he walks away from the screaming square, the heat of the magma vents warming his back, he thinks to himself;

He's a good man.

Giving you a second chance at life, and you get to serve him instead of bleeding out on his mother's stone altar.

One. Two. Three. Four.

You count the seconds because it is the only thing left in your head that the Omatikaya haven’t touched yet.

By the time the flickering oil lamp in the corner burns down to a thick, sputtering sludge of grease, the number in your mind has stretched into a monstrous, heavy weight. Twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Eight hours.

For eight hours, you have been pinned to the perimeter of Neteyam’s yurt, your knees dug so deep into the dirt floor that the coarse weave of the animal fur has printed a raw, crisscrossed pattern into your skin.

Your fingers are bleeding. The tips of your nails are torn back, weeping thin, dark lines of blood into your palms from where you have spent hours frantically trying to pry, scrape, or break the heavy iron shackles binding your wrists. The metal remains entirely cold, laughing at your efforts with every dull clink. You refused to sit on the plush sturmbeest furs stacked neatly near the center of the structure; touching anything that belonged to him felt like a betrayal of the dead. You wouldn’t dare step toward the heavy leather entry flap either. Through the gaps in the hide walls, you can hear the low, monotonous murmuring of his personal guards, their heavy tactical boots shifting against the loose volcanic gravel outside.

Your throat is a ruined, burning desert. Your voice died hours ago, raspy and fractured from the desperate, futile screaming you did when they dragged you through the camp. Your eyes feel like sandpaper, completely dry now, the tear ducts exhausted from watching your younger brother’s small form get swallowed up by the crowded darkness of the communal longhouses. You fought so hard. You bit, kicked, and tore at the guards until they left deep, purple bruises blooming across your ribs and forearms, but they still separated you. The memory of his terrified face, his small fingers slipping from yours, is an indelible scar on your mind.

You squeeze your eyes shut, leaning your forehead against the cold iron links, your breath coming in short, jagged catches. Huuuuh... ahhh... The air in the yurt feels impossibly thin, thick with the heavy scent of woodsmoke, old gun oil, and the dry, suffocating musk of the volcano.

A sharp scrape breaks the silence.

The leather flap lifts, and Neteyam steps into the space. The ambient light from the village fires catches the sharp red paint across his high cheekbones, the crimson lines completely unmarred by the ash of the day. You instantly lock your muscles, a wild, reckless impulse flaring in your chest to charge him, to swing your heavy iron cuffs directly at his temple. But the slow, knowing smile that traces his lips tells you he is expecting exactly that. He stops just inside the threshold, his golden eyes dropping to trace the dark, sticky blood coating your fingers. He doesn't move toward you. Instead, he simply lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, his broad shoulders expanding as he stretches his arms over his head.

He moves with a casual, maddening indifference, completely unbothered by the captive bleeding in his corner. He unbuckles his wide, intricately woven waistband, tossing it onto a wooden storage chest before beginning to unpack his daily gear, laying out spare ammunition clips and a hunting knife with meticulous care.

The sheer normalcy of his movements baffles you, suffocating you. You want to speak, to scream a curse, but the words tangle in your throat. Your thoughts are a muddled, frantic maze of grief and terror until your lungs refuse to cooperate. The walls of the yurt seem to cave inward. Your chest heaves violently, a sudden, terrifying panic seizing your throat as you begin to hyperventilate, your breath rattling in your chest like dry leaves. Hah... hah... nnh... You twist your wrists frantically against the iron, the links clanking in a manic, echoing rhythm as you try to escape the sudden lack of air.

Suddenly, the space in front of you vanishes.

Neteyam is there, his massive form towering over you before he drops into a swift, heavy crouch. He doesn't offer a single word of comfort. His large, hand shoots forward, his thick fingers locking firmly around your jaw with an unyielding pressure that forces your face upward. Your entire body heaves against his grip, your eyes wide and wild as you look at him. He simply stares back, his golden eyes cool, steady, and utterly immovable.

You hate how the sheer solidity of his hold grounds you. You hate that your ragged breathing slowly begins to even out against your will, forced into submission by the rhythm of his own chest. You stare at his sharp features, hating the symmetry of his face, hating the heavy metal piercings glinting in his ears, and hating the absolute power he holds over your existence.

Neteyam watches the furious snarl curl your upper lip, his grip remaining steady on your jaw. The cold, analytical look in his eyes shifts, softening into a dark, mocking amusement as a small smile returns to his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrant rumble that vibrates through the narrow space between your faces.

You instantly recoil, twisting your neck violently to break his hold, but his thumb merely slides across your lower lip, tracing the sharp line of your teeth with a terrifyingly casual intimacy. For a split second, you consider biting down, sinking your teeth into his blue flesh until you taste his blood, but the cold promise in his eyes stops you dead.

You open your mouth to demand answers, but Neteyam cuts you off before a single syllable can form, clearly having no desire to listen to your protests. He lifts his left hand, raising two long fingers directly between your eyes.

"You have two options before you," Neteyam says, his tone dropping into a flat, businesslike delivery that freezes the blood in your veins. "Listen carefully. First, you stay here, in this yurt. You serve me, you keep your mouth shut, and your tsumkan (brother) stays safe, fed, and protected among the other children while he learns our ways. He will live a good life."

He pauses, his fingers twitching slightly closer to your face.

"Or, you can choose the second path," he continues softly, his eyes narrowing into twin slits of pure predator focus. "You can keep fighting me. If you do, I will drag you out to the plaza tomorrow at sunrise. I will take my own bow, and I will put an arrow through your heart while your little tsumkan sits in the front row and watches you bleed into the ash. Your choice."

height. He steps away toward his sleeping mats, his back completely turned to you, not looking back at your curled form even once

You look down at your hands, your vision swimming slightly as you stare at the dark, drying blood smeared across your knuckles and the inside of your wrists. The weight of his ultimatum hangs in the hot air of the yurt, pressing down on your chest until the temptation to simply collapse into the dirt feels overwhelming. But the image of your brother's face keeps you pinned to reality.

You clear your throat lightly, the sound dry and scraping like gravel against stone. “Will he really be okay?”

Neteyam doesn’t turn around. He simply lets out a low, vibration of a hum from deep within his chest, his hands smoothing down the surface of a woven blanket as he prepares his bedding. "He will be," Neteyam states smoothly, his tone devoid of any malice but carrying the absolute weight of certainty. "He will remain perfectly fine, provided he follows the orders of the longhouse matrons and does not inherit his sister's fondness for iron."

A wave of profound relief washes over you, so intense that it makes your limbs feel weak, the tight knot of terror in your stomach loosening just enough to let you draw a full breath.

You almost want to cry again, the hot prickle of tears burning behind your eyelids, but you fiercely blink them back and straighten your spine, forcing your shoulders back as you attempt to anchor yourself. You must be strong for him. If your brother behaves, if he stays strong enough to endure this place for a little more time, maybe you will be able to find a flaw in their perimeter, a weak link in their sky-people alliances, and get the two of you out of this volcanic fortress alive.

You feel Neteyam staring at you now, his head turned slightly so that a single eye catches the dim oil light, watching your silent recalibration with a cold, detached curiosity. You think he is completely twisted, a monster wrapped in the skin of a savior, but you wouldn’t dare to utter the thought aloud while your brother's life hangs on his whims. A dark, simmering desire for vengeance sparks in the center of your chest, a vow that you will make him pay for every drop of blood spilled in your village. If you are going to survive here, you need to play his game, but you will do it on terms that remind him exactly who you are.

You look directly into his golden gaze, your voice steadying as you lift your chained wrists toward him. "Replace these shackles with rope," you demand quietly, the defiance in your eyes matching the sharpness of your words.

"Metal is poison to the skin, a corruption of the sky people, and I aim to please Eywa even while I am trapped in the dark."

Safe to say he did not replace your shackles.

Safe to say he didn’t do much at all. To your utter surprise, Neteyam merely let out a loud, booming laugh that rattled the low framework of the yurt, the sound rich and vibrating with a genuine amusement that felt like a slap across your face. He turned his back on you without another word, sliding his frame beneath the thick sturmbeest blankets of his sleeping mat, closing his eyes as if he hadn't just handed you a death sentence wrapped in a choice. He fell asleep with an ease that made your stomach twist into a tight, volatile knot of fury. He had absolutely no concern that you would try to end his life while he drifted off, no fear of the broken captive bleeding in the corner of his floor. You wanted to do it—you stared at his bare throat for hours, imagining the weight of your iron cuffs crushing his windpipe—but the cold reality of your situation kept your heels pinned firmly to the rug.

You were not stupid, and he certainly wasn't dumb enough to think you could miraculously slip through the heavy iron loops without a key. Your hands were bound tightly, the cold metal locked fast against your skin, and more importantly, he knew the singular truth that anchored you to this mountain: you would never, under any circumstance, attempt to flee this camp without your brother.

Sleep remained a distant, impossible luxury. You fought against the heavy droop of your eyelids with a desperate, frantic energy, your muscles locking every time the wind rattled the leather flaps of the yurt. You watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Neteyam's broad shoulders in the dim, amber glow of the dying oil lamp, your chest tightening with the suspicion that he wasn't actually asleep at all. Deep down, you knew he was merely pretending, playing a cruel game of cat and mouse, waiting for you to make a reckless move just to prove how entirely helpless you were against his strength.

When a sickly, grey dawn finally began to bleed through the gaps in the hide walls, Neteyam was already gone. The mats where he had lain were cold, the blankets folded with a neat, military precision that felt entirely wrong for a Na'vi warrior. Your body throbbed with a dull, agonizing ache, your spine stiff and your knees swollen from hours of sitting in a cramped, defensive position against the hard earth.

Directly in front of your feet sat a dark wooden tray. It held a fresh gourd of water and a small bowl of cooked grains mixed with yellow fat, the steam rising softly in the cool morning air. You did not touch it. You stared at the food with a fierce, stubborn defiance, your jaw clenching as you ignored the sharp, painful twist of your empty stomach. Part of you refused out of pure pride, a silent strike against the man who claimed to own your days, while another, darker part of your mind whispered that the bowl was laced with something meant to make you compliant, a trick to break the final remnants of your will.

Alone with the steady thrum of the camp outside, your thoughts finally drifted to the question that had been hollowing out your chest since the raid.

Why did Neteyam decide to keep you?

Nothing logical came to your muddled mind. You were a stranger from a shattered river clan, an enemy who had driven an iron tip deep into his right shoulder. It made no sense for a random warrior to pull you from the execution lines unless his motives were entirely rooted in malice. He kept you to ensure your torment, a slow, calculated revenge for the wound you had given him in the forest. He wanted to watch you wither in his corner, to see the pride bleed out of your eyes until you were nothing more than a ghost shuffling through his yurt. You knew your time in this small space was limited, and if you didn't construct a plan to locate your brother and breach the perimeter soon, the volcano would swallow both of you entirely.

Another realization began to take shape amidst your panic, a detail from the previous night that made your skin turn entirely cold. When Neteyam had forced the meat into your cage two days ago, he had murmured that his family did not waste food on the dead.

Who exactly was his family?

Lo’ak could tell Neteyam was in a good mood.

The morning fog still clung heavily to the roots of the mangrove trees along the riverbank, carrying the sharp, humid scent of damp moss and wet silt mixed with the distant, greasy odor of aviation fuel from the northern outpost.

Rather than Neteyam carrying his usual matte-black assault rifle slung across his chest, he walked with a lighter, more rhythmic step, armed only with a longbow and a quiver of heavy arrows forged from the obsidian glass of the volcano itself. The dark, polished wood of the bow gleamed faintly under the damp canopy. He was even humming a low, repetitive tune under his breath, a traditional hunter's melody that his mother used to sing before the old world broke, as they scouted the outer perimeter surrounding the river tribe they had invaded a couple of days ago.

Lo’ak stopped by a massive, moss-covered root, shoving his hands onto his hips as he let out a loud, dramatic sigh that cut right through the morning birdsong. He rolled his eyes so hard his head tilted back. "You are acting like a total skxawng (idiot), bro," he muttered, his tail flicking a sharp arc through the ferns.

Neteyam snickers at that, his ears twitching backward as he glances over his uninjured left shoulder, a wide, easy grin splitting his painted face. "Why can’t I just be happy, little brother? The weather is clear, the perimeter is secure, and the sky people are keeping to their sectors."

"It is gross," Lo’ak retorts, his lips curling into a look of pure disgust as he steps over a rotten log, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the mud. He points a finger accusingly at Neteyam's chest. "You get one good shag from a captive, and suddenly you are walking through the brush like a Fwäkìwll (mantis plant). It is pathetic."

Neteyam raises his non-existent eyebrows, his steps faltering for a split second as a look of genuine confusion replaces his easy smile. He stops in a small clearing where the morning sun pierces the thick leaves, casting long, golden bars across the damp floor. He adjusts the leather strap of his quiver against his uninjured shoulder, his jaw tightening slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Gossip travels fast through the lower terraces," Lo’ak says, a mocking smirk beginning to replace his annoyance as he circles around Neteyam, enjoying the sudden shift in his brother's posture. "The perimeter guards said you had a screaming, biting piece of baggage dragged straight into your yurt last night. Everyone knows you have a slave now."

A sudden flash of heat hits Neteyam's cheeks beneath his crimson war paint. He is quick to shake his head, his fingers tightening around the grip of his obsidian bow as he steps forward to close the distance between them, his voice dropping into a sharp, defensive whisper. "She is not my slave. You do not know what you are talking about, skxawng. She is simply living within my quarters, performing necessary duties and serving the household. It is an administrative arrangement."

Lo’ak lets out a barking laugh that rouses a flock of small forest birds from the canopy above, his shoulders shaking with absolute amusement. "An administrative arrangement? Right. She is basically your pet. You kept her like a stray hexaped you found in the brush."

"She is a person, not a pet," Neteyam says, his voice losing its lighter tone completely, his ears flattening against his braided hair as he tries to maintain his composure.

She has too much fire in her blood to ever be a pet, but my brother does not need to understand the way she looks at me.

Lo’ak is far too busy laughing to notice the genuine flash of irritation in his older brother's eyes. He leans against a high fern trunk, wiping a mock tear from his eye as his chuckles slowly subside into a low, amused hum. Once he finishes laughing, his expression shifts into something a bit more curious, his gaze tracking the tight line of Neteyam's shoulders.

"It is just very unusual for you," Lo’ak says, his tone turning casual as he kicks a loose pebble into the flowing river water. "You are not really the type to be sadistic or interested in keeping a broken captive around just to look at them. That is usually more of Kiri’s thing. Kiri basically has Spider wrapped around her little finger, treating him like a lost monkey she can command whenever she pleases. But you? You usually just follow orders and clear the field."

Neteyam immediately turns on his heel, deliberately continuing his walk down the river path to change the topic, his long strides forcing Lo'ak to hurry to keep pace. He does not like what his brother is implying, the suggestions making a strange, uncomfortable weight twist deep within his stomach.

Sure, he thinks you are very pretty.

He had spent half the morning patrol remembering the exact shade of your eyes when you glared at him through the iron bars, the fierce, unbroken curve of your jawline as you spat your name at his face. He is incredibly interested in you, far more than he has ever been in any of the compliant, quiet women within the Omatikaya inner circles. He likes the raw, dangerous fight left in your spirit, the way you look like you would gladly cut his throat if given half a second of freedom. Plus, Neteyam honestly felt he needed a change of things around his quarters; the repetitive cycle of drills, tactical briefings with his father, and the cold efficiency of the RDA operations had left his days feeling dry and uniform. Having your volatile energy filling the quiet corners of his yurt felt like a sudden, jolt of lightning.

Lo’ak doesn’t drop the topic, running a few light steps ahead to plant himself directly in Neteyam's path once more, a wicked, teasing glint in his golden eyes. "Oh, look at you, you are totally falling for your new pet," he jeers, leaning close to poke Neteyam's uninjured arm, making fun of his rigid posture. "This is hilarious. What is the plan then, bro? Are the two of you going to get mated before the next harvest? Are you going to have a bunch of little half-river babies running around the volcanic vents?"

Neteyam glares at him, his teeth catching his lower lip as his tail thrashes against the high grass.

"Oel ngati kameie, Neteyam," Lo’ak continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm, mocking you, as he dances backward down the trail. "She must be so incredibly happy that you ravaged her entire home, drove her people into the hills, and watched her parents get put down in the mud. Every girl dreams of serving the warrior who broke her life, right?"

The words strike a raw nerve, a sharp prickle of discomfort blooming behind Neteyam's ribs. He stops in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he forces his expression into a flat, unbothered mask, shaking off the sudden, heavy weight of his brother's words. He grips his obsidian bow, his knuckles turning a pale blue against the dark wood, and steps past Lo'ak without acknowledging the jab.

They would have slaughtered her if I didn't step in; she is alive because of my mercy.

He clears his throat, his chest expanding as he takes in a deep breath of the humid river air, forcing the image of your bleeding fingers out of his mind. He thinks to himself, he is a good man. He gave you a safe haven, a roof over your head, and a guarantee that your younger brother would grow up fed and protected within the clan. What else was he supposed to do in a world where the old ways were dead and survival required a cold, unyielding hand? He is protecting what remains, and if you have to serve him to earn that protection, then it is a small, necessary price to pay.

"Check the southern thicket, Lo'ak," Neteyam commands, his voice firm, echoing with the absolute authority of a squad leader as he focuses back on the treeline. "We have a schedule to keep."

You know you shouldn’t be staring so intently at your captor, but he really is captivating to look at. The flickering amber oil lamp casts long, dancing shadows across his high, angular cheekbones, highlighting the intricate patterns of his bioluminescent dots that pulse. He is a towering presence even while navigating the low ceiling of the tent, his movements carrying a fluid, predatory grace that makes your pulse hammer erratically against your ribs. You shouldn’t be thinking this, the thought feeling like an absolute betrayal of the ash currently settling over your parents' shallow graves, but you bet he is beautiful beneath all the heavy layers of volcanic ash and dried crimson war paint. But what isn’t beautiful is the face he is currently making at you. It is a tight, judgmental contour, almost a frown, a condescending pout that makes him look like a parent chiding their naughty child rather than a warrior who recently orchestrated the destruction of your entire world.

Neteyam asks why you haven’t eaten, his voice dropping into a low timbre that vibrates through the narrow space between you. He does not look directly at your face while he speaks, his eyes fixed entirely on the dark wooden trays left completely untouched near the edge of the woven rug. The grains have grown cold, the yellow fat congealing into a dull, unappetizing skin over the surface of the bowl.

You don’t answer him, stubbornly shifting your gaze down to the dirt floor, your teeth digging so hard into the inside of your cheek that you taste the faint, metallic tang of blood. The iron shackles around your wrists clank heavily as you pull your knees closer to your chest, the metal biting into the raw, weeping scrapes on your forearms.

He isn’t dejected by your absolute lack of response. He lets out a short, mocking breath through his nose, his tail flicking against the hide floor with a dry thwack.

“Are you a picky eater, then?” His tone carrying a light, teasing edge that makes your blood boil with a sudden, volatile heat. You snap your head upward, your features twisting into a fierce scowl that reveals the raw fury burning behind your exhausted eyes.

That sudden display of fire gets him to smile, a low snicker escaping his throat as his ears twitch forward with amusement. He moves away from the untouched food trays, his long thighs corded with muscle as he steps across the circular room to set down his hunting knife and his obsidian-tipped arrows onto a low wooden chest. As he crosses your personal space, a sudden gust of air carries his scent directly to your nose. He smells like your home. Beneath the thick stench of sulfur and tobacco, his skin carries the distinct, sharp fragrance of crushed river ferns, damp moss, and the sweet mangrove blossoms that used to line your village boundaries. It is a sudden, heartbreaking assault on your senses, and you unconsciously close your eyes, taking a deep, shuddering sniff of the air around him to catch the vanishing ghost of your past.

Neteyam doesn’t say a word about the movement, but he notices. His eyes narrow slightly, his ears tilting back as he tracks the sudden, fragile softening of your posture before you catch yourself and harden your features once more.

You think that’s the end of the interaction, expecting him to simply turn his back on you and pretend to sleep like he did during the previous night, leaving you to rot in the corner with your thoughts. Instead, he shifts his weight, his body moving with a terrifyingly slowness as he sits directly in front of you on the coarse rug. The physical distance between you drops to less than two feet. He reaches out with his left hand, picking up one of your unfinished food trays and resting it steadily upon his lap. You immediately avert your gaze, staring intently at the leather seam of the tent wall, your breathing turning shallow and jagged.

He breaks the silence, his voice dropping into a unyielding command that leaves no room for hesitation. "Look at me."

You force your eyes to lock onto his, your jaw clenching as you confront his expression. He is still smiling at you, that faint, curving smirk remaining plastered across his painted lips in a way that feels deeply unnerving, like a hunter playing with a snared hexaped. You look at the cold iron locked around your bleeding wrists, and you find the reckless audacity to roll your eyes at him.

"It is slightly difficult to eat while handcuffed," you spit out, your voice raspy and cracked from hours of silence, the words sounding clumsy as they leave your dry throat. You lean your head back against the hide wall, a bitter sneer curling your upper lip as you add on, "And besides, the food from my home is much better than this ash-flavored garbage."

He doesn’t seem offended by the insult at all. Matter of fact, he lets out a sudden intake of air, his broad chest expanding as he breaks into a genuine, rolling laugh that echoes off the wooden ribs of the yurt. He nods his head gently, his long braids clinking together as he looks down at the bowl of grains. "Oh, really?" he murmurs, his golden eyes dancing with a dangerous, mocking light as he leans an inch closer. "Perhaps you should cook for me then, if your hands are so superior."

"Sla muntxa nga (go fuck yourself)," you sneer at him, the crude phrase ripping from your chest with all the venom you have left.

Neteyam stops laughing instantly. His face goes completely still, his features locking into an unreadable mask as he quietly ponders your words for a long, agonizing moment. The silence inside the yurt stretches until the only sound is the low thrum of the volcanic vents outside.

You instinctively shy away from his frame, your shoulders hunching as a sudden, paralyzing fear grips your heart. You are completely at his mercy, bound in iron, and you realize with a horrifying clarity that you have pushed him too far, that he might finally use his strength to break you.

Neteyam breaks the suffocating silence, his voice dropping into a soft, terrifyingly low whisper that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

"Things can be so much worse for you in this camp," he says, his thumb tracing the smooth edge of the wooden tray. "You have no idea how gentle I am being with you."

The absolute hypocrisy of his words gets you going, a wild, uncontrollable rage erupting from the depths of your grief. You look at him like he has suddenly grown two heads, your chest heaving as you bark out your response.

"Things can be so much worse?!" your voice raising, the raw emotion tearing at your throat. "You took my brother from me! My parents are dead in the mud, our trees are burned to ash, and I am your—"

But Neteyam cuts you off while your mouth is still open.

His right hand moves like a striking viper, his calloused fingers slamming firmly around the back of your neck to pin your head against the hide wall, preventing any movement. Before you can even register the violation of his touch, his left hand lifts a heavy chunk of the dried meat from the tray, shoving it roughly past your bared teeth and deep into your mouth. The force of the movement drives your jaw upward, his large palm immediately clapping flat over your mouth, sealing your lips shut while his fingers dig into your cheeks to lock your jaw in place.

"Mphhh! Nnngh!"

A frantic, terrified moan escapes your nose as you instantly begin to struggle, the iron links of your shackles rattling in a wild, manic frenzy against the dirt floor. Your hands fly up, your bloody fingers clawing uselessly at his t wrist, but his arm is an immovable column of muscle, completely unbothered by your resistance. The physical position is suffocating; he is leaning over you, his massive chest pressing your knees down, his eyes staring down into yours from a distance of mere inches. They are wide, fierce, and completely devoid of the playful amusement he held moments before.

"Swallow it," Neteyam commands, echoing directly into your face. His thumb presses hard into the sensitive skin beneath your jawline, forcing the muscles of your throat to constrict automatically. "You will not starve yourself in my tent just to prove a point to the dead. Eat."

You glare up at him through a sudden, hot blur of angry tears, your heart hammering like a trapped drum against your ribs. The rich, salty taste of the meat fills your mouth, mixing with the faint flavor of your own blood. He watches your eyes, tracking the exact moment the defiance drains into sheer survival instinct. With a sharp, humiliating gulp, you are forced to swallow the dense meat, your throat working hard to clear the obstruction under the heavy pressure of his palm.

He holds his hand over your mouth for three more long, agonizing seconds, ensuring you won't simply spit the food back at his face, his chest rising and falling in heavy, synchronized breaths against your trembling frame. Finally, he slowly relaxes the iron grip on your neck, his palm sliding off your lips with a lingering friction that leaves your skin tingling in the cold air of the yurt.

You collapse back against the hide wall, your chest heaving as you draw in a ragged, gasping breath, your eyes never leaving his face as he calmly reaches down to pick up another piece of food from the tray.

Your eyes meet his, the intense, gold pools of his irises catching the low amber light of the oil lamp, and you start to tear up. The heat rises fast behind your eyelids, blurring the sharp red war paint stretching across his nose. You hate crying in front of him, your teeth grinding together in a futile attempt to lock the moisture within your skull, but you feel so powerless, so entirely useless. What was even your purpose here? For him to extract some twisted, sadistic pleasure by holding complete power over your days? For him to get a slow, calculated revenge for the arrow you drove into his skin? It just seems like an immense amount of work for a warrior of the vanguard to waste on a single, broken remnant of a river village.

Neteyam lifts his hand, the long blue fingers gripping another thick cut of the cooked sturmbeest, and he is about to pry open your mouth again. But the tears actually fall from your eyes now, spilling over your eyelashes to trace hot, clean lines through the fine gray soot covering your cheeks. Your mouth is clamped shut, your lips pressed into a thin, trembling seam of pure exhaustion.

He doesn’t make a single noise as he stops his hand, his ears tilting downward as he drops the meat back onto the wooden tray with a hollow thud. He doesn’t sigh with frustration, nor does he roll his eyes at your weakness. Instead, his left hand moves down toward his hip, his fingers unhooking a small, dull silver object from one of the braided leather hoops hanging along his waistband.

You shrink back on yourself, your spine scraping against the rough hide wall of the yurt as you brace for the next escalation. You so desperately want to apologize to him in this fraction of a second, the words trembling behind your teeth, thinking that maybe if you bow your head, the incoming blow will be softened. But the stubborn ghost of your lineage keeps you quiet; you don't want to give him the absolute satisfaction of seeing you beg, wanting to keep at least a shred of dignity left before the mountain swallows you whole.

But Neteyam does nothing like that. Instead, he reaches down and slides the silver key directly into the lock of your heavy iron handcuffs, turning it with a sharp, metallic click.

The heavy iron bands spring open, the sudden release of pressure making your skin prickle. You’re stunned, staring down at the dark, indented rings around your forearms, and you’re about to instinctively rub your sore wrists raw against your wrap. But Neteyam quickly snatches your hands before you can touch them, his calloused palms locking around your wrists with an unexpected, fluid speed.

He doesn't squeeze. He holds your hands aloft between the two of you, his thumbs lightly brushing the margins of your skin as he looks at the damage you’ve done to yourself during those long hours of frantic prying. He is incredibly gentle with you, his touch devoid of the violence from moments before as he inspects the torn fingernails and the weeping, raw abrasions where the iron had scraped against your flesh. The contrast is dizzying, the warmth of his skin radiating into your cold fingers.

You’re about to snatch your hands back from his grip, your muscles tensing to rip yourself away from his touch, but Neteyam speaks before you can move, his low voice breaking the silence of the tent.

"Usually, my people don't bother to tend to the injuries of those who fight the line," he murmured, his thumb lightly tracing the edge of a deep graze on your left wrist, his eyes remaining fixed on the blood staining your skin.

You lock your jaw, your chest rising as you prepare to retort, to cut him off and tell him exactly what he can do with his Omatikayan mercy. But he continues without looking up, his voice steady and calm. "But my sister is a good healer. She left a paste of distilled sleep-root and yellow seed-oil in my kit. It stops the burning."

You are once again completely stunned, your mouth parting slightly as the words die in your throat. The shock is twofold—partly due to the sudden, jarring realization that this fierce, painted soldier has a sister, but also because he is willingly choosing to heal the very hands that drew a bow against him. It does not fit the horror stories whispered around the river campfires; it doesn't align with the image of the butcher's son who had forced food down your throat moments ago.

Neteyam looks up, catching the utter confusion written across your features, and he lets out a low snicker, his ears twitching forward with arrogant amusement at your expression. A small, familiar smirk curls the corner of his lips, the red paint shifting as he tightens his gentle hold on your wrists just enough to remind you who is in control.

"Do not look at me like that," he quips, his voice dripping with a lazy, mocking charm as he leans slightly closer. "Hopefully, you learned your lesson about playing with iron. Consider this a bit of payback for my shoulder, yayotsyìp (little bird)."

You recoil slightly at the horrendous nickname, the syllables rolling off his tongue with an intimate smoothness that makes your skin prickle. Yet, beneath the sudden surge of wariness, a wave of relief washes over your exhausted frame.

Your mind is fiercely happy at this small, unexpected victory—your hands are finally free. The suffocating ron shackles no longer binds your wrists to the floor, and though your skin is raw and throbbing, the physical liberation feels like a profound triumph. You cannot begin to comprehend why he is suddenly showing you a glimpse of genuine kindness, but you lack the strength to question it. In this fragile moment, you are simply incredibly thankful for the absence of the metal.

Before your conscious mind can catch up to your impulses, a soft, trembling whisper escapes your lips. "Thank you."

The gratitude slips out before you can stop it. Instantly, you flinch, your heart hammering against your ribs as a deep, burning heat floods your cheeks. You look away from him immediately, fixating on a loose strand of woven fiber on the edge of the floor mat, mortified by your own vulnerability. To thank the man who holds your life in his hands feels like an admission of defeat, a betrayal of everything you left behind in the ashes of the riverbank.

Instantly, Neteyam is smiling.

He does not use his strength to force your chin up this time, nor does he demand that your eyes lock back onto his painted face. Instead, he lets out a low, melodic hum under his breath—a quiet, rumbling acceptance of your words—as he smooths his hands over his knees and shifts his weight to rise. The hide mat groans softly beneath his feet as he stands to his full height, his long tail brushing past the low hanging leather straps of the tent structure as he turns to retrieve his medical kit from the dark corner of the yurt.

Left alone in the small space of the rug, you begin to viciously beat yourself up for showing even an ounce of genuine gratitude to your captor.

He is the sole reason you are trapped within this volcanic fortress, surrounded by the heavy, choking scent of sulfur, dried blood, and unfamiliar woodsmoke. He represents the force that shattered your old life. Yet, as you stare down at the dark, swollen rings marking your flesh, you cannot stop thinking about the words he just spoke. He said he was being gentle with you. He warned you that things within the lower terraces of the Omatikaya camp could be vastly, unimaginably worse.

A tiny, traitorous thought begins to take root in the corners of your mind, whispering a horrifying truth that you do not want to admit: he is right. Unlike the terrifying stories the elders used to whisper around the river fires about captured souls being worked into the volcanic mines until their lungs turned to glass, Neteyam has provided for you. He ensures the food trays arrive, even if he has to force you to take the nourishment. When the patrols are done, he leaves you alone in the privacy of his quarters, never attempting to lay a hand on you or force himself upon your body.

Most importantly, he gave you his word that your younger brother was safe, fed, and protected within the lower camp structures. Compared to the bleak, violent fates of war, his shadow is a strange shield.

Before you can spiral any further into the dark labyrinth of your thoughts, a sudden shift in the air alerts you to his return.

You hadn’t even realized Neteyam had moved back across the small diameter of the yurt, his massive blue frame descending once more into the amber light of the oil lamp. He drops cross-legged directly in front of you, the scent of crushed river ferns and sharp, medicinal yellow seed-oil instantly filling the narrow gap between your faces. Without a word of warning, his fingers reach forward, locking around your wrists with that same unyielding yet careful grip, lifting your hands into the space between you as he prepares to apply the paste.

You have half a mind to snatch your hands back, the instinct to resist flaring up like a dying ember in your chest, but you quickly decide against it. Your skin is too raw, your body too tired, and the cool air of the tent makes the open cuts sting with a persistent, throbbing ache.

Neteyam opens the small wooden container, scooping a dollop of the thick, pale green sleep-root paste onto his fingertips. The moment his calloused skin presses the medicine against the weeping scrapes of your right wrist, a sharp, white-hot fire erupts across your flesh.

"Sss... ah! Nnngh," a sharp, high-pitched whine tears from your throat, your body instinctively jerking backward against the hide wall as the chemical heat of the root bites into the raw tissue. Your fingers curl inward, a small gasp escaping your lips before you can clamp your jaw shut, and you immediately scramble to apologize for the sudden outburst. "I'm sorry—I am sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Hush," Neteyam breaks in, though his voice holds absolutely no anger or irritation. He doesn’t seem to mind the sudden movement or the sound of your pain at all. Instead, he keeps his grip steady, his long thumbs smoothing the edges of the green paste over the wound with a mesmerizing pressure that slowly begins to numb the screaming nerves. He looks up at you through the dark, heavy fringe of his eyelashes, a small, genuine smile softening the fierce lines of his jaw as he hums a low, comforting reply back into the air.

"The bite means the blood is stopping. Do not apologize for the sting, yayotsyìp."

He seems to be back in an exceptionally good mood for some reason, his ears upright and relaxed, the twitch of his tail against the floor mat indicating a deep, internal calm. You watch the slow, focused movement of his fingers, noting the way the firelight catches the smooth, uninjured texture of his skin where the grey volcanic ash has been wiped away by his earlier patrol.

From what you have managed to observe about this warrior over the last forty-eight hours, you know that when he is in a good mood, he is significantly more likely to speak. The rigid, professional soldier melts away, replaced by a casual, almost arrogant willingness to share words. A cold, calculating thought flashes through your mind—you should take advantage of this moment. If you can get him to spill details about his life, his family, and his position within the hierarchy of this territory, you can find a weakness. You can find a lever to use against him to ensure your brother’s permanent safety or to plot an eventual escape from the ridge.

You think back to what he mentioned just a moment ago. His sister.

Neteyam is almost finished with your first hand, his large fingers deftly pulling a strip of clean, soft bark-cloth around your wrist, bandaging the treated area with the practiced efficiency of a hunter who has wrapped a hundred field injuries.

Taking a shallow, steadying breath to mask the tremor in your voice, you break the silence. You start shyly, your eyes fixed on his broad fingers as they tie a neat knot in the bandage. "You... you mentioned you have a sister. The one who made the paste."

Neteyam stops what he’s doing instantly. His fingers freeze against the fabric of the wrap, and he looks up, tilting his head slightly to the side as his eyes track the nervous line of your mouth. For a long, agonizing second, he simply stares at you, his face locking into a flat, unreadably calm expression that makes your heart sink. The warmth in his posture seems to vanish behind the warrior's mask, his ears flattening slightly as if assessing the true intent behind your question.

You immediately deflate at his silence, your shoulders dropping as you instinctively pull your remaining unbandaged hand back an inch, assuming you have crossed an invisible line and ruined your only chance at conversation. You prepare for the cold shoulder, or worse, for him to tighten the iron back around your bones.

Neteyam clears his throat, the deep sound vibrating through his chest as he catches the sudden, dejected shift in your posture. He notices the way you shrink back, and the harshness in his eyes dissolves as quickly as it had formed. He lets out a soft breath, reaching out to gently pull your left hand back into his lap to begin applying the medicine to the remaining cuts.

"I have two sisters," he says casually, his voice dropping back into that easy, conversational rumble as he scoops more of the green sleep-root paste from the jar.

"Kiri is the older of the two. She spends her days in the lower valley gardens, talking to the roots and mixing things that smell like old moss. The little one is Tuk. She is mostly just a nuisance who steals arrows from my quiver when I am trying to brief the perimeter guards." He pauses, his thumb smoothing the ointment over your skin with an agonizingly slow, gentle stroke. "And I have a brother. Lo'ak. You likely will hear the skxawng shouting throughout the village"

You pique up at the sudden wealth of information, your eyes widening slightly as your mind scrambles to piece together the structure of his household. The mention of a large family within this brutal, warlike clan catches you completely off guard.

You can’t help but lean forward a fraction of an inch, the question slipping past your lips before your caution can stop it. "Are you... are you the oldest then?"

Neteyam smiles at you, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, amused chuckling sound bubbles up from his throat. The red war paint on his cheeks shifts with the movement, making him look remarkably young, stripping away the terrifying aura of the vanguard leader who had broken your village gates. He looks down at your left hand, finishing the final turn of the bark-cloth wrap with a gentle, decisive pull, his fingers lingering against your skin for a brief, warm second before he finally lets go.

"Yes," he says softly, his voice carrying a proud, unmistakable weight as he looks back up into your eyes. "I am the oldest. The burden of keeping the rest of them alive usually falls on my shoulders."

You struggle to maintain eye contact, your pulse thudding an uneven rhythm against your collarbone, but you know you have to present yourself as entirely open and sincere to him right now.

Every muscle in your face resists the effort, every instinct screaming at you to pull away from his massive frame, but you force your gaze to remain locked with his golden irises. You have to get him to trust you somehow. As much as you absolutely despise the reality of divulging this much personal information to this cruel man—the very commander who watched your village burn—he is your only tangible key to escape.

You’re not stupid.

You have watched the way his ears twitch when you speak, the way his gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw when he thinks you aren't paying attention. You know Neteyam must like you at least a tiny bit, or at the very least, he is fascinated by the novelty of your presence in his quarters. You need to use that slight crack in his armor to your absolute advantage. But at the same time, you cannot afford to seem too eager to please him, nor can you allow yourself to become entirely docile. From the way he smiled when you fought against the iron, you can easily infer that he likes how much fierce, volatile fire you have left inside your blood. If you just roll over like a broken pa’li (direhorse) being broken for the saddle, he will lose interest, or worse, he will see right through the sudden submission. You have to walk a razor-thin line between vulnerability and defiance.

You force your lips to curve upward, carving a small, fragile smile onto your face that feels completely foreign against your tight skin.

"I am the oldest too," you say, your voice dropping into a soft cadence that mimics his own reflective tone. You let your shoulders drop slightly, shifting your weight closer to the hide wall to look smaller, more defenseless in his shadow. "My younger brother, Eylì, is the sweetest kid you could ever meet. He... he always likes to sing when the sun goes down behind the canopy, and he absolutely hates fishing. He can never sit still long enough by the banks without splashing the water and driving the fish into the deep reeds."

You pause, deliberately biting your lower lip until it aches, letting your eyelashes flutter downward as you force yourself to look deeply sad, letting the grief wash visibly over your features. You want him to feel a sudden, heavy pang of pity for you. You want him to imagine the agonizing weight of being forcibly separated from the one person you were born to protect, hoping it will soften his guard enough to make him careless with the keys or the camp schedules.

You slowly look back up, expecting to see a softening in his eyes, but the breath catches in your throat. You can no longer read Neteyam’s face at all. The easy smirk is completely gone, his features settling into a hard, immobile mask that looks as if it were carved directly from the obsidian of the volcano outside. He is no longer smiling. His ears are level, motionless, and his chest rises and falls in terrifyingly measured breaths. A cold spike of panic strikes deep into your stomach. You’re suddenly terrified that he knows exactly what you are trying to do, that he can somehow read your thoughts or see the hidden calculation behind your manufactured sorrow.

His stare becomes entirely suffocating. Desperate to break the tension before it crushes you, you start saying something else, your voice wavering as you scramble for a distraction. "Your... your sa'sem (parents), are they—"

Before you can finish the question, Neteyam cuts you off entirely.

His right hand moves with a sudden swiftness, his large fingers reaching up to firmly grab your jaw. He doesn't pinch the bone with a violent force, instead cradling the entire structure of your chin in his broad palm, but his thumb presses down with an unyielding pressure directly against your bottom lip. The rough, calloused skin of his thumb pushes the soft tissue down against your lower teeth, pinning your mouth slightly open. You absolutely hate when he does that—the humiliating, possessive gesture that completely strips away your ability to speak—and from the slight flare of his nostrils, you know he is fully aware of how much it enrages you.

Neteyam is smiling again now, but it is not the kind, amused chuckle from before. It is a wide, predatory baring of teeth, his eyes gleaming with a triumphant light. He deliberately changes the subject, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr that vibrates against your captured jaw.

"You are obviously free to roam around the interior of this tent now that the iron is off your wrists," he murmurs, his face hovering close enough that you can feel the hot rush of his breath against your cheek. He looks down at your pinned lip, his thumb sliding slightly to smear a trace of the green sleep-root paste against your skin. "But you should not touch anything that belongs to me. My knives, my bows, the maps on the chest. If you touch a single thread while I am away on patrol, you will know exactly what the consequences are. I will know the moment I return."

Your brow furrow into a deep, furious frown, the mask of sweet vulnerability completely shattering beneath the sudden rush of hot, indignant anger. You glare at him with absolute venom, your fingers curling into tight fists against the rug. Seeing your defiance return, Neteyam presses his thumb even deeper into your lower lip, stretching the corner of your mouth as his eyes flare with a bright, terrifying intensity. His smile grows wider, enjoying the way your spirit flares back to life under his palm.

You thought things were going decently well a moment ago, thought you were playing the game perfectly, but his arrogance is just completely pissing you off. You know you shouldn't act out, know that pushing while cornered in his own yurt is the height of reckless stupidity, but the sheer heat of your temper overrides your caution.

Before you can think better of it, you lean forward and lightly sink your sharp teeth straight into the thick flesh of his thumb.

You don’t bite down hard enough to draw blood or tear the skin, but you apply enough sharp, sudden pressure to make your point clear. Neteyam freezes, his eyes widening in a rare flash of genuine surprise. He clearly wasn't expecting his captive to snap at him like a wild nangnap, and for a fraction of a second, the dominance of his posture falters.

Then, to your utter disbelief, a deep, rolling laugh rumbles from his chest. He doesn't strike you or pull back in anger; he simply lets out a low snicker, his ears twitching backward in sheer amusement at your audacity.

Sensing the shift, you stop biting him, twisting your head sharply to the side to push his hand completely away from your face. You wipe your mouth with the back of your newly bandaged wrist, glaring up at him.

"Oh, really?" you spit out, your voice dripping with a defiant sarcasm. "Then I guess I will just have to make sure I touch absolutely every single thing you own the very second you step foot out of that flap."

Neteyam gets up from the rug in one fluid, massive movement, his legs uncoiling with an effortless grace that places him high above you once more. He lets out a low, satisfied hum, his tail swinging in a slow, relaxed arc behind his thighs as he turns his back to you, walking over to the large sleeping mat on the opposite side of the yurt.

"I will look forward to having fun punishing you then, yayotsyìp," he quips over his shoulder, his voice filled with a confident promise that sends a shiver straight down your spine as he begins unbuckling his heavy leather chest guard to get ready for bed.

The heavy leather armor hits the floor with a dull, echoing thud, the sound reverberating through the small space of the tent as the silence returns, far more dangerous than before.

So maybe Neteyam isn’t such a good man.

The thought doesn't arrive with the sharp sting of guilt.

instead, it settles into his chest like the cold, heavy basalt stone of the ridge line. He usually doesn’t take pleasure in the act of killing innocent Na’vi—he has always prided himself on being the disciplined soldier, following his father’s precise operational directives to secure the border sectors. But tonight, beneath the heavy, ash-choked canopy of the southern marshland, something fundamental had shifted within him.

The frantic, high-pitched screams of the river scouts as his obsidian-tipped arrows tore through the thick brush hadn't felt like a grim chore. They had felt incredibly cathartic, a raw release of the suffocating pressure that had been building behind his ribs for days. And don’t even get him started on the begging. The way the last standing scout had collapsed into the wet silt, hands raised in a futile, trembling plea for mercy just before the final strike, had sent a sudden, dark jolt of adrenaline straight through Neteyam's veins. It had really gotten him going, fueling a strange, intoxicating rush of absolute dominion that he had never allowed himself to acknowledge before.

This past week for him has been significantly worse than usual. The tactical reports from the northern outpost were plagued with logistical errors, the heat from the volcanic vents had been unusually oppressive, and the constant, thick layer of gray soot seemed to coat every single surface of his quarters. If he believed Eywa was truly the all-knowing, all-merciful mother his mother still secretly prayed to, he would think this miserable, grating week was his direct karma for the blood he had spilled on the riverbanks.

But he doesn’t believe in that old-world sentimentality anymore. The great mother hadn't saved his childhood home, nor had she stopped the sky people from turning the fertile valleys into cracked plains of hardened slag. Out here on the ridge, the only true gods were strength, iron, and the survival of the clan. Karma was merely a story told to children to keep them quiet in the dark.

And don’t get him started on his family. Usually, his parents were perfectly fine—his father kept to the command yurt, mapping out perimeter defenses, while his mother managed the lower terrace stores—but his siblings had been extra annoying over the past few days. They were constantly whispering in the corridors, their eyes tracking his movements with grating curiosity.

They were extra annoying about you. Lo'ak’s mocking laughter still echoed in his ears, and even Kiri had given him a long, knowing look across the evening fire, her silence carrying a heavy judgment that made his jaw tighten until the muscles ached.

Well, yes, he has been spending significantly more time around your corner of the yurt lately, drawing out the evening hours just to watch the way the firelight caught the curves of your face. But you’ve been completely refusing to speak to him since he took the iron off your wrists. You had clutched your newly bandaged hands to your chest, retreating into a stony, impenetrable silence that no amount of light testing or mocking quips could break. Your stubborn refusal to acknowledge his presence had forced his hand. He wasn't a man to be ignored in his own dwelling, so he had resorted to deliberate tactics—sudden movements, sharp commands, and subtle displays of his immense physical authority designed to scare you out of your defiance. He feels a faint, passing twinge of bad about the psychological terror he was inflicting on a captive, but not really. It kept the fire in your eyes alive, and that fire was the only thing keeping the crushing monotony of this outpost at bay.

Now, the heavy leather flap of the tent shifts with a loud, scraping rustle as Neteyam steps over the wooden threshold. The interior of the yurt is dim, illuminated only by the dying, low amber embers of the central hearth pit, casting fractured shadows across the woven floor rugs. He stands in the center of the space, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy expansions as he allows the cool night air to wash over his skin.

You’re staring right at him from your corner by the hide wall, your knees pulled tightly against your chest, your large eyes wide and so incredibly scared. The fragile mask of defiance you had tried to maintain earlier has completely vanished, replaced by a raw, paralyzing terror that makes your entire frame tremble against the leather seams.

He is very clearly bloodied, and very clearly crazed. The crimson war paint across his nose and cheekbones is smeared and ruined, caked with thick, dark splatters of river blood that have dried into an ugly, crusty brown texture under the heat of the patrol. More blood—vibrant, slick, and fresh—coats the entirety of his right forearm, dripping slowly from the tips of his fingers onto the coarse fibers of the floor mat with a faint, rhythmic pat, pat, pat. His long braids are wild and unraveled, a few dark strands sticking to the damp skin of his neck, and his golden eyes possess a manic, unblinking intensity that looks completely unhinged in the flickering amber shadows. He looks like a monster that has stepped directly out of the burning woods.

Neteyam can’t lie to himself in this quiet room.

He is very turned on right now. The sheer sight of you shrinking back into the darkness, your throat working in rapid, shallow gulps as you take in the visceral evidence of his violence, sends an intoxicating heat pooling deep within his lower belly. Your terrified expression, your helpless, trembling demeanor, the way your chest heaves in absolute submission to the primal fear of his presence—it all acts like a powerful fuel to the lingering adrenaline still singing in his blood. He likes knowing that he is the sole source of that terror. He likes that your entire world has narrowed down to the bloody fingers of his right hand.

The silence stretches between you for three long, agonizing minutes, the only sound the low, distant hissing of the volcanic steam vents outside and the ragged sound of your own breathing. Neteyam doesn't move a single muscle, looming over the dim clearing like an obsidian statue, his gaze tracking the frantic pulse point fluttering against the side of your neck.

He finally speaks, his voice breaking the suffocating stillness with a low and smooth purr that vibrates through the narrow space. He lifts his uninjured left hand, gesturing toward the open space of the rug directly in front of his boots.

"Come here," he beckons, his ears tilting forward as he watches your face.

You very clearly don't want to move. Your fingers dig into the leather wrap of your top, your spine pressing so hard against the hide wall of the yurt that the wooden support beams creak softly behind you. Every survival instinct in your body is screaming at you to stay in the shadows, to disappear into the dirt floor rather than step into the light with a blood-drenched soldier. But despite the overwhelming terror paralyzing your limbs, you know the consequences of refusal. You know the strength of the hand that forced food down your throat. Slowly, with your eyes never leaving the manic gleam of his golden irises, you begin to untangle your legs from your chest, your bandaged wrists trembling violently as you prepare to step into his space.

Your feet drag across the coarse fibers of the woven rug, each inch of movement feeling like an absolute surrender as you close the physical distance between your trembling frame and his towering stature. The thick, metallic stench of fresh river blood fills your nostrils, layering over the familiar scent of his sandalwood oil and the sharp sulfur of the ridge, grounding you in the terrifying reality of the moment. You stop exactly two feet away from him, your head tilted upward to look at the caked gore on his chest, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Neteyam doesn't immediately reach out to touch you. Instead, he leans down slightly, his broad shoulders casting a total shadow over your face as he studies the precise shade of fear written across your features. A slow, dark smile begins to curl the corner of his lips, the smeared paint shifting across his muzzle as he takes a deep, contented breath of your panicked scent.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low whisper that brushes against your forehead. "You are learning when to follow the line, yayotsyìp."

He shifts his weight, his large, blood-splattered right hand rising slowly into the narrow gap between your faces. You flinch automatically, your eyes clamping shut as you prepare for the cold smear of the river gore against your skin, but his movements remain agonizingly slow, calculated to prolong the excruciating tension humming through the tent. His fingers hover just millimeters away from your cheek, the heat of his skin radiating through the damp air, leaving you suspended in a state of pure, breathless dread as the dying embers of the hearth pit finally hiss into total darkness.

He can tell you’re about to say something, your lips parting slightly as you draw in a sharp, desperate breath to voice whatever frantic plea is rising from your chest. But not wanting to hear your pleads, not wanting the intoxicating rush of his victory to be interrupted by the predictable script of a captive's bargaining, Neteyam instead rests his blood-wet hand heavily upon your shoulder, his fingers spreading wide across your collarbone as his lips curve into a dark smile.

You’re totally surprised by the lack of physical violence in the gesture, your entire frame freezing beneath the immense, radiating heat of his palm, but you let out a long, ragged exhale of relief against the dim air of the yurt. The iron-scented moisture from his skin seeps directly into the coarse fabric covering your shoulder, a damp, heavy weight that serves as an undeniable reminder of his total physical dominance over the small space.

As much as Neteyam likes to scare you sometimes—enjoying the way the sudden flare of terror makes your bioluminescent dots pulse in rapid, chaotic patterns across your skin—he didn't tell you to come over here for nothing. He almost leans down towards you, his shoulders blocking out what little ambient light remains from the dying hearth fire, his eyes gleaming with a manic, unblinking intensity just inches from your own.

His voice drops into a low, gravelly vibration that rattles straight through your ribs as he delivers the unexpected command. "We’re going out."

You blink up at him through the dimness, your jaw slackening as you repeat his words in a hushed, flat whisper, so incredibly confused by the sudden shift in his demands. "Going out?"

You haven’t set foot outside the heavy leather flaps of his yurt since the night you were dragged into the volcanic fortress, your hands bound in cold iron and your throat raw from screaming. To be perfectly honest with yourself, you were really scared of what lay beyond the threshold.

Inside the small, enclosed perimeter of his yurt, you weren’t bothered by anyone else in the Omatikaya hierarchy. You didn’t have to face the harsh, agonizing realities that you were no longer home by the sweeping riverbanks, that your old life was entirely gone, and that your family's history had been reduced to ash. Instead, you were safely stuck with this one man, dealing only with his specific brand of mocking cruelty and unexpected gentleness. The interior of the tent was a strange, isolated vacuum where the war couldn't touch you. If you go out into the sprawling, noisy terraced structures of the upper ridge, the entire clan will see you. The lower perimeter guards, the blacksmiths forging the obsidian arrows, the other vanguard soldiers—others will immediately perceive you as a slave, a trophy brought back from the river raid, reminding you with brutal clarity of what you truly are in this new world.

Neteyam nods cheerfully, his long braids clinking against his scarred collarbone as he lets out a brief, airy snicker at your obvious bewilderment. He adjusts his grip on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against the side of your neck as he asks, his tone dripping with a lazy, mocking irony, "Are you excited, yayotsyìp?"

You can tell he’s joking, his eyes dancing with that familiar, arrogant amusement, but the casual cruelty of the question still stings your pride deeply. Your expression hardens, your features twisting into a deep, defensive frown as you deliberately wrench your shoulder backward, shrugging off his heavy, bloodied hand from your skin. You press your spine flat against the hide wall, your voice sharp and cold as you snap back, "No. I am not excited."

Neteyam tuts softly, a clicking sound of disapproval rising from the back of his throat as he shakes his head, his ears tilting downward in a mock display of disappointment. He leans back slightly, though he remains kneeling directly within your personal space, his tail swishing against the floor rug with a dry, rhythmic hiss. "You should really be more grateful," he murmurs, his eyes tracking the rapid rise and fall of your chest. "Many in the lower terraces would give half their rations to sit in a dry tent with a full tray of meat."

You can’t hold your tongue any longer, the toxic mixture of fear and exhaustion curdling into a sudden, reckless surge of spite that overrides your internal warnings. You retort back, your eyes narrowing into fierce slits as you glare up at his painted face. "I know," you spit out, your voice laced with venom. "You say that all the time. You never stop reminding me of how merciful you think you are."

Since he’s in an exceptionally good mood from the successful patrol, the sharp bite of your tongue doesn't anger him. he lets out another rolling, genuine laugh that rattles through his broad chest, clearly delighted by the fact that you still have the spirit to snap back at him despite the blood on his hands. He rises to his full height in one fluid movement, turning away from you to set down his empty wooden tray and his hunting gear onto the low storage chest near the entrance, getting his things ready to go out.

You really don’t want to talk to him, every instinct telling you to retreat back into the protective silence that you had maintained all evening. But you don’t want to go out completely blinded into whatever nightmare waits beyond the leather flap, your mind racing with terrifying possibilities of what the Omatikaya do to their captives during the dark hours of the night. You swallow thickly, the dry skin of your throat clicking as you force the words out, your voice small against the vast space of the tent. "Why... why are you taking me out there? What do you want from me?"

He turns his head back toward you, a wicked grin spreading across his muzzle as he hooks his fingers into the broad leather straps of his belt. He lets out a low, amused hum, choosing to joke with you rather than give a straight answer. "It is perfectly normal for a guy to take out the girl he likes, isn't it? A stroll through the camp to see the sights."

You’re not amused by the lighthearted framing of your captivity, the sheer absurdity of his words making your stomach churn with disgust. You don’t offer him a smile or a clever retort;you just stare at him with a dead, unblinking glare, your lips pressed into a hard line of pure resentment. But Neteyam is quite pleased at his own joke, his ears twitching forward as he watches the rigid, unyielding posture of your body.

You remain perfectly still, waiting in the dark for a serious answer, refusing to play along with his casual shifting of moods. Neteyam notices the absolute coldness in your gaze, and the playful light in his eyes slowly begins to fade. He wipes the easy smile off his face, his features tightening back into that rigid, disciplined mask of a clan leader's son. His voice drops the mocking charm entirely, turning flat, heavy, and ominous as he delivers the truth.

"There is a celebration happening in the central tier," he says, his eyes narrowing as he locks his gaze with yours. He steps closer to the exit, his hand resting on the heavy leather tie of the door flap. He gets very, very serious, his voice sinking into a dark whisper that chills your blood. "And trust me, yayotsyìp... you do not want to know the specific reason why we are celebrating tonight."

You don’t need him to spell it out for you. You can easily guess from the dark, crusted blood smeared across his high cheekbones, the wet, iron-smelling gore coating his entire right forearm, and the manic, hyper-vigilant energy radiating off his massive frame exactly what the reason is.

The vanguard had found the remaining survivors of your people.

They had hunted down the scouts who had managed to escape into the deep southern mangroves, and they had slaughtered them in the dark.

You’re very reasonably upset, a sudden, blinding wave of grief and pure, unadulterated hatred crashing through the fragile walls of your restraint. You know you should really clamp down your mouth, know that you are completely defenseless and that pushing this volatile warrior while he is still covered in the blood of your kindred is a death sentence, but the sheer horror of his words breaks something vital inside your chest.

"Of course," you hiss out, your voice shaking with a terrifying intensity as you rise to your feet, your bandaged wrists trembling against your sides. "Of course your people celebrate needless slaughter. I didn't put it past them for a single second. You are all the same."

The words begin to pour from your mouth like a torrential flood, your control completely snapping as you step out of the shadows, your features distorted with pure rage. You start spewing out every single insult you can think of, your voice rising in volume until it echoes off the wooden support ribs of the yurt.

"You are savages! Every single one of you! Cold-blooded freaks who thrive on the screams of families! No wonder why the Great Mother abandoned this ridge! No wonder why Eywa left you to rot in the sulfur and the ash—you don't deserve the breath she gave you!"

Neteyam is not hearing any of it though. The easy, tolerant mood he possessed moments ago completely vanishes at the mention of the Mother, his ears flattening instantly against his braided hair as his jaw tightens into a dangerous, bone-cracking clench.

He’s had entirely enough out of you, his patience evaporating under the heat of your insults.

Without uttering a single word of warning, he lunges forward across the small clearing. His blood-stained hand flies out, his fingers wrapping with a terrifying, iron-clad force around your left wrist, completely ignoring the soft bark-cloth bandage protecting your raw skin.

"Let go of me! Nnngh—stop!" you shriek, your voice cracking as he violently yanks you off your feet, dragging your smaller frame straight toward the exit despite your frantic protests and the useless clawing of your free hand against his forearm.

He doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. With one brutal, decisive pull, Neteyam throws open the heavy leather door flap of the yurt, dragging you out into the cool, smoke-filled air of the mountain terrace, leading you directly toward the loud, thumping beat of the celebration drums below.

The transition from the stifling, amber-lit interior of the dwelling to the vast, open expanse of the upper terrace is a sudden, physical shock to your system. The cold night air feels incredibly nice against your overheated skin, instantly cutting through the lingering warmth of the hearth pit, but the smoke hanging over the ridge is so thick and heavy that your lungs immediately rebel. It isn't the clean, woodsy smoke of your river home's cookfires; this is a dense, acrid shroud of burning pine-pitch, sulfur vents, and roasted meat that clings to the back of your throat like oil. You aren't used to it at all.

You blink rapidly, your vision blurring as the stinging mist bites into your eyes, and your free, unbandaged hand flies up to cover your nose and mouth in a futile effort to filter the air. Through the haze, you can tell Neteyam is looking down at you, his eyes catching the distant, orange glare of the lower tier bonfires, but he chooses to stay completely silent, his grip on your wrist remaining an unyielding column of pressure as he guides you down the stone-cut path.

But you’re not done insulting him yet. The burning grief in your chest is far too hot, far too volatile to be suppressed by a change of scenery, and you are fiercely determined that he shouldn't deserve to enjoy a single moment of the celebration his people are throwing over the graves of your kin.

Throughout your choked-up, ragged breathing, you force the words past your teeth, your voice a trembling, venomous hiss that carries over the rocky ledge. You tell him that his people smell like rotting earth, that his entire village is nothing but a miserable slag heap of ash, and that the only reason his vanguard managed to break the valley walls was cowardice.

"If my people weren’t surprise attacked in the dark while they slept," you choke out, your heels digging into the loose gravel as he pulls you along, "if we had even a single moment to draw our bows, I would have personally slaughtered you where you stood. I would have left your body for the yeriks (hexapeds)."

Neteyam is surprisingly quiet still, his shoulders squared against the mountain breeze as he navigates the uneven incline of the path. His face remains entirely neutral, a flat, unbothered mask of stone beneath the smeared crimson war paint. Watching the complete lack of irritation in his ears, you realize with a sudden spike of frustration that he’s probably deeply used to these kinds of wild, futile tantrums from his younger siblings—that Lo'ak and Tuk have likely thrown far worse fits against his rigid authority.

Trying with everything inside you to get him to finally crack, to make him look at you with the same raw, unhinged fury he possessed inside the yurt, you lean toward him as much as his grip allows and snap, "You are ugly. A hideous, painted monster."

That absurd, childish jab finally gets him to smile.

A low snicker rumbles from his chest, his ears twitching forward with a genuine amusement as he looks down at you, his lips parting as if he’s about to say something clever to thoroughly dismantle your pride. But before the words can leave his mouth, a sharp, carrying voice calls out his name from the shadow of the lower terrace overlook.

You stop in your tracks, your muscles locking up instantly at the sound of an unfamiliar tongue, but Neteyam doesn't let you linger. He keeps moving, dragging you along behind his frame with a smooth, relentless momentum that completely ignores your sudden resistance.

Neteyam is no longer smiling by the time he steps into the wider clearing of the secondary tier, his features settling into a formal, disciplined alignment, but he is noticeably calmer than he was when he first burst into your quarters. He raises his uninjured left arm in a steady gesture of greeting as he approaches one of his fellow squad leaders, a tall, heavily scarred warrior named Rin’zec who is leaning against a stack of supply crates. Rin’zec’s hair is woven into thick, grease-stained braids that fall past a broad chest covered in old hunting tallies, his thighs thick enough to rival the trunk of a young mangrove tree, and his leather loincloth is stiff with salt and old ash.

You instinctively shift your weight, hiding behind the massive shield of Neteyam's back, your hand still firmly captured in his tight grasp. You’re very upset, your blood boiling with a volatile mix of humiliation and rage, but you don’t want to draw a single extra eye to your position or invite the curiosity of the camp, so you just stand there broodingly in his shadow, your eyes fixed on the dirt as the two men finish their conversation.

You tune out the rapid, low click of their dialect, the harsh vowels of the Omatikayan speech fading into a dull background hum beneath the persistent, thumping of the war drums below.

You use the brief pause to look around discreetly, your eyes darting through the smoke-filled gloom to catalogue everything within your field of vision. You trace the steep incline of the stone pathways, marking the positions of the perimeter guards standing by the active steam vents, trying to figure out potential escape paths that lead away from the volcanic heat and down toward the cooler moisture of the valley. Your gaze shifts toward the long, low communal structures built from charred pine logs, your heart aching as you try to guess which of those heavy, dark buildings might contain the lower-tier prisoners—wher Eylì, would be holding his breath in the dark.

You suddenly realize they are talking about you when Neteyam's fingers tighten, giving your wrist a sharp, commanding squeeze that demands your attention. You ignore him entirely, keeping your chin tucked toward your chest until Rin’zec steps closer, his heavy shadow falling over your feet as he tries to speak directly to you.

You don’t answer him, refusing to give the stranger even a single glance, your jaw locking into an iron seam of pure non-compliance.

Rin’zec lets out a rough, bark-like laugh at your silence, turning back to Neteyam with a wide, white-toothed grin as he gestures toward your rigid form. "She is so feisty, tsmukan," the warrior rumbles, his eyes running over your bandaged wrists with a casual, predatory curiosity. "A real wild one from the banks. Tell me, is she just as feisty when you take her to the mat? How exactly do you punish a creature with that much teeth?"

You let out a loud, visceral hiss, your ears flattening completely against your head as you prepare to spit a barrage of vile curses directly into the warrior's face. But before you can launch yourself forward, Neteyam drags you away with a sudden, powerful sweep of his arm. He smiles widely at his companion, his voice smooth and untroubled as he throws a final comment over his shoulder, telling his friend he’ll meet up with him later near the main fire-pits.

The crowd grows denser as you descend into the third tier, the ambient chatter of off-duty scouts and elders creating a wall of sound that blends with the thudding of the leather drumheads. The smell of roasting fat becomes almost overpowering, the grease dripping into the open flame pits to create thick, white plumes of smoke that billow across the stone path. Neteyam doesn't slow his pace, his long strides forcing you to constantly adjust your balance to avoid tripping over the exposed tree roots anchoring the terraced earth.

You can feel the eyes of the clan on you now—judgmental, and entirely devoid of sympathy. Women carrying bundles of dried reeds stop to watch you pass, their whispers cutting through the noise like small knives, while young hunters look at the blood still drying on Neteyam's forearm with expressions of pure reverence.

Every single step away from the isolation of the yurt feels like a public stripping of your identity, forcing you to walk the perimeter of your own ruin while the authors of your grief celebrate the dawn of their harvest.

Neteyam is noticeably surprised that you are holding your head so high despite the situation. He expects you to cower, to tuck your chin into your chest and hide from the piercing glares of his clansmen, but instead, your spine remains rigid, your jaw set in a line of stubborn defiance. A sudden, subtle shift passes through his posture, and he gives your arm a comforting squeeze, his fingers pressing gently against the bark-cloth bandage on your wrist. But you completely mistake the gesture, interpreting the sudden pressure as a warning that you are in trouble, a silent command to behave yourself before you provoke the surrounding warriors.

You look up at him instantly, scrunching your face into a tight, defensive grimace, your eyes flashing with a mixture of suspicion and lingering anger. Neteyam tilts his head slightly to the side, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his painted face, and he smiles down at you—a soft, genuine expression that completely lacks the mocking edge he held inside the tent. Caught off guard by the unexpected warmth in his gaze, you look away immediately, your face heating up as a sudden, traitorous flush creeps across your cheeks.

The two of you finally make it to the main fire of the central tier, and you weren't expecting the gathering to be so incredibly massive.

The central plaza is a vast, natural amphitheater carved directly into the caldera of the ridge, surrounded by towering columns of black basalt that loom like frozen giants against the starless sky. At the center of the depression roars a colossal bonfire, its flames leaping thirty feet into the air, fed by continuous bundles of oily pine-pitch and dried marsh reeds. The heat radiating from the pit is immense, a physical wall of pressure that clashes violently with the cold night wind, creating a turbulent updraft that carries millions of bright, orange sparks up into the dark canopy of smoke.

The gathering is dense, hundreds of Omatikaya clansmen are packed along the stone tiers, their bodies painted in the traditional crimson and ash of the vanguard.

You watch in a state of stunned, silent awe as the older hunters perform their ancient traditions. They circle the perimeter of the great fire, their bodies swaying in perfect synchronization to the deep, resonant thudding of the leather-headed drums. Each warrior carries a long, polished staff tipped with a fragment of volcanic glass, striking the stone floor in unison to create a rhythmic, metallic clatter that vibrates through the soles of your feet.

Then, the dancers move directly into the outer margins of the fire itself. The soles of their feet are hardened from a lifetime of walking the volcanic slag, allowing them to leap through the scattering embers and low-burning coals without faltering. They twist and bend through the heat, their skin gleaming with a thick layer of animal oil that reflects the roaring flames, making them look like spirits born from the magma itself. Their voices rise in a complex, overlapping chant—a guttural, ancient melody that tells the story of the hunt, of the blood poured out to sustain the life of the ridge, and of the unyielding strength of the clan.

Neteyam thinks your face is really cute as you stand there, your eyes wide and completely captivated by the sheer scale and primal energy of the spectacle, taking everything in despite your hatred for his people. He watches the way the orange firelight dances across your features, softening the sharp lines of your anger into something fragile and wonder-struck. He leans down close to your ear, his warm breath brushing against your neck as he whispers, his voice carrying a trace of that proud, easy charm, "It is pretty cool, right?"

You quickly shut him down, snapping out of your momentary trance as you turn your head to glare at him through the smoke. "You are completely delusional," you hiss, your voice raspy but fierce. "I have no idea why you brought me here. This isn't a spectacle for me—it is a nightmare."

As you speak, your eyes scan the surrounding crowds, searching the margins of the firelight for any sign of familiarity, any glimpse of your own people. But from what you can see right now, there are absolutely no other slaves or captives present in the plaza. You are entirely alone, a single river bird trapped in a canyon of wolves, displayed openly at the side of the vanguard leader.

Neteyam rolls his eyes at your stubborn resistance, a low, dramatic sigh escaping his nose as he shakes his head. "You are just extra special, yayotsyìp," he murmurs, his tone shifting back into that lazy, teasing cadence that always manages to push your buttons.

You make a loud, disgusted noise in the back of your throat, your stomach turning at the casual intimacy of the comment. Seizing the moment of his relaxed posture, you violently shrug off his blood-smeared hand from your arm, stepping a full foot away from his side to re-establish the boundary between you.

Neteyam's smile fades slightly, his fingers curling into his palm as he prepares to say something to reassert his control, his eyes narrowing as he steps back toward you. But before the words can leave his lips, his people let out a particularly loud, unified celebration cry from the edge of the fire pit—a piercing, guttural shriek that echoes off the basalt cliffs and completely drowns out the sound of your defiance.

You wince at that, almost covering your ears with your hands as the wave of raw sound crashes over you.

Like you said, you have no idea why he brought you here. Okay, well you do. It is probably to mentally mind fuck you. To let you know whose truly in control, to show you how practically your whole tribe was wiped out while these people dance in the aftermath.

You really, really want to cry, but that’ll just spur the celebration on, giving them the satisfaction of seeing you broken. You know onlookers are watching you from the edges of the stone tiers, and they can easily guess from your lack of red paint and your traditional river clan clothing that you’re one of them—a remnant from the banks.

It seems entirely impossible to force yourself to like Neteyam, to continue with your desperate plan to get him to like you so his guard can be down for an escape. You don’t know how you can possibly do it. This man is just too evil, a cold-blooded soldier wrapped in a terrifyingly handsome veneer.

You still feel Neteyam looking at you, and you harshly turn away from him, blinking back more tears as your throat tightens. But what you see in the center of the clearing makes you wish you were looking right back at Neteyam’s face instead.

You see a tall, powerful woman moving through the smoke, whom you can guess is the Olo’eyktan of this clan. Her broad shoulders and chest are adorned with multiple severed kurus hanging like gruesome trophies from her leather harness.

You feel like you’re gonna throw up, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck. She seems to be leading the frenetic fire dance, and even through your horror, you can admit her voice is beautiful—a resonant, haunting alto that commands the entire caldera.

The absolute worst part is the small children that seem to be a part of the celebration. You understand that the Omatikaya’s traditions and customs are different and extreme, born from a harsh volcanic landscape, but you didn't expect the children to be actively part of a ritual honoring a bloody slaughter.

You feel so sick. You cover your mouth with your bandaged left hand, and you shake your head quickly, the world spinning around you. You look away, and you know you gotta get out of here right now; you don’t care if you get in trouble with Neteyam later.

Neteyam, still watching your every micro-expression, calls out your actual name over the din of the drums, but you ignore him completely, turning on your heel and running away from the celebration, forcing your way through the dense fringe of the crowd.

You run without seeing the path, your vision completely fractured by hot, stinging tears that blur the sharp edges of the basalt structures into terrifying, shifting shadows. The acrid stench of sulfur mixing with roasting animal fat coats your throat, making each breath a ragged, desperate struggle.

You had tried so hard to keep the memory of your family buried deep down, locking the images of your parents and the silent absence of your little brother Eylì behind an impenetrable wall of numbness just to function inside his yurt. But out here, exposed to the raw, visceral display of their triumph, the dam has completely shattered. The grief is absolute, a crushing physical weight that drives you to your knees on the cold, soot-covered gravel of an upper terrace overlook, away from the blinding glare of the bonfire.

The tremors start in your hands, shaking the pale bark-cloth bandages wrapping your wrists, before invading your entire frame. You bury your face in your palms, the sharp, jagged sobs tearing from your chest, loud and uncontained in the small alcove of stone. You don't care who sees you anymore. You don't care about the judgmental whispers of the weavers or the cold stares of the perimeter guards. The realization that you are completely alone, the last remnant of a quaint river life now tethered to a clan of volcanic hunters, drives you to the very edge of madness.

"Please," you whisper into the dark, though you don't even know who you are begging anymore. The Great Mother feels infinitely distant from this ash-choked ridge, her voice drowned out by the relentless cadence of the war drums below.

A shadow falls over your trembling form, blocking out the distant, flickering orange light of the caldera. Before you can look up, before you can steel yourself for another harsh command or a mocking comment, a pair of warm arms wrap securely around your shoulders. The physical impact is firm but remarkably gentle, pulling your collapsing frame off the hard ground and drawing you directly against a broad, unyielding chest.

The scent hits you instantly—a heavy, suffocating combination of metallic river blood, thick woodsmoke, and the sharp sandalwood oil that lingers within the fabrics of his yurt. Every instinct screams at you to fight, to tear yourself away from the very hands that brought ruin to your borders, but your body is entirely spent. The sheer emotional exhaustion leaves you paralyzed, your fingers automatically curling into the leather straps of his harness as you bury your face into the smooth, dark skin of his collarbone. You cry harder, your tears wetting the dried gore caked across his chest, your shoulders heaving against his steady hold.

Neteyam doesn't move. He remains kneeling in the dirt with you, his large hands resting flat against your back, his fingers spreading wide to anchor you against him as the storm of your grief passes. The immense heat radiating from his body acts like a shield against the biting mountain wind, cutting through the chill that had settled deep into your bones. It feels wrong—an absolute betrayal of your people's memory to find safety in the arms of the vanguard leader—but in this terrifying, loud world, his chest is the only solid thing left to hold onto.

"Fra'u-ru fpom lu (it’ll be okay)," he murmurs, his voice sinking into a low, gravelly frequency that vibrates directly against your cheek. He doesn't use the mocking titles from before, nor does he speak with the cold authority of a captor. Instead, he drops his chin against the top of your head, his long, unraveled braids brushing over your shoulders as he speaks your actual name with a devastating softness. "I have you."

The sweetness in his tone is terrifying. It confuses you, sending a sharp pang of conflict through your chest as you clutch him tighter, your fingernails digging into his skin. You try desperately not to think about the physical reality of the man holding you—how his sharp jawline, the specific curve of his ears, and the, prominent cheekbones visible beneath the ruined war paint look strangely, horribly similar to the Olo’eyktan who is currently leading the gruesome dance in the fires below.

You are clinging to the son of the monster who broke your world, and as the drums continue to thump in the distance, the dark of the terrace offers no answers, only the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

One. Two. Three. Four.

You count the seconds in your head, slowly, because it is still the only thing the Omatikaya hasn’t touched yet.

The numbers are a shield, a small, desperate thing kept behind your teeth where no vanguard soldier can reach inside to tear it away. But lately, even that fragile sanctuary has begun to fail you. The numbers get all jumbled up in the dark hours between the shifting of the perimeter guards; you have to restart several times, your mind tripping over the sequence as the heavy thud of distant drums distorts your focus. Sometimes, you forget to count altogether, staring at the thick leather seams of the ceiling until the dim amber light of the hearth blurs into a uniform, grey haze.

Days have passed since the night of the great bonfire. Maybe weeks. Time has lost its structure inside the small perimeter of the yurt, dissolving into a monotonous cycle of rising steam from the volcanic vents outside and the rhythmic scraping of Neteyam’s whetstone against his obsidian blades.

The saddest thing about all of this isn’t that your parents are still dead, their voices fading into distant echoes that you can no longer fully recall. It isn’t that you still aren’t with Eylì, whose face remains a lingering ache in your chest, or that your entire tribe is practically gone, reduced to ash and old stories. The truly saddest thing is that Neteyam is looking at you right now with something you’d never expect to see in the eyes of a Omatikaya vanguard leader.

Pity.

It is there every single time he forces you to eat, his large fingers holding the wooden bowl of roasted sturmbeest meat to your lips while you sit paralyzed against the hide wall. It is hidden behind his eyes every time he tries to scare you with sudden movements, expecting the old flare of defiance that used to ignite your spirit. It lingers even when he jokingly tries to make a move on you, tossing out low, lazy quips about how you should be sharing his furs to keep out the mountain chill.

Instead of fighting back, instead of shouting curses or baring your teeth like a proper daughter of the river plains, you just stare at him blankly. Your eyes remain wide, empty, and glassy, reflecting the dull embers of the central hearth pit without a single spark of animation. It is almost pathetic how completely you have hollowed out, how you have become nothing more than a breathing shell of a woman sitting in the corner of his quarters.

You don’t think pity suits his sharp, handsome features at all.

The soft, downward tilt of his ears and the heavy, sympathetic droop of his eyelids look unnatural on a warrior whose hands are still stained with the iron scent of your people’s blood. You’d almost rather prefer his old, arrogant smirk—the irritating, self-assured tilt of his lips that gave you a clear target to hate. And deep down, you think he prefers your look of genuine disgust or wild anger rather than this dead, unblinking face. He wants the challenge; he wants the wild bird that used to claw at his wrists, not this compliant ghost.

And currently, you’re looking up at him with a rare flicker of genuine confusion, while Neteyam is standing over you, smiling widely.

Neteyam just came home from his daily perimeter patrols along the southern marsh borders, surprisingly in an exceptionally good mood. The cool air of the ridge still clings to his broad shoulders, carrying the sharp scent of ozone, damp moss, and the faint, ever-present sulfur of the lower vents. But beneath the outdoor smells, he is holding something strange in his left hand—a small, intricate object crafted from polished ironwood and woven river reeds.

You are tucked into your usual corner, your knees pulled loosely toward your chest, your spine resting against the leather wrap of the tent pole. You expect him to stay across the room, or perhaps to bark a short, commanding beckon to pull you forward into the light of the fire. He does neither. Instead, he approaches your shadow with uncharacteristic deliberation, kneeling in front of you slowly, shifting his weight with a careful precision, almost like he’s deeply afraid to scare a fragile animal into flight.

Neteyam clears his throat, the sound a gravelly vibration that breaks the heavy silence of the yurt. He tilts his head, his long, dark braids sliding over his decorated collarbone as he chirps out with an artificial lightness, "I got something for you."

You blink at him blankly, your features remaining flat, frozen in that impenetrable mask of complete apathy. He isn't deterred by your total silence, per usual; he has grown accustomed to the quiet hours of your refusal over the past several rotations. With a gentle flick of his wrist, Neteyam rolls the item across the woven floor rug toward your feet.

The object rolls with a soft, hollow clicking sound, stopping exactly two inches from the hem of your wrap. It is a traditional Omatikaya toy—a small, balanced spinning top carved from the dense heartwood of a fire-tree, its edges smoothed by patient hands and decorated with tiny, incised patterns that represent the flight of a mountain banshee.

You don’t go for it.

You don't even tilt your chin down to look at it properly, keeping your glassy gaze fixed on the center of Neteyam’s chest, where a new hunting tally is freshly etched into his leather harness. He looks at you expectantly, his irises tracking the static position of your hands, waiting for you to pick it up, to turn it over in your fingers, or perhaps to offer a small, whispered word of thanks.

When you remain perfectly still, the silence stretching between you for a full minute, Neteyam tilts his head further to the side, his ears twitching forward in a display of mild persistence. He scoots closer to you, his large thighs brushing against the edges of your rug, but you instinctively slide your spine further up the tent pole, backing away from his radiating heat until there is no space left behind you.

Neteyam slightly frowns at your retreat, the corners of his lips dipping into that specific expression of sorrowful pity, and you are just so incredibly sick of seeing that look on his face. It feels like an insult, a mocking display of sympathy from the person who holds the keys to your cage.

You finally speak, your voice sounding incredibly hoarse, dry, and cracked from days of absolute disuse. "What is that?"

Hearing your voice makes him smile again, his broad shoulders visibly relaxing as he sits back on his heels, clearly pleased that he has managed to extract a single sentence from your mouth. He gestures toward the carved wood with his fingers, his tone bright as he explains, "Tuk gave me the idea for the gift. The Omatikaya children have this game they play in the lower common areas during the rainy season. It is extremely fun, actually. You set three of them spinning inside a shallow wooden bowl, and you try to knock the others out of the ring using small obsidian marbles."

Neteyam goes on a long, animated tangent about the specific rules of the children's game, his hands gesturing through the air to demonstrate the spinning motion. He talks about how he used to play it for hours with Lo'ak and Kiri when they were younger, before the war took over the southern borders, his voice filled with a warm, nostalgic energy that feels entirely alien inside this dim, tense tent.

And through it all, you are just staring at him, your unblinking eyes fixed on his moving lips while a dark, volatile anger begins to bubble deep within your chest.

He thinks this changes things. He thinks a piece of wood mends the dirt.

It is so comically absurd, so outright insulting that he honestly thinks a simple, carved toy will magically cheer you up, as if your grief were merely a childhood tantrum that could be solved with a clever distraction. This is an item made specifically for children—specifically for Omatikaya children, the very youth who will grow up to wear the crimson war paint, who will learn to forge the ironwood bows that slaughtered your mother, your father, and every family you ever loved along the riverbanks. The sheer ignorance of the gesture is a violent slap to your face, a clear sign that he views your entire existence as something small, simple, and easily managed.

Neteyam is still talking, his voice rising slightly as he reaches down to pick up the wooden top from the rug. He lifts it into the narrow gap between your faces, his thick fingers presenting it to you like a prize, trying to hand it directly into your lap. "Here. Take it. It passes the time when the smoke is too heavy outside."

You don’t take it. Instead, a sudden, electric surge of pure fury shatters your numbness. Your right hand flies out in a blind, violent arc, slapping the wooden toy completely out of his hands.

The top flies across the small room, striking the hard wooden frame of his storage chest with a loud, resounding thump before rolling into the dark shadows near the entrance flap.

The silence that follows is absolutely deafening. The ambient chatter of the camp outside seems to vanish, leaving only the sound of Neteyam's breath expanding his chest. The warm, cheerful expression on his face disappears instantly, replaced by that cold, flat mask of the vanguard soldier. His eyes harden into sharp, dangerous slits, his ears flattening flush against his braided hair as his fingers slowly curl into fist formations against his knees.

He is about to speak, his jaw tightening until the muscles lock in a rigid line, but you cut him off before he can utter a single syllable of reprimand.

"On Eywa, why did you think this was a good idea?" your voice cracks, rising from a hoarse whisper into a sharp, trembling accusation that fills the quiet yurt. You lean forward, your wrists shaking with the intensity of your rage as you glare directly into his painted face. "I thought of you as a smart man, Neteyam. I thought you were the disciplined commander, the brilliant tactician my people feared at the river. But apparently not. Apparently, you are completely foolish."

Neteyam opens his mouth to speak again, a dangerous spark igniting behind his irises, but you cut him off a second time, the words pouring from your chest like hot venom, fueled by weeks of accumulated sorrow.

"This is a children’s toy!" you shout, the sound tearing at your throat. "And I am a grown woman! Look at me! You really did ruin my entire life. You burned my home, you killed my parents, you took my brother away to some dark hole in the lower terraces, and the absolute best you can do is bring me a piece of spinning wood? You think a Omatikaya game makes up for the blood on your hands? You are a monster, Neteyam. A hideous, unthinking monster."

Neteyam doesn't move a single muscle, looming over you like an obsidian statue in the dimming light of the tent. His chest heaves in slow, deliberate expansions, his eyes locked onto your trembling form as the echoes of your shouting finally die out against the heavy leather walls.

He shifts his weight slightly, his fingers uncurling from his knees as his gaze drops down to the empty space on the rug where the toy had been. A dangerous hum rises from the back of his throat—a sound that has nothing to do with pity, and everything to do with the warrior who took the iron off your wrists just to watch you struggle.

You’re not deterred at all.

The white-hot flash of adrenaline cutting through your weeks of numbness is too volatile, too intoxicating to be snuffed out by a mere look. You move with a sudden, jerky momentum, your knees scraping against the rough weave of the floor mat as you lunge forward into the shadows near the storage trunk. Your fingers claw at the dirt until they wrap around the cold, smooth heartwood of the spinning top. You don't even pause to find your balance before you hurl it straight at his face. It bounces off his high, left cheekbone with a pathetic, hollow click, dropping uselessly onto his shoulder before tumbling down into the dust between his thighs.

Of course, it doesn't do any real physical damage to him. His skin is thick, hardened by the brutal mountain elements and the constant friction of the vanguard armor, leaving nothing but a faint smudge of pale ash against his crimson war paint.

He’s smiling now. Of course he is. The tiny, mocking twitch at the corner of his lips returns with a slow, agonizing certainty, and this just enrages you further, turning the grief in your chest into a frantic, unguided weapon. You scramble closer to him, closing the narrow physical distance until the heavy, suffocating warmth of his body completely envelops your senses, but he doesn’t move an inch to defend himself. He remains seated flat on his heels, his massive hands resting loosely on his thighs, his chest expanding with slow, deliberate breaths that smell faintly of the wild mint he chews during long patrols.

You punt your now healed hands at him, the pale bark-cloth bandages having been removed days ago to reveal the thin, pink scars circling your wrists. You begin beating at his chest, your small fists striking the hard, unyielding muscle of his pectoral plates over and over again. Thump. Thump. Thump. The impacts are frantic, uncoordinated, and entirely useless against his immense physical frame, but you cannot stop.

You’re not thinking clearly anymore, the carefully maintained walls of your survival strategy entirely collapsing beneath the weight of your own hysteria. You start spouting nonsense, the words tumbling from your dry lips in a fragmented, ragged torrent as you strike his collarbone, his shoulders, anywhere your knuckles can reach. You are just so incredibly tired of all of it. You are tired of the waking, the sleeping, the breathing, the endless, suffocating weight of the dark leather ceiling above your head. You don't want to be here anymore with him. You don't want to exist within the margins of his mercy.

"One! Two! Three!" you shriek, your voice cracking violently as you strike his chest again, your knuckles bruising against his leather harness. "Four! Five! I can't keep them straight! The numbers... the counting... it’s all I had left! I count the seconds until the fire goes out, I count the paces from the bed to the water basin, but they get all jumbled up in the dark! I don't even know how many nights I've been trapped in this miserable, ash-choked hole!"

Neteyam sits perfectly still beneath the frantic assault, his head tilted slightly downward as he watches your face, his eyes unblinking and entirely unreadable. He doesn't raise a hand to block your blows; he simply absorbs the pathetic impact of your fists like a mountain absorbing a brief rainstorm.

"My days are nothing but a blur!" you yell, your chest heaving as the tears finally spill over, hot and thick, tracking clean lines through the layer of soot on your cheeks. "I do nothing all day! I sit in this corner like a piece of forgotten furniture! I do nothing but wait for the leather flap to move! I wait for you to come home from your slaughter patrols, listening for the specific clink of your braids against your bow... I wait for you like some sort of domesticated animal! Which is exactly what I am to you, isn't it? A pet! A little river bird you keep in a cage to amuse yourself when the vanguard is resting!"

You don’t care about the consequences anymore. The terrifying survival instinct that had kept your mouth shut during the bonfire celebration has completely evaporated, leaving behind a raw, self-destructive craving for an end to the performance. Your breathing is incredibly heavy, your breath coming in sharp, whistling gasps as you blink rapidly through the veil of your tears, trying to maintain focus on his impassive features. You are ranting, your voice rising to a frantic, broken register, and he lets you. He sits there in the center of the dim yurt, granting you the space to completely unspool your mind before him.

"Just kill me!" you scream, your hands finally losing their strength, your open palms slamming weakly against his shoulders before sliding down to rest against his collarbone. Your fingers are trembling so violently that you can barely keep them flat against his skin. "Just take one of your obsidian daggers and finish it! I don't want to be here anymore! I don't want to see your face, I don't want to smell the smoke, I don't want to carry the weight of my mother's screams every time I close my eyes! You brought me here because you wanted to see the river clan break, right? Well, look at me! Look at what’s left! I’ve obviously lost my spark... there’s nothing left for you to play with! You must be so incredibly bored of me by now!"

You press your forehead against the cold leather of his harness strap, your small frame shaking with a deep, systemic sob that pulls a low, wet groan from your throat. Let him do it. Let him just draw the knife and end the counting.

"You got your revenge, Neteyam," you whisper, the words breaking apart into wet, pathetic fragments against his chest. "You won the war. You broke me into pieces. I'm not worth the rations you force down my throat. I'm not worth the dry furs. I am nothing. Just... please, on the Great Mother, just let me go down into the earth with the rest of them."

You draw in a sharp, rattling breath, your lips parting as you prepare to beg him one more time to draw his hunting blade, your throat tightening around the words. But before the plea can leave your mouth, Neteyam’s left hand flies forward with a swift, terrifying velocity.

His fingers wrap around your jaw with an iron-clad firmness, his thumb and forefinger digging deep into the soft flesh of your cheeks, squishing your lips together into a tight, forced pucker that instantly shuts you up. The sheer physical pressure of his grip is immense, bordering on painful, forcing your chin upward until your head is tilted back at an awkward, vulnerable angle.

You’ve never seen him look like this before. The easy, teasing light that usually dances behind his golden irises has been completely extinguished, replaced by a dark, volatile fury that makes his entire face look ancient and terrifyingly dangerous. The veins along his neck are thick and strained, his nostrils flaring with every heavy, hot breath he expels against your wet skin. In this moment, stripped of his lazy, domestic charm, he actually looks exactly like the brutal Omatikaya commander he was trained to be—the vanguard leader who commands the lines with a heart of obsidian.

She thinks she can just lay down and die in my tent, Neteyam thinks, his grip tightening just enough to stop the trembling of your chin, his ears flattening flush against his skull until they are nearly hidden by his dark braids. She has absolutely no idea what I had to trade to keep her blood inside her veins.

The pressure on your jaw hurts, a dull, aching throb that forces you to look straight up into his terrifying gaze through the thick shimmer of your tears.

Neteyam finally speaks, his voice no longer a low, amused hum, but a harsh, gravelly roar that rattles the wooden support ribs of the structure. "Kehe (No)," he growls, his face moving so close to yours that you can see the tiny, golden flecks swimming within his dilated pupils. "You do not get to do that. You do not get to sit in my corner and decide that you are finished simply because the world outside this tent is too loud for your soft, river-born ears."

He leans forward, using his massive bulk to pin your lower body against the tent pole, his grip on your jaw remaining an unyielding anchor that prevents you from turning away from his wrath.

"You think I brought you here to watch you rot?" he rasps, his words coming out in a furious, rhythmic cadence that cuts through the silence like an axe. "You think I spent three days arguing with the clan council, facing the anger of the Olo’eyktan herself, just so you could slap a piece of wood across my room and beg for a dagger? You call me a monster, you call my people savages, but you have absolutely no concept of what true savagery looks like! If I had left you at the riverbanks, if I had let Rin’zec or the lower-tier hunters claim you as their prize, you would not be sitting on a dry rug wrapped in woven linen! You would be breaking your back in the sulfur pits until your lungs turned to stone, or worse!"

He draws in a sharp, furious breath, his thumb pressing firmer into the hinge of your jaw, forcing you to absorb every single word.

"You want to talk about the numbers?" he snaps, his ears twitching with a raw, volatile energy. "You want to talk about how hard it is to count the days? I count every single patrol, yayotsyìp! I count every single scout I have to put down so my little sister Tuk doesn't have to smell the smoke of a river raid coming up our ridge! I carry the weight of this entire vanguard on my shoulders every time I walk through that leather flap, and then I come back here to find you staring at the ceiling like a ghost! I don't want a ghost in my tent! I want the woman who had the spine to call me ugly in front of my own men! I want the fire that used to look at me with living hatred, not this pathetic, empty shell!"

His voice drops slightly, turning into a low, threatening vibration that carries a terrifying weight of truth. "You say I broke you. You say you are not worth it. If you were not worth it, I would have left your body in the mud with the rest of your clan! You are alive because I chose to make you alive! You are here because your place is here, with me, under my protection, and you will stay here until I say otherwise! You will eat the food I bring, you will live in the space I give you, and you will find your wiya (damn) spark again because I refuse to watch you fade into nothingness inside my walls!"

By the end of his massive, furious breakdown, the raw power of his voice has completely drained the remaining energy from the space. You are crying uncontrollably now, your shoulders heaving with thick, silent sobs as the hot tears cascade over his large fingers, wetting the calloused skin of his palm. The absolute terror of his rage mixes with the sudden, crushing revelation of what your survival actually cost him within his own clan structure, leaving you completely overwhelmed, your mind spinning into a dark, dizzying void.

Neteyam watches the rapid pulse of your bioluminescent dots across your collarbone, his own chest heaving as the adrenaline of his fury slowly begins to recede from his muscles. Seeing the absolute brokenness of your posture, the way you have completely collapsed beneath the weight of his words, a subtle shift passes through his expression. The cold, rigid mask of the commander cracks, and that soft, heavy look of pity—no, not pity, something much deeper and more complicated—returns to his eyes.

He feels bad. He hates seeing you look at him with this much terror.

Slowly, he relaxes the immense pressure on your jaw, his fingers sliding gently down the side of your neck to cup the curve of your shoulder instead. His thumb brushes against your wet skin, wiping away a stray tear with an unexpected, heartbreaking sweetness.

"Stop crying," he murmurs, his voice sinking back into that quiet, gravelly frequency that feels like a heavy blanket in the dark. He draws you an inch closer to his chest, his frame blocking out the chill of the mountain breeze.

"Listen to me. If you eat your portions tomorrow... if you promise me you will stop looking at the ceiling like a dead thing... I will take you down to the secondary tier. The two of us can go see your tsmukan."

You freeze up entirely, the breath catching in your throat as your hands remain limp against the coarse leather of his shoulder harness. The frantic drumming in your chest seems to miss a beat, the sudden cessation of his roaring voice leaving a vacuum that is filled only by the low, steady hiss of the steam vent filtering up through the floorboards. Your eyes, wide and swimming with a thick glaze of tears, instantly find his. You can see your brain working in real time, the sheer shock of his denial halting the chaotic spiral of your thoughts, forcing your mind to violently pivot from the edge of oblivion back to thesolid reality of his face.

Neteyam watches the micro-movements of your irises, tracking the way the scattered, frantic light in your eyes suddenly focus into sharp points. He can see the exact moment the words sink past your panic, the way your jaw goes slightly slack beneath the lingering contour of his fingers.

You finally splutter out, your voice nothing more than a wet, broken fragment of a sound that barely carries across the rug, "Really?"

He lets out a short, nasal huff, his eyes rolling upward toward the dark leather seams of the ceiling in a display of exaggerated exasperation. The terrifying, ancient mask of the Omatikaya commander melts away as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind the familiar, irritated contours of the young vanguard leader who has spent far too many cycles managing the erratic whims of his younger siblings. He shifts his weight, his fingers relaxing completely against your skin as he gives your cheek a light, dismissive push—a casual, half-annoyed gesture that sends you sliding off the stability of his thighs.

"Really," he mutters, his long braids clinking together with a dry, wooden rattle as he shakes his head. "You are so incredibly dramatic. I tell you that you must live, and you treat it as if I have sentenced you to the deep trenches."

Your knees lose the last of their remaining strength as his support withdraws, and you fall forward onto the rough weave of the floor mat, your palms pressing into the cool, soot-dusted fibers. Never in your entire life would you have imagined a single moment where you would feel a debt of gratitude toward the man who led the vanguard into your valley. Never would you have believed your lips could form the words, but the sheer, overwhelming relief of knowing Eylì is breathing, that he is within walking distance, breaks the last remnant of your pride.

"Thank you," you whisper into the dirt, your forehead coming to rest against the back of your trembling wrists. The words taste like ash and copper on your tongue, a total submission to the reality of your dependency, but you say them anyway. "Thank you."

She is thanking me for a cage, Neteyam thinks, his gaze dropping to the vulnerable curve of your neck where the small bioluminescent dots are pulsing in a exhausted rhythm. She doesn't realize that down there, the air is twice as thick with sulfur, but she will eat tomorrow if it means seeing the boy.

He doesn't offer to pick you up a second time.

“Eylì!”

The name tears from your throat, raw and breathless, splitting the low-ceilinged gloom of the secondary tier longhouse. Your feet, unaccustomed to the smooth, packed-dirt floors of the communal dwelling, slip slightly before catching their grip on a woven reed mat.

You don’t care. You don’t care about the dim, smoky air that smells of dried kelp, roasted nuts, and old soot. You don’t care about the small group of Omatikaya weavers who look up from their looms at the sudden disruption. All you see is the small figure turning around near a stack of cured hides at the back of the room.

You run, the remaining distance dissolving into a frantic blur, and you scoop him up into your arms before he can even fully register your approach. Your momentum lifts his small frame completely off the ground, pinning his chest against yours as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, peppering him in a wild, frantic barrage of kisses. You press your lips to his cheeks, his forehead, the small ridge of his nose, your hands clutching the back of his shoulders as if he might dissolve into the rising mountain steam if you loosen your grip for even a fraction of a second.

Eylì is giggling, a high, breathless sound that strikes your ears like water hitting parched earth. He squirms against your tight hold, his small hands coming up to push playfully against your chin, his fingers rough and dry. You pull back just enough to look at him, and a sharp, stinging pain twists in your chest at the sight.

Some of his beautiful, long river braids have been roughly cut off, uneven chunks taken out near his left ear where the hair now hangs in short, fuzzy tufts. His skin, usually a bright, vibrant teal that mirrored the deep pools of the valley, is thoroughly covered in a fine layer of gray volcanic ash and charcoal smudges, blending him almost seamlessly into his surroundings. He looks like a Omatikaya child. The realization is a cold weight in your stomach, but right now, looking into his bright, living eyes, you simply force the horror down. He is breathing. He is warm.

Outside the heavy timber entrance of the longhouse, Neteyam is waiting. He stands just past the threshold, leaning his painted shoulder against the charred support post of the exterior walkway. He is close enough to keep an eye on your silhouette through the wide doorway, his gaze tracking your movements with the disciplined vigilance of a guard, but he has positioned himself far enough away to grant you some semblance of privacy. He didn't seem to care at all that by walking you down here himself, he had practically shown you the exact path to the communal quarters, mapping out the secondary tier's layout for you without a single word of caution.

You press your teeth together, biting the inside of your cheek as you try your absolute best not to cry in front of your little brother. Eylì doesn't need to see your terror; he doesn't need to carry that. As you study his face, you realize with a strange, hollow sense of relief that he seems remarkably healthy and relatively happy. He is squealing now, a wide, toothy smile breaking through the dirt on his face, his green eyes crinkling at the corners as he wraps his thin arms around your neck.

"You're squishing me," he laughs, though he doesn't try to pull away, burying his face into your hair.

You set him down on his feet slowly, your hands instantly transitioning to his shoulders, then down his arms, checking him for any hidden injuries. You turn his wrists over, scanning for the deep, raw rope burns or iron chafing that had marked your own arrival, but his skin is clear. You pat down his ribs, his legs, checking for any signs of limping or guarded movements. There are none.

When you finally finish your frantic inspection, you let your hands drop to your lap, remaining on your knees so you are at eye level with him. Eylì stands perfectly still, his small chest rising and falling as he analyzes you in return. His eyes linger on the faint, pink scars circling your wrists, then travel up to the tired, hollow shadows beneath your eyes. You can tell he is trying to process the change in you, his young mind trying to word a question about why you look so small, so pale, so completely drained of the vibrant strength you used to possess along the riverbanks.

Before he can ask, you quickly shift the focus away from yourself. You’d rather not talk about your situation at all; you cannot risk him knowing what happens behind the closed leather flaps of the upper terrace.

"Look at you," you whisper, your voice thick as you gesture to the small alcove behind him. "Is this where you sleep?"

You take in his little corner of the longhouse, your eyes cataloging every detail with analytical precision. A small, neat pallet of thick sturmbeest furs is laid out against the timber wall, surrounded by several carved wooden toys and a small woven basket containing dried mountain berries. A half-empty clay bowl of thick meat broth sits near the hearth stone, the grease still glistening on the rim. It seems like he’s being treated fine. Better than fine—he is eating well, his ribs aren't showing, and the furs are dry and clean.

You and Eylì sit down together on the edge of his pallet, your fingers constantly reaching out to touch his hand, his knee, verifying his physical presence over and over again. You talk about everything and nothing, your words guarded as you intentionally avoid the topic of your own situation entirely. You ask him about the food, about the weather on the lower tier, about the old weavers who share the longhouse space.

Eylì leans into your side, his small shoulder resting against your arm as he eagerly shares his new life. "I have made some friends," he says, his voice bright and completely unbothered by the gravity of your displacement. "The children from the hunter quarters, they let me play in the ash slides behind the smokehouses. And 'Imik’s brother—he showed me how to track the mountain hexapeds by looking for the broken pine needles. I learned how to start a fire using the dry sulfur moss, too! You just have to strike the black rocks together really hard."

You listen to his excited chatter, a silent prayer of thanksgiving rising up to the Great Mother that they haven't made him pick up any metal yet. There are no ironwood bows in his little alcove, no obsidian skinning knives, no heavy armor elements. They are letting him be a child, even if it is a Omatikaya child.

Yet, it is almost deeply frightening how normal your brother seems. He speaks of the enemy's customs with an easy, casual familiarity that makes your stomach turn, his young mind adapting to the volcano ridge as if the river valley were nothing but a half-forgotten dream. But as the dark thought enters your mind, you fiercely crush it. It is better this way. It is infinitely better for him to be normal and safe than to be hurt, starved, or tortured in the dark.

Your brother's excitement slowly cools, his small fingers twisting the edge of his loincloth as he finally brings up the one question you have been dreading since you entered the longhouse. He looks up at you through his short, uneven bangs, his expression shifting into something quiet and serious. "Why are you here today? The guards said I couldn't go past the second terrace. They said you lived at the top."

You debate on telling him a comforting lie, a soft story about how you are working in the upper stores or helping the elders with the cloth. But looking into his clear, honest eyes, the falsehood dies in your throat. You swallow thickly, the back of your mouth tasting like dry copper as you lean closer to him. "Neteyam brought me," you say softly, keeping your voice low so it doesn't carry to the doorway. "He... he allowed me to come down to see you."

Eylì makes a sudden, sharp face. His brow furrows, his lower lip pouting out in a look of immediate distaste as he tilts his head. "The man that owns you?"

You freeze up entirely, your muscles locking as if you've been struck by a physical blow. The word echoes inside your ears, heavy and degrading, stripping away the small illusion of dignity you had managed to maintain during the visit. Your chest tightens, and you splutter out, your hands instantly gripping his forearms a bit too tightly, "No! No, Eylì, that... that is not..."

You trail off, your voice dying as the harsh truth of your reality reasserts itself. Well, yes. Technically, in the eyes of the entire ridge, that is exactly what Neteyam is. You belong to his tent; you eat his food; you move only when his hand is on your wrist.

You shake your head violently, trying to clear the thought as you ask him quickly, your voice rising in a frantic, hushed whisper, "How do you know that? Who told you that word?"

Eylì looks down at his lap, his small toes curling into the dirt floor as his posture slumps. "Sometimes the other kids... they make fun of me," he murmurs, his voice losing its bright, confident ring. "When we are at the ash slides, they call me names. They call me a river weed. And they make fun of you, too. They say you are just a prize from the banks. They say you belong to the vanguard leader's hearth now, and that you have to do whatever he says to keep from being thrown into the sulfur vents. They say it to try to get to me. To make me fight them."

Your heart shatters into a thousand jagged pieces right there on the dirt floor. The thought of the Omatikaya children using your degradation as a weapon to torment your little brother makes your blood boil with a sudden, vicious heat. You reach up, gently cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to look back into your eyes.

"You listen to me," you say, your voice trembling with an intense, fierce desperation as you shake your head. "They are wrong. Do you hear me, Eylì? They are completely wrong. You are not a weed, and I am not... I am not a slave. I am your sister. We are the people of the river. Don't you ever let them make you think we are less than them."

Your brother is quiet for a long, agonizing while. He doesn't look comforted by your words; instead, a deep, heavy skepticism settles into his features, a look that is far too old for his small face. You finally reach out to place a steady, reassuring arm on his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to pull him back into a protective embrace, but he suddenly shrugs you off with a sharp, resentful jerk of his body.

He steps back from the pallet, his small chest heaving as his eyes fill with large, fat tears that instantly track through the soot on his cheeks. He starts to cry, a quiet, miserable sound that cuts through your defenses like a knife.

"You're lying!" he sobs, his voice rising in pitch, attracting the sharp glances of the weavers at the far end of the longhouse. "You are lying to me! If you're not his slave, why do you look like that? Why are your hands shaking? Why do you live in his tent instead of here with me? You're just saying it because you think I'm stupid!"

Panic seizes your throat, a wild, frantic terror rising in your chest as you scramble off the bed toward him, your hands reaching out to grab his waist to pull him close, to muffle the sound before the guards outside take notice. "Eylì, please, hush now," you plead, your own tears finally breaking through as you try to get him to calm down. "Please, low voice, Eylì. I am not lying, I promise you, I just... we just have to be quiet right now—"

"No!" he screams, his small fists clenching at his sides as he steps further away from your reaching hands. "I hate him! I hate the painted man! I want to go home! I want mom and dad! Why aren't they here? Why are you letting him keep you up there?!"

The situation escalates in a matter of seconds, his loud, piercing cries echoing off the timber walls of the longhouse, shattering the fragile illusion of peace you had tried so desperately to build. You reach for him again, your fingers brushing his arm, but he twists away from you, his grief completely unspooled now, matching the very hysteria you had suffered in the yurt the night before.

Suddenly, the wide doorway darkens completely.

Neteyam steps into the longhouse, his frame instantly blocking out the afternoon light from the tier walkway. The ambient chatter of the weavers ceases entirely, the old women dipping their heads low over their looms as the vanguard leader's presence suffocates the room. The two of you go silent instantly, Eylì’s final sob cutting off into a sharp, choking gasp as the heavy thud of Neteyam's calloused feet approaches the alcove.

His face is a flat, unreadable mask of strict discipline, his golden eyes scanning the scene with a cold, piercing efficiency. He stops two paces away from where you are kneeling in the dirt, his long shadow completely covering both of you.

"The both of you were supposed to be quiet," Neteyam says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carries no anger, but an immense, absolute authority that demands immediate compliance. "I gave you time. I gave you space. But the entire tier can hear this crying."

Your brother speaks up first, his small frame trembling with a mixture of terror and fierce, childish bravery as he steps in front of you, his tiny hands forming fists as he glares up at the massive warrior. "Don't touch her!" Eylì shrieks, his voice cracking with tears. "Leave her alone! You're a monster! You're the one who took her!"

"Eylì, stop! Please!" you cry out, your hands flying forward to grab your brother’s waist, frantically trying to pull him back behind your body to shield him from Neteyam's sight. You look up at the vanguard leader, your face pale and completely desperate as you try to placate both of them before things turn bloody. "Neteyam, please, he doesn't mean it. He is just a child, he is confused, he doesn't understand the rules of the camp yet—"

"He understands enough to shout at a squad leader," Neteyam cuts you off, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks down at the boy. He doesn't reach for his dagger, but his posture remains rigid, a towering column of physical dominance that leaves no room for defiance.

You scramble to your feet, stepping directly between them, your hands pressing flat against Neteyam's broad chest in a desperate, physical effort to keep him from stepping closer to your brother. In your panic, your mind scrambles for any argument, any explanation that will lower his guard, and you find yourself trying to defend the very man you hate just to keep him from punishing Eylì.

"He is wrong, Neteyam! I will tell him he is wrong!" you rush out, the words tumbling from your lips in a frantic, uncoordinated mess. "You are not... you have been kind to me! You gave me the furs, you brought me the food, you let me come down here today! You are a good commander! You protected me from Rin’zec, you didn't let them put the iron back on my wrists! Please, just look at what you’ve given us!"

The words come out entirely wrong. The moment the defense leaves your mouth, you realize how pathetic, how thoroughly broken it makes you sound. It sounds as if you have completely surrendered your spirit, as if you are actively praising the author of your ruin for the crumbs of comfort he throws into your cage.

Behind you, your brother lets out a loud, horrified gasp. The defense breaks his small heart completely, confirming his worst fears in a single, devastating sentence. He cries harder, a violent, choking sob tearing from his chest as he looks at your back. "You are his slave!" he screams, his voice filled with a pure, agonizing betrayal. "You like him! You're taking his side! I hate you! Go away! Just go away!"

Neteyam’s expression darkens instantly at the boy’s renewed shouting, his jaw tightening until the muscles lock in a rigid, angry seam beneath his war paint. He is extremely upset now, his patience entirely exhausted by the chaotic display and the risk it poses to his authority on the lower tier.

He doesn't say a word to you. He simply reaches down, his hand wrapping around your wrist with a sudden, iron-clad grip that completely halts your movements. He looks past your shoulder, his eyes fixing on the small, sobbing figure of your brother for a single, final second.

"Goodbye, evetsyìp (little one)," Neteyam says, his voice dropping into a cold, flat frequency that signals the absolute end of his mercy.

Before you can turn around, before you can scream out a final apology or wrap your arms around Eylì one last time, Neteyam turns on his heel and begins dragging you out of the longhouse. His grip is an unyielding column of pressure, his powerful strides forcing you to stumble blindly behind his body as he pulls you through the doorway and out onto the smoky timber walkway of the secondary tier. Your brother’s miserable, broken screams follow you into the open air, growing fainter and fainter with every step Neteyam takes toward the upper terraces.

You try to shake off Neteyam, your fingers clawing uselessly at the wrist locked around your bones. "Let me go!" you scream, the words tearing through a throat already raw from hours of shouting, your voice breaking into a ragged, wet gasp. "Let me go back to him! Neteyam, please!" You try to hold back your sobs, but they chest-heave out of you anyway, shaking your entire upper body as you stumble against the jagged edges of the stone walkway.

You have never fought his touch quite like this before. Always, there had been a calculating stillness to your submission—a secret waiting for the right moment to strike or flee—but the image of Eylì weeping on that dirty pallet has shattered the last of your discipline. You are squirming violently now, twisting your torso from side to side, your heels dragging through the loose black gravel of the path as you try to wrench out of his grip. You are trying your absolute hardest, throwing the entirety of your weight backward, attempting to anchor yourself to the solid rock of the mountain.

Neteyam doesn't even break his stride. Hiscalloused bare feet grip the slippery basalt with an easy, terrifying familiarity, his highs flexing with every upward step he takes. To him, your frantic writhing is nothing more than the minor resistance of a trapped hexaped.

"Stop," he commands coldly. He doesn't look back at you. His dark, unraveled braids sway rhythmically across his shoulders, the wooden beads clicking against his spine with a dry, hollow rattle that sounds like teeth.

"No! I need to go back to Eylì!" you cry out, your body shaking so hard that your knees buckle again, your shins scraping against a sharp ridge of volcanic glass. "He thinks I left him! He thinks I'm one of you! Please, Neteyam, on the Great Mother, just let me tell him—"

Before the sentence can finish, Neteyam stops his forward momentum for a fraction of a second, twisting his torso with an athletic, sweeping precision. His left hand flies up, his palm slapping hard over your mouth, his long fingers wrapping entirely around the lower half of your face to stifle the sound. The copper taste of your own inner cheek hits your tongue from the sheer force of the impact, your lips compressed tightly against your teeth. He continues dragging you forward, his right hand still anchoring your wrist behind your back, practically hoisting your smaller frame off the path so that only your toes skim the dirt as he pulls you past the watchful, silent eyes of the perimeter guards.

The desperation inside your chest turns into a wild, feral heat. With no other weapon left to you, you unhinge your jaw slightly beneath his palm and bite down hard.

Your teeth sink deep into the fleshy muscle at the base of his thumb, pressing through the calloused skin until you feel the distinct, hot pulse of his blood breaking over your lower lip.

Neteyam lets out a sharp, pained grunt from the back of his throat, his ears flattening instantly against his skull. But he doesn't pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers dig even firmer into your jawline, his thumb pressing into the sensitive nerve behind your ear to force your mouth open. He looks down at you over his shoulder, and to your absolute horror, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips. He is biting his own lower lip, his eyes wide and alight with a volatile, predatory satisfaction that makes your blood run completely cold. He likes the fight. He likes that you have finally stopped acting like a ghost, even if it means you are trying to tear the flesh from his hand. You are so scared your vision begins to blur at the edges, the sheer primitive danger of his expression short-circuiting your ability to breathe.

You are sniffling heavily, your nose clogged with the scent of his coppery river blood and the sulfur in the air, your vocal cords straining as you try to shout for your brother through the barrier of his fingers. "Ey—Eylì—" The name comes out as a muffled, pathetic wheeze, mffgh, swallowed instantly by the rising wind of the upper ridge.

Neteyam finally removes his hand from your mouth as the two of you get closer to his yurt, the large, black leather structure looming out of the mountain mist like a sleeping predator. He tosses you slightly ahead of him, his grip transferring back to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to maintain absolute control over your orientation.

You’re panicking completely now, your mind racing through the dark possibilities of what happens next. What if this is the last time you ever see Eylì? What if Neteyam takes your defiance out on the boy, moving him down to the deeper sulfur pits where the air rots the lungs within three seasons? The uncertainty is a physical sickness in your throat, a hot, oily wave of nausea that makes your legs tremble as he pushes you toward the heavy leather entrance flap of his quarters.

You’re not thinking straight at all, the grief and the terror twisting your logic into a sharp, unguided lance. You turn your head as much as his grip allows, glaring up at the crimson war paint smeared across his cheekbones. "This is all your fault!" you scream at him, the tears hot and fast as they spill over your lower eyelids. "All of it! You did this!"

Neteyam stops dead in his tracks right in front of the yurt's entrance. The heavy leather flap rustles slightly in the mountain draft behind him. He releases your hair, his hand dropping to his side as he slowly turns his full body to face you. He looks down at you with a questioning, dangerous look, his ears tilting forward, his brow arching in a silent, mocking invitation that dares you to go on, dares you to finish the thought while you are still within arm's reach.

You are entirely hysterical now, your voice rising to a frantic, broken register that echoes off the nearby stone structures. "You’re the worst thing on this entire mountain!" you yell, your chest heaving as you step back, though there is nowhere left to run. "You pretend you're different from the rest of them! You pretend this... this setup is kindness! You come into the tent with your little wooden toys and your soft voice, pretending you're not a slave owner, but you are! You're exactly like your mother! You're just a monster with a prettier face! I am nothing but a personal direhorse to you! Something you broke so you could ride it up and down the valley, something you keep tied to a post outside your door to show everyone how powerful the vanguard leader is! You don't see me as a person! You never did! You just like the feeling of my bones snapping under your fingers!"

Neteyam is livid. The transition is instantaneous—the lazy, mocking amusement vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a cold, radiating heat that seems to dry the sweat on your skin. The skin around his nostrils goes pale, his jaw tightening until the distinct, blue muscles of his neck stand out like thick ropes under his collarbone.

"You think this is slavery?" Neteyam rasps, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly quiet register that is infinitely worse than his shouting. He steps forward, closing the distance between you until his broad chest is a mere two inches from your nose, his immense height casting you into complete shadow. "You think I treat you like an animal? If I were any other man on this ridge, yayotsyìp, you would not be standing here speaking to me right now. Your tongue would have been cut out the moment you looked at the Olo’eyktan during the fire dance. Your body would be rotting in the communal trenches with the rest of your rebellious elders! I have sacrificed my standing with the council for you! I have taken the mockery of my own scouts because I refused to let them touch you! I have carried your rations from my own winter stores while you sat in my corner and did nothing but weep into my rugs!"

"If you were any other man," you counter, your voice shaking with an equal, desperate fury as you look straight up into his painted face, refusing to back down even as your knees tremble, "I would be free right now! If you hadn't led the scouts through the reeds, my mother would still be weaving by the banks! My father would be fishing! I would be with my brother in our own home, not trapped in a mountain of ash with a soldier who thinks a piece of carved wood makes up for a massacre!"

Neteyam’s had enough. The final boundary of his patience shatters with a sharp, physical snap.

She wants the monster because she cannot face the truth, he thinks, his fingers tightening around your upper arm with such immense force that your breath leaves your lungs in a short, pained gasp.

He grabs your shoulder with his free hand, twisting you around with a brutal, efficient momentum, and drags you forcefully inside his yurt. The heavy leather flap falls shut behind you with a dull, final thwack, instantly plunging the space into a deep, amber-lit gloom, the only light coming from the dying coals of the central hearth pit.

"Since you clearly want to be punished so badly," Neteyam growls, his voice vibrating through the tight confines of the leather walls, "since you want to pretend I am the beast your tsumkan thinks I am, then I will treat you exactly as you wish."

He doesn't hesitate. He moves toward the large, fur-covered platform at the back of the yurt, his strides unyielding as you struggle against his grip, your heels tearing the small woven rugs from their places on the floor. He sits down heavily on the edge of the wooden frame, his large thighs spread wide to anchor his weight against the timber structure. With a single, sweeping movement of his right arm, he hooks his hand around your waist and forces you entirely across his lap.

The physical transition is sudden and disorienting. Your stomach hits the hard, muscular top of his left thigh with a dull impact, ugh, knocking the remaining wind from your chest. Your head and arms hang downward toward the dirt floor, your fingers brushing against the cold fringe of a sturmbeest pelt, while your lower body is hoisted high into the air, your hips tilted upward across his lap. Your ass is completely exposed, raised up in a position of total, humiliating vulnerability beneath the low ceiling of the tent.

"No! Let me up!" you shriek, your legs kicking out frantically, your heels striking the air as you try to find leverage. Your hands claw at his calf, trying to find a grip on his smooth skin to push yourself off his knees, but his left forearm comes down like an iron bar across the small of your back, pinning your spine flat against his thigh. You can't move an inch. The sheer weight of his body completely paralyzes your torso, leaving you suspended across his lap like a piece of harvested game brought back from the hunt.

Neteyam sits above you, his heavy breath hot against the back of your thighs as he looks down at the exposed curve of your hips. His right hand hovers over your skin for a long, agonizing second, his fingers flexing, the blood from your bite mark dripping slowly onto the dark fur beneath your face.

"You will learn the difference between a master and a protector," he murmurs, his voice a dark, low promise in the quiet of the yurt.

You can’t speak. A suffocating, dense terror clamps down on your chest, restricting your lungs until every breath feels like drawing in crushed glass. Yet, despite the paralysis gripping your vocal cords, your body refuses to remain still. Your fingernails dig frantically into the dark hide of his left thigh, trying to claw your way toward the edge of the platform, but the sheer physical mass of him makes your efforts entirely useless.

Neteyam is edging you on, his head tilting down so low that his long, unraveled braids brush against the bare skin of your lower back with a dry, teasing friction. He is mouthing off, his deep, gravelly voice a continuous, insulting rumble that vibrates directly through your ribcage. "Keep moving," he rasps, his breath hot and smelling faintly of the bitter mountain herbs he chews to stay alert during long perimeter scouts. "Show me more of that kilvantirea (river spirit). Show me how much you hate the man who keeps your blood inside your veins."

With a deliberate flex of his fingers, he reaches down and moves your loincloth to the side, pinning the soft fabric against your hip with his thumb. The sudden rush of the air hitting your bare ass sends a violent shiver straight up your spine.

You try to tune him out. You try your absolute hardest to close your eyes against the dim, amber-lit gloom of the leather tent, attempting to force your mind back into the silent sanctuary of your numbers. One. Two. Three. Four. You try to count the rapid thumping of your own heart against his leg. You try to think of anything else—the sound of the river grass swaying in the evening breeze, the cool mud between your toes, the soft, distant singing of your mother before the smoke took her voice. You try to disassociate, to leave the shell of your body behind on his lap so he can punish nothing but empty skin.

But for some reason, the numbers refuse to align, and the peaceful images of the valley won't come. All you can think about, with blinding clarity that consumes your entire focus, is the memory of the riverbank ambush. You think about the exact moment you had pulled back the vine-string of your father’s ironwood bow, your hands shaking as you aimed the black obsidian arrow straight at Neteyam’s broad shoulder. It should’ve been his heart, you think, the realization a dark, vicious knot of pure resentment in your gut. I should have loosed the string a second earlier. I should have driven the flint through his chest before he could ever set foot on our shores. If he were dead beneath the river weeds, Eylì wouldn't be weeping in the soot.

She is quiet now, but her skin is burning hot beneath my palm, Neteyam thinks, his eyes tracking the rapid, erratic flashing of your bioluminescent dots along your lower back, his jaw tightening as he senses the deep, unspoken venom vibrating through your muscles. She is still fighting me in the dark.

Suddenly, before you can steel yourself against the reality of your position, a loud, sharp crack echoes through the tight confines of the leather yurt.

A sharp, blindingly stinging sensation explodes across the soft flesh of your cheeks as his calloused right hand connects squarely with your skin. The physical force of the blow drives your hips down harder into his lap, the impact radiating through your pelvic bones.

"Ah! Nga'ay!" You let out a sharp, involuntary yelp, your fingers instantly clenching into the thick sturmbeest fur of the bedding platform beneath your face. The sting is immediate and intense, a localized wildfire that turns your skin into a map of throbbing heat.

Neteyam is looking down at you, his brow is furrowed into a heavy, dark frown, his ears flattening flush against his braided hair. He is clearly upset that you are ignoring him, his chest expanding with a heavy breath that expands the leather straps of his vanguard harness against your ribcage. You are surprised to see that he isn't smiling anymore. The lazy, mocking arrogance that usually characterizes his discipline has vanished, replaced by an intense, demanding focus that requires your absolute attention.

"Look at me when I speak to you," he grunts, his voice dropping into a low, threatening frequency that vibrates against your stomach. "Do not go silent inside your head. I am the one holding you. I am the one who decides when the striking stops."

You still don’t answer him. You press your lips tightly together, burying your chin into the thick fur, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a verbal submission. Your stubborn silence stretches between you for three long, suffocating seconds, the only sound the low hiss of the sulfur steam rising from the floor vents outside.

Neteyam lets out a short, irritated grunt, and with a swift, snapping motion of his wrist, he gives your other cheek a hard, ringing slap. SMACK.

"Ygh! Vonvä' (Asshole)!" The word tears from your throat before you can stop it, your body arching slightly across his thigh as the fresh wave of stinging heat matches the first. Your eyes snap open, glaring blindly down at the dirt floor as your chest heaves with a ragged, furious breath.

Now he’s smiling. The tight, angry line of his jaw relaxes just enough to let that small, self-assured twitch return to the corner of his lips. He is all mouthy again, his eyes brightening as he leans further over your pinned form, clearly pleased that he has successfully extracted a living, angry response from your quiet frame.

"There she is," he murmurs, his voice filled with a low, rumbling satisfaction that makes your blood boil. "The river bird still has a beak. I was beginning to think you had completely dissolved into my rugs." He shifts his position slightly, his \ left leg pressing firmer against your stomach to keep you anchored as his palm hovers above your red, throbbing skin. "Do you want to apologize for what you said outside the longhouse? Do you want to take back the words about the slave owner?"

"No!" you spit out, your voice shaking with an intense, volatile mixture of rage and physical pain. Your fingers tear at the leather fringe of the bedding. "I will never apologize to you! The only person I am apologizing to is Eywa, because she has to look down from the stars and witness this savage display!"

Neteyam lets out a slow, heavy sigh, his ears dipping slightly in a show of mock disappointment. "A pity," he whispers.

SMACK.

The third impact is centered, his wide palm covering both cheeks at once, the loud, flesh-on-flesh report ringing clearly against the leather walls. The sting turns into a deep throb, the heat radiating outward until it feels like the skin of your hips is pressed directly against a hot volcanic stone. You let out a choked, wet groan, your forehead slamming down into the fur pillow as you try to ride out the intense, burning sensation.

This goes on for what feels like hours, the slow, agonizing cadence of his discipline breaking the afternoon into a sequence of sharp pain and heavy, breathless intervals. SMACK. SMACK. Neteyam maintains a steady rhythm, never striking hard enough to break the skin or leave permanent bruising, but with enough consistent force to keep your nerve endings screaming. Between every two or three slaps, he pauses, hiswarm hand resting flat against your burning cheeks, his fingers spreading wide to feel the intense heat rising from your flesh.

"Are you ready to say the words?" he asks over and over, his voice remaining low and insufferably calm while your world narrows down to the throbbing sensation between your hips. "Are you ready to apologize to me?"

You shake your head violently against the mattress, your hair tangling across your face as you squeeze your eyes shut. "No... kehe... never," you gasp out, though the defiance is losing its edge, turning into a desperate, weeping chant.

Neteyam gives you another sharp slap, the impact landing squarely on the sensitive curve where your thigh meets your hip. CRACK.

And then, something terrifying happens.

As the sharp, biting sting of the hand clears away, it leaves behind a sudden, heavy rush of blood to your pelvic basin. A deep, deep throb begins to settle into the core of your body—a strange warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with the anger in your chest. The continuous stimulation against your nerve endings is sending a confusing, chaotic signal down into your lower belly, causing a tight, aching knot of involuntary arousal to tighten between your thighs.

You are mortified. A deep, burning flush of pure shame rises instantly into your face, your cheeks turning hotter than the skin he is striking. Your entire body goes rigid across his lap, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck as you realize what your own flesh is doing. You try to squirm away from his hand with a renewed desperation, your legs kicking out wildly as you try to scramble off his thighs, but his iron forearm remains an absolute barrier across your lower spine.

Neteyam is still talking, his voice continuing its steady, mouthy commentary above your head, completely unaware of the mental horror you are experiencing. "You are so stubborn," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the swollen, hot ridge of your skin. "A few simple words, river bird. Just say you are sorry for the shouting. Say you understand who keeps you safe up here."

I am dirty, you think, a thick, suffocating wave of self-loathing crashing over your mind as you press your face harder into the dark fur. I am disgusting. I am an absolute monster. My parents are dead in the mud, my little brother is weeping in the ash because of his scouts, and my body is... my body is enjoying this. The realization feels like a total, irredeemable betrayal of your entire lineage. You want to tear your own skin off, to crawl out of your own flesh just to escape the horrifying, physical pleasure that is beginning to mix with the pain. It is an abomination, a sick trick of the nerves that proves you are just as savage as the Omatikaya who hold you.

You feel a distinct, slick wetness beginning to pool between your thighs. Every instinct you possess screams at you to hide it, to freeze, to die right there on his lap before he notices the change in your response.

But Neteyam doesn't wait. He lifts his right hand one more time, his palm coming down in a swift arc that catches the center of your left cheek with a ringing clarity.

SMACK.

The sudden, intense combination of the sharp sting and the heavy internal ache overloads your remaining control. Your lips part involuntarily, and instead of a angry curse or a pained yelp, a small, high-pitched, wet moan escapes your throat.

The sound is tiny, but inside the quiet gloom of the yurt, it sounds like a thunderclap.

The both of you freeze instantly. The entire tent plunges into a dead, suffocating silence that stretches out for several agonizing seconds. Your breath hitches, your lungs locking as you remain perfectly still across his lap, your eyes wide with a wild, naked terror in the dark. Your fingers are frozen into the fur bedding, your toes curled tight.

Neteyam’s hand remains flat against your bare skin, his palm feeling the sudden, erratic leap of your pulse through your flesh. His chest stops expanding, his heavy breathing catching in his throat as he processes the specific quality of the sound you just made. You can feel the muscles of his thighs tightening beneath your stomach, his entire physical frame locking into a state of intense, hyper-focused alertness.

He is about to speak, his jaw shifting as his lips part to form a question, but the sheer, world-ending shame of the moment breaks you completely. You cannot let him say the words. You cannot let him voice the realization of your arousal.

You close your eyes tightly, the hot tears finally streaming down your face in a continuous, unchecked torrent as you rush out the words, your voice breaking into a pathetic, desperate shriek. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Neteyam! I apologize!"

You start to tear up completely, your frame heaving with deep, systemic sob-tremors that shake your hips across his lap. You are begging him now, all your pride, all your river defiance completely dissolved into the dirt of his floor. "Please, stop... please don't strike me again. I really am sorry... I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have shouted outside the longhouse. I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

You feel his hand shift against your skin. Instead of lifting for another strike, his fingers slide slowly downward, his palm smoothing over the red, throbbing curve of your hip until his fingertips are resting right against the edge of your shifted loincloth, mere millimeters away from the damp heat gathered between your inner thighs. The proximity is terrifying, but also makes your lower belly tighten with a fresh, agonizing throb of anticipation.

You nuzzle your head closer to his left knee, your forehead pressing into the cool leather of his leg guard as you offer one last, whispered submission into the dark fur. "Please... I'm sorry."

He is quiet for another long, agonizing moment, his thumb lazily tracing the hot boundary of your skin, feeling the warmth that is radiating through the thin fabric of your wrap. When he finally speaks, his voice has returned to that low, smooth hum—but it is dripping with an immense, insufferable smugness that makes your stomach twist. You don't even have to look up to know the exact expression on his face; you can vividly imagine the wide, arrogant smile curving his lips in the amber light.

"Sìltsan (Good)," Neteyam murmurs, his fingers giving your hip a gentle, possessive squeeze before he slowly slides his arm out from under your back, allowing your body to slide off his lap onto the soft furs of the platform. "I have a cooling cream in the storage trunk that will help with the soreness. Let's get you cleaned up before the perimeter guards come back for the evening rotation."

You don’t want him to touch your ass even more. The mere thought of his fingers sliding over the swollen flesh of your bare buttocks—flesh that is still vibrating with the lingering, confusing heat of his discipline—sends a violent jolt of pure dread straight to your core. More than the physical sensation, you feel utterly embarrassed that he’s helping you out, someone who just delivered a humiliating punishment is now casually transitioning into the role of a caretaker.

You scramble up with a sudden, jerky momentum, your movements uncoordinated as your shins dig into the dark sturmbeest furs of the platform. You pull the edge of your linen loincloth back over your hips with trembling fingers, desperate to cover yourself, to erect some kind of barrier between his eyes and your shame.

"That... that won’t be necessary," you splutter out, your voice cracking as you press your back against the leather wrap of the rear tent pole, your chest heaving with short, shallow breaths. "I can do it myself. Just leave the jar on the floor. I don't need your help."

Neteyam doesn’t even look at you at first. He remains hunched over the massive ironwood storage chest near the entrance flap, his back a wall of solid muscle that completely blocks the dim amber light of the hearth pit.

He catches the small, polished horn container he was looking for, his fingers wrapping around the smooth, cold surface before he slowly straightens his spine. He turns to face you, his frame instantly dominating the small perimeter of the tent. He tilts his head slightly to the left, his long braids sliding over his decorated collarbone as his eyes lock directly in between your thighs, tracking the slight, telltale tremor in your knees and the faint, glistening dampness that still coats the inner edges of your wrap.

He doesn’t say a single word. The silence stretches out for five agonizing seconds, heavy and thick enough to choke on, the only sound the low, steady hiss of the volcanic steam vent filtering through the floorboards beneath your feet.

Neteyam lifts his left hand—the one bearing the deep, red indentations of your teeth—and executes a short, commanding beckon, his index finger curling toward his chest in a silent, unyielding demand.

You automatically move. The response is instantaneous, a terrifying realization that your body has learned to obey his signals before your mind can even formulate a refusal. Your feet slide across the rough weave of the floor mat, your knees shaking so badly that you have to catch your balance against the timber frame of the bed as you step into the narrow circle of light cast by the central hearth.

Before you can protest, he reaches out, his large palm catching the curve of your uninjured hip. He turns you around, rotating your body so your back is facing him, and kneels down on the woven rug behind you. The shift in his height places his face exactly at eye level with your cheeks, his hot breath fanning across the raw, red skin of your lower back as he pulls the edge of your loincloth aside once more.

Your face is definitely burning now, a bright, dark crimson flush rising beneath your blue skin, extending all the way to the tips of your pointed ears. You are shaking badly, your hands clenching into tight fists at your sides as you stare blindly at the leather wall of the yurt, the sheer proximity of his face to your naked vulnerability stripping away the last remnants of your composure.

"This... Neteyam, please, this is embarrassing," you stutter out, the words tumbling from your lips in a low, ragged whisper. "Let me just... let me take the jar."

Neteyam lets out a low snicker from the back of his throat, the vibration of the sound striking the backs of your thighs like a physical current. "There is nothing to be embarrassed about, yayotsyìp," he murmurs, his tone laced with that lazy, insufferable arrogance that always returns the moment your defiance breaks. He unscrews the horn lid with a dry, twisting sound, dipping two of his thick fingers deep into the pale, mint-scented grease. "I always take good care of my pa'li after a long ride. A disciplined mount requires proper maintenance if it is to keep its stride."

Before you can process the insulting comparison, he presses his large, grease-coated fingers flat against the center of your left cheek.

The contact is a shock to your nervous system. The cooling cream is freezing cold, a sharp, icy contrast to the intense, throbbing heat of the skin beneath. As his palm begins to smear the thick ointment across your flesh, moving in circles that press the raw muscle against your pelvic bone, a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief floods your lower body. The intense stinging begins to recede, replaced by a deep, numbing coolness that numbs the ache. You would never admit aloud that it feels good, that the sensation is an absolute mercy against the fire he created, but your body betrays you anyway.

You let out a soft, involuntary whine from the back of your throat, a low, pathetic sound, nngh, your hips twitching slightly forward to escape the heavy, dragging friction of his palm.

"Quiet now," he chides softly, his thumb tracing the swollen outer curve where his hand had landed hardest, his touch surprisingly thorough, almost clinical in its precision as he ensures every inch of the red skin is covered. "You brought this heat upon yourself. The least you can do is stand still while I take it away."

You decide to just shut your mouth for the rest of this humiliation ritual. You press your teeth together so hard your jaw aches, locking your eyes onto a small, irregular tear in the leather ceiling hide, forcing your mind to go completely blank as his hands continue their slow, methodical labor across your bare flesh. He shifts his weight to the right, his fingers dipping back into the jar before spreading the cold grease across the opposite cheek, his touch firm enough to make your muscles jump, yet slow enough to ensure you feel every single micro-movement of his skin.

Once Neteyam is finally nearing the end of the application, his palms smoothing over the lower curves near the crease of your thighs, he speaks up. His voice has lost its harsh, commanding edge, dropping into a soft, quiet cadence that feels strangely intimate within the dim confines of the tent.

"I will take you weekly to visit your brother," he says, his thumb executing one final, slow stroke across your hip.

The words spark an immediate, desperate surge of hope in your chest. Your head snaps down, your lips parting as you prepare to turn around, to thank him, to ask if Eylì will be allowed to leave the longhouse during those visits—but before a single syllable can leave your mouth, Neteyam reaches around with his left hand and gives the raw, sensitive flesh of your right cheek a sharp, sudden squeeze.

"Ah!" you gasp, your body flinched forward against the timber post.

"But," Neteyam continues, his voice sinking into a dark frequency that carries a terrifying weight of warning, his fingers maintaining the tight, pinching pressure on your sore skin, "if you get smart with me again... if you open that mouth to shout at my scouts or question my word on the lower tiers... I will put something in your smart mouth to keep it occupied. Do you understand me? You will be quiet, you will be compliant, or the next discipline will not involve a cooling cream."

He releases the pressure slowly, his fingers sliding off your hip as he remains kneeling in the dirt behind you. You turn around slowly, your movements guarded as you pull your linen wrap back into place, looking down at him over your shoulder. Your lower lip is pouted out in a look of pure, resentful defiance, your eyes still wet with the remnants of your tears as you glare at his painted face.

Neteyam is smiling up at you. It is that wide, self-assured look that shows the white of his teeth, his golden irises gleaming with the knowledge that he has completely reestablished the boundaries of his cage.

Then, he does something that entirely surprises you—something so unexpected, so utterly intimate that it shatters what little stability you had managed to claw back.

Slowly, deliberately, he leans his upper body forward. His large hands catch the backs of your knees to steady your posture, and he presses his lips directly against the soft, bare skin of your inner thigh, just beneath the hem of your wrap. His mouth lands a mere inch from the center of your heat, right where the slick, involuntary wetness is still coating the smooth skin. He presses his lips into your flesh with a slow, heavy suction, keeping absolute, unblinking eye contact with you the entire time, his gaze locked onto yours as he drinks in the sudden, violent widening of your pupils.

You let out a high, breathless squeal, your hands instantly flying forward to push hard against his broad shoulders as you twist your hips away from his mouth. Your face is so hot it feels like it might split open, a profound, systemic embarrassment turning your limbs to water. "Why... why did you do that?! Stop it!"

Neteyam doesn't answer you. He simply lets out another amused chuckle as he releases your knees, rising to his full height with a thletic grace that makes his braids swing against his collarbone. He stretches his arms high above his head, his chest expanding fully, the joints of his spine popping with a dry, satisfying sound. He walks back to the storage chest, drops the horn jar into the dark interior, and slams the heavy lid shut with a resounding thud.

He turns back to the center of the tent, his eyes sweeping over your trembling, disheveled form before he points a long, blue finger toward the large bedding platform at the rear.

"You'll be sleeping with me tonight," he says, his tone casual, yet completely non-negotiable as he unhooks the first leather strap of his vanguard harness. "You're not off the hook that easily, little bird. The furs are big enough for two, and I intend to keep you close enough to count your breaths until the sun hits the ridge."

Neteyam thinks himself a bad man.

No, he doesn’t think; he knows. It is a fact as hard as the black basalt cliffs that define the perimeter of the Volcano Ridge camp, a truth carved into his bones long before the embers of the river valley had even finished turning to cold, gray ash.

He doesn’t know what changed over the past few weeks.

Okay, so he does.

To deny it would be a coward’s game, and whatever else Neteyam might be—murderer, conqueror, vanguard leader with his mother's cold precision in his hands—he has never been a coward. The truth sits in the center of his chest like a swallowed stone: he is unconditionally and irrevocably in love with you. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could see it. His siblings could see it in the way his ears twitched whenever your name was muttered near the communal cookfires; Lo'ak had already snorted into his broth twice this week, casting pointed, mocking glances at the upper terrace. His colleagues in the vanguard could see it, their rough, scar-backed hunters whispering among themselves when their commander refused to split the river spoils evenly, keeping the finest woven linens and the softest sturmbeest hides for his own private quarters. He’s sure you can see it too, even through the thick, defensive wall of your terror and your grief, tracking the way his iron-clad hands always loosen just a fraction whenever they touch the small curve of your waist.

Any sane man would’ve killed you long ago. By the ancient, blood-soaked laws of the Omatikaya people, your life was a forfeit currency the moment the first war canoe scraped against the river reeds. He probably should’ve killed you when you aimed that ironwood arrow at him, your shoulders shaking with a desperate, wild fury as you held the vine-string drawn flat against your jaw. He should’ve killed you when he stood hidden behind the outer timber post of the secondary tier longhouse, his sensitive ears catching the low murmurs of your voice as you whispered an impossible escape plan to your little brother, mapping out paths through the sulfur vents that would have left both of your corpses bloated and blue within a mile. He should’ve killed you when he entered the yurt three nights ago to find you on your knees in the dark, your fingers frantically rummaging through his private leather trunks, looking for a blade or a map or anything to tear the sky open. He should’ve killed you when you had the absolute, terrifying gall to press your lips to his left shoulder—right against the thick, pink star of the scar tissue where your arrow had bitten into his flesh, a mocking, desperate attempt to play the part of the submissive captive just to see if his guard would drop.

Neteyam prides himself on being smart. He is the golden child of the clan, the firstborn son who carries the immense weight of a lineage that is expected to lead the vanguards into the next century. He was trained to look at a valley and see nothing but tactical lines, to look at a captive and see nothing but labor or leverage. But no leader acts like this. No commander allows his mind to be entirely colonized by the ghost of a river bird. All he can think about is you. From dusk to dawn, your image is the single, persistent shadow that cuts through his duties. When he is standing at the tactical tables, his fingers tracing the charcoal maps of the eastern ridges, he is thinking about the specific, soft warmth of your skin beneath his calloused palms. When he is running through the high pine forests, his bow slung tight across his chest, his mind is counting the paces until he can slide past the leather flap of his yurt and find you waiting in his corner, even if you are looking at him with eyes that carry nothing but live, burning hatred.

The worst part about all of this is that he knows your mind. He is not blind to the subtle shifts in your behavior; he knows your plan of “seducing” him, the quiet, trembling compliance you try to offer when you think he is too tired to notice the lie. You think if you let him press you into the furs, if you stop fighting his hands, he will eventually leave the leather flap unsecured, that he will let his vigilance slip long enough for you to grab your brother and run. But at this point, looking down at the small, perfect shape of your shoulders in the firelight, he really doesn’t care. The lie doesn't matter to him because the reality remains unchanged: he would never, ever let you go. You could offer him the entire river valley on its knees, you could swear a thousand oaths to the Great Mother, and he would still keep his grip locked around your wrist until the mountain swallowed them both.

And with a singular finality, Neteyam knew he wasn’t good when he came back to the upper terrace late this evening.

The raid on the eastern outpost had been a messy affair—short and bloody. He had walked through the yurt’s leather entrance flap with his left side completely soaked in dark, drying blood, a deep, ragged gash from a hunter's bone knife slicing through the thick muscle of his flank, just below the ribcage. The wound was still leaking, staining the crimson war paint on his thigh into a dark, crusted black. The moment the leather rustled, you had snapped your head around from your place near the hearth, and for a single, un-guardable second, the careful mask of your captive defiance fell away completely. You looked at him with so much raw concern, so much visceral worry in your wide, tear-rimmed eyes, that you possibly couldn’t have faked that reaction. The sheer shock of seeing him bleed had pulled the truth from your heart before your hatred could stop it.

He is a bad man, because he made you develop some sort of feeling towards him, forcing your spirit to care for the monster that holds your chain.

Now, you get up quickly from your corner. Your movements are no longer slow or hesitant; you kinda speed towards Neteyam, your feet sweeping across the floorboards as you begin circling him. Your hands are hovering an inch from his skin, trembling with an unguided energy as you check out his injuries, your eyes scanning the long, jagged red mouth of the gash along his ribs. Neteyam remains deathly quiet. He doesn’t move a single muscle to assist you, his tall body standing like a carved basalt monument in the center of the gloom, his gaze fixed entirely on the dirty floor between your feet as if he cannot bear to look at the light in your face.

"What did you do?" you ask, your voice rising in a frantic, breathless torrent as you move behind his shoulder, checking for exit wounds or hidden punctures along his spine. "Neteyam, look at me. What happened out there? Why are you bleeding like this? Why didn't you get this treated at the communal tiers before you came up the ridge?"

He doesn't answer you. He doesn't want to tell you that he had purposefully avoided the medical longhouse. He didn't want to go see Kiri; he couldn't stand the thought of sitting on her woven mats while his sister looked at him with those deep, judgmental eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line of silent disgust even though she does the exact same thing to Spider—keeping the human boy tied to her shadow, hovering over his boundaries with the same obsessive, protective hunger that Neteyam uses to govern your life. The hypocrisy was a bitter taste in his mouth, so he had simply walked past her fires, choosing to bleed out in his own dark corner rather than face the mirror of his own sickness.

You know you prefer not to touch him—usually, every physical contact between you is a calculated transaction of survival—but right now, you are daintily grabbing his scarred wrist, your fingers wrapping around his skin to get him to sit down on the edge of the low bedding platform. He allows the movement, his thighs flexing as he lowers his bulk onto the sturmbeest furs, his head dropping slightly as he continues his stony silence.

You seem not to care about getting into trouble anymore as you turn away from him, instantly rummaging through his things. You fling the lids off his small wooden spice boxes, your fingers scattering the dried leaves and the polished bone tools as you look for his specific medicinal herbs—the pungent, yellow root-paste and the soft, fibrous leaves that the Omatikaya hunters use to seal deep flesh wounds.

"You're an skxawng," you mutter, your voice shaking as you finally locate the small clay jar of poultice, your fingers dripping with the yellow cream as you scramble back to his side, kneeling down between his massive knees. "You command an entire vanguard and you can't even let a healer look at a knife gash?"

You are still chiding him, asking him a ton of questions as you begin to heal him, your fingers working with a gentle efficiency to smear the thick paste into the raw edges of his wound. The onomatopoeia of the cold cream mixing with the hot, metallic blood fills the narrow space between your faces, but you are not deterred by his silence. You work the fiber cloth over the cut, your breath coming in short, warm puffs against his lower ribs, the scent of the wintergreen paste mixing with the musky aroma of his copper blood and the dark, rising scent of your own sweat.

You reach up, your hand moving automatically as you softly grab his cheekbone, your thumb pressing gently against his jaw to tilt his head downward so you can clean a small, stray smear of blood near his lip.

The moment your skin touches his face, Neteyam snaps.

His left hand flies forward with a sudden, terrifying velocity, his fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist to halt your hand against his cheek. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to bruise, but the grip is an absolute anchor that prevents you from pulling away. With a single, explosive contraction of his core muscles, he pulls you violently closer to him, hoisting your body completely off the floor mats and dragging you up into his broad lap.

Before a single shriek can leave your lips, his mouth is on yours.

Neteyam kisses you on the lips, a hard, desperate collision of flesh that instantly deepens into something savage and entirely un-sanitized. He drives his tongue past your teeth with a hungry groan, his right hand tangling into the hair at the back of your head to pin your face against his mouth, forcing you to consume the metallic taste of his own blood and the bitter mint lingering on his breath. The kiss is immense, a long, slow-burning consumption that strips the air from your lungs, his lips moving against yours with a wild, possessive finality that tells you exactly how little your escape plans matter to him.

Let her hate me for it, Neteyam thinks, his mind spinning into a dark, euphoric void as he feels the frantic, rapid flutter of your pulse against his pinning fingers, his thumb digging into the soft flesh behind your ear to tilt your mouth further into his control. Let her try to run through the ash. Her mouth tastes like the river before the fires started, and I will drink from it until my own lungs turn to stone. She is mine. She was mine when she loosed the arrow, and she is mine while she bleeds into my lap.

He pulls your hips flusher against his groin, the thick, hard length of his cock twitching behind his leather loincloth as he presses your lower body down into the muscle of his thighs, ensuring you can feel every single inch of the power that commands your world.

You break the kiss, the sound of your parting lips a wet, adhesive shhh-uck that lingers in the stagnant air. A dark, crimson smear of his blood decorates your chin—a stark, vivid mark of his intrusion—and a thin, glistening trail of saliva leaks from the corner of your mouth, catching the flickering light of the dying hearth. Your eyes are heavy, lidded and swimming in a haze ofl confusion. You are shaking, a fine, rhythmic tremor betraying the way your body is beginning to override the protests of your mind. Neteyam holds the back of your head, his fingers tangled firmly in the messy, unbound locks of your hair, and he studies you. He sees the internal collapse, the precise moment you stop trying to process the logic of "fighting" and simply start to drown in the sensation of him.

He moves his hand from the nape of your neck to your jaw, his thick thumb pressing firmly against the soft, tender hollow beneath your ear—the exact pressure point that makes your whole body go pliant, your defenses falling away like shed skin. He pulls your mouth back to his, and as you gasp, he uses the leverage to maneuver you backward until your shoulders hit the rough, coarse pile of the sturmbeest furs. He looms over you, his long, dark braids falling forward like a curtain of night, completely shielding your face from the flickering hearth light and creating a private, suffocating sanctuary.

He begins to rut against you, his hips driving with a slow, grinding intensity that forces you to feel every shifting curve of his cock. He’s making small, primal sounds that rumble through his chest and echo inside your mouth, a guttural language of possession. Your hands come up to shove against his chest, your fingernails raking through the dried, crusty blood on his skin, but he doesn't recoil. You bite his lip, a sharp, impulsive snap of teeth that should hurt, but it only fuels the furnace in his belly. A pathetic, ragged whimper escapes his throat, a sound of raw, unbridled need he doesn't even try to stifle.

He feels you squirm—a wet, desperate movement—and your fingers knead the pectoral muscle of his chest. He pulls back just enough to look down at the flush spreading across your collarbone.

"You feel so good, yayotsyìp," he rasps, his voice vibrating with a possessive intensity.

"You... you feel awful," you stammer, though the lie is betrayed by the way your hips jump beneath his weight.

He lets out a dark, mocking snicker. He reaches down, fingers hooking into the hem of your linen wrap, and pushes it up with a sudden, decisive motion, baring your tits.You let out a sharp, startled eep! and try to push his hands away, but he’s already tweaking your nipples with his thumbs, watching with a dark, twisted sense of triumph as they instantly pebble into tight, aching points against his palms.

"What is wrong with you?" you gasp, your eyes wide, glassy with unshed tears and arousal. "Get off of me! Eywa is watching!"

He lets out a harsh laugh, his lips dropping to your neck. He sucks down hard on the sensitive, pulsing skin of your throat, leaving a dark, mottled bruise against your pulse point.

"Let her watch," he murmurs against your skin, the scent of your fear and of your arousal flooding his senses, drowning out the sharp, copper tang of his own wounds. "Let her see how soft you are. Let her see exactly how I break you."

You go silent, biting down on your own knuckle to stifle the sounds, but he hears the frantic, shuddering hitches of your breath.

He is on Hallelujah Mountains.

He has imagined this—the exact curve of your spine, the way your skin flushes, the way your resistance inevitably dissolves—for weeks, and the reality is a thousand times more intoxicating than his fantasies. He is painfully, blindingly hard, the pressure behind his loincloth a constant ache. He doesn't care about the perimeter guards, or the war, or the judgment of his kin. He tracks his kisses lower, over the soft, trembling topography of your stomach, and his hands move with possessive intent in between your thighs, forcing your knees apart to accommodate him.

You try to close your thighs again—a reflexive, desperate attempt to shield yourself—but Neteyam is physically overwhelming, his massive frame pinning you into the furs with absolute, calculated ease. He is practically eye-fucking your pussy, his gaze burning, focused and unblinking, as he licks his own lips, the dark, crimson smear of his blood staining them. He bites down hard on his lower lip, a sharp, self-inflicted pain that seems to only heighten the predatory madness in his eyes.

She thinks she can hide from me, he thinks, his jaw tight, but every tremble is just an invitation to go deeper.

"Don't you dare," you glare at him, the defiance in your voice thin and brittle. Your ankle jerks upward, your heel slamming into his outer thigh in a futile attempt to disrupt his focus, but he pays absolutely no attention to your struggle. He simply reaches down, his fingers hooking into the hem of your linen wrap, and flicks it to the side with a swift, dismissive motion. You are already dripping for him, the slick, wet heat of your body glistening in the amber gloom.

His lips pull back in a slow, crazed smile, his eyes locking onto yours as he drinks in the sight of your surrender. "This is all for me?" he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating purr. He cannot wait any longer. His long fingers slide into the delicate bundle of your nerves, toying with you with a precision that makes your vision swim. The friction is excruciating, a slow, methodical torture that sends jolts of liquid heat straight to the pit of your stomach.

You let out a harsh, broken gasp, your hands flying upward to tug on his thick, dark braids, your knuckles white with the force of your grip as he continues to toy with your clit. Each stroke of his thumb against your slick, engorged folds is calculated, a teasing pressure that forces you to arch your back into his palm. You are getting wetter and wetter, the scent of you filling his nostrils, and Neteyam looks like he might combust just from the sheer, overwhelming proximity of it.

He is addicted to the rhythm of your collapse. He can tell you are close; he can feel the way your muscles begin to coil, the way your breath hitches into a frantic wheeze. As you try to bury your head into the furs to the side, desperate to contain the sounds of your own breaking, Neteyam’s free hand reaches up, his fingers tilting your jaw firmly toward him. He forces you to look at him, his thumb playing with the soft, trembling skin of your lower lip as you bite down on him, the force of your climax finally shattering your resolve, leaving you arching into his touch with a high-pitched moan.

He doesn't stop. As you peak, as the white-hot tremors rack your body, he only increases the pressure, his fingers tracing the internal spasms of your body, claiming the release as if it were a tribute. He watches you, his eyes wide and hungry, his own cock straining painfully against the leather of his loincloth, his breathing just as erratic as yours. He wants to see every second of your undoing, to memorize the way your skin flushes and the way your eyes roll back, leaving him with the terrifying, beautiful proof that you have absolutely nothing left to hold onto.

You practically soak him, the heat radiating from you a physical force that seems to expand in the stifling, incense-heavy air of the yurt. He can tell you’re reeling, your embarrassment a tangible in the room, yet you can’t look away. Your grip on his muscled forearms is desperate, your fingernails digging into his skin, your eyes fluttering frantically as you struggle to meet his gaze.

Neteyam can’t stop smiling; it’s a wide, predatory, and utterly besotted look, his golden irises burning with the fire of his own obsession. He leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours, his nose brushing yours, and he begins to murmur.

"Look at you," he whispers, his voice a low, raspy velvet against your lips. "You’re so soft. You’re shaking for me. Does it feel good to be this undone? Ma sevin (my pretty), trembling thing, you have no idea how long I’ve been starving for this sound."

He kisses you again, the contact slow and lingering, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before he pulls back just enough to press another kiss to your cheek, then the corner of your eye. "You’re beautiful," he mumbles against your skin, his hands moving with a possessive, grounding strength on your hips. "I’m going to make you forget everything but the feeling of me inside you. Just me. Always me."

She’s finally letting go of the edge, he thinks, his own heart hammering against his ribs, and I am going to catch every drop of her.

As you are caught in the sensory onslaught of his kisses and the intoxicating scent of him, Neteyam shifts his weight, his free hand moving to his loincloth. With a single, fluid motion, he flicks the leather aside. His cock springs free, thick, heavy, and already slick with pre-cum, his balls drawn up tight against his body in a raw display of readiness. He is desperate; the hunger in his eyes is not just a want, it is a physiological necessity. He cannot wait another second.

He prods the thick, blunt tip of his cock against your folds, and you physically inhale, a ragged sound that cuts through the quiet of the yurt. You break the kiss, your head snapping back, and your eyes drift down, immediately registering the glint of the metal pierced through the sensitive underside of his head. You look up at him, your eyes widening with a sudden, sharp flash of terror—not just of him, but of the sheer, overwhelming reality of what is about to happen.

"No, wait," you start, your voice thin, but he cuts you off instantly, his expression brooking no dissent.

"It’ll feel good," he says, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, unbreakable command. "You don’t even need to worry. I’ve kept you clean, I’ve kept you safe, and I will keep you whole."

You reach out, your hands fluttering to his cheeks to push him away, a frantic, half-hearted resistance. "Are you serious? I didn't know you were... that's metal, Neteyam! There is no way that's going inside me, it’s—"

He lets out a sharp, resonant laugh, his head tilting to the side, his dark braids sliding over his collarbone. "You’ve touched metal enough, little bird," he teases, the cruelty of his amusement softened by the absolute intensity of his need. "Surely your precious Eywa will forgive you for taking a little bit of the sky into your body. You’re mine. That’s the only law that matters tonight."

Your hands claw at his chest, your fingers finding purchase in the sweat-slicked muscle, but his free hand moves with practiced efficiency to grab your chin. He forces your face up, tilting your jaw until you are staring directly at the thick, veiny head of his cock as he presses it firmly into your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands.

He pushes in. The entry is a deliberate, agonizing expansion of your tight, swollen walls. The sound that tears out of your throat is a high, desperate, and utterly humiliating shriek, a sound so loud you are certain the perimeter guards on the lower tiers can hear it, but Neteyam doesn't even flinch. He pushes through the resistance, the metal of the piercing catching on your delicate tissue, stretching you, filling you with a sensation of fullness that is both terrifying and electric.

"Oh," he groans, his eyes rolling back as he sinks into you, his walls spasming violently around his length. He is nearly blacking out from the sheer, crushing pleasure of the friction. You are leaking, your body drenching him in your juices, spluttering his name, "Neteyam! ‘teyam!" in a frantic, broken rhythm, your body arching and convulsing as he begins to find his own pace, deep and relentless, driving into you with every ounce of his savage, starved devotion.

He can’t help but kiss you, his mouth devouring yours as if he’s trying to swallow your very soul. You are his everything in this moment—a fever dream, a soft, yielding reality that allows him to feel this good, this powerful, this completely shattered. He knows his piercings are driving you to the brink, the metal catching and tugging against your sensitive folds with every deep, plunging thrust, and he can feel the way you’re drooling into the kiss, a warm, messy confluence of saliva and arousal.

He is practically laying on top of you, his broad, sweat-slicked shoulders entrapping you, his body a heavy, muscled wall that leaves you nowhere to run. His pace never stops; he is locked into the cadence of your release, his free hand gently wrapping around your neck, his fingers squeezing lightly, firmly, grounding you in the center of his storm. The sensory input is becoming too much, the overstimulation hitting you like a physical shockwave—every nerve ending is lit, every pulse point on fire. You instantly come, your walls spasming in long, violent contractions that clamp down on him, milking him, your hips snapping upward to meet his thrusts with a desperate, hungry force.

Neteyam can’t help but giggle into the kiss, a strange, manic sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. He can’t stop murmuring things to you, his voice a gravelly, broken stream of consciousness. "There you are," he gasps, his lips brushing yours between every rough, plunging movement. "Ma yawntu, look at you break for me. You’re so fucking wet, I can’t—Eywa, you feel so good, you feel like a trap, like home, like everything I’ve ever wanted to kill for." He sounds insane, he knows it, his eyes wild and fixed on yours, but he doesn't care.

He is so close, he can feel the electric prickle of his own release tightening in his groin. He drags his lips away from yours, his forehead slick with sweat as he looks down at the way you’re unraveling beneath him. He has to announce it, a demand for your submission.

"I’m going to come inside you," he rasps, his voice deep, vibrating with the intent to claim you fully. "You want that, right? You want me to fill you up, you want to keep every drop of me?"

Your hands, slick with his sweat and your own fluids, rest on top of his hands around your neck, your fingers clawing at his wrists in a silent, overwhelming affirmation. Neteyam lets out a guttural sound, his hips slamming into you one last, deep, decisive time before he busts. He collapses on top of you, his weight pinning you to the furs, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He peppers your face in hot, desperate kisses, his breath hitching, his mouth moving over your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips, as he continues to pulse inside you. His mess leaks out of your cunt, a warm, thick stream dripping down into the dark, matted furs.

No, Neteyam doesn’t mind being a bad man.

He is a predator who has finally caught the bird that sang the most beautiful songs, and he has no intention of letting the wings beat again.

He is exactly like his mother, in this quiet, terrifying obsession; he is a warrior who has found something worth hoarding, something worth burning the forest down to keep. Deep down, hidden beneath the layer of his arrogance and the tactical mind that calculates war, there is a frantic, desperate hope that Eywa did not abandon them. Only the Great Mother could have orchestrated this—this all-consuming, suffocating love that feels more like a curse than a blessing. He thinks of the gods, of the ancestors, and for a fleeting, dizzying moment, he wonders if he is being punished or rewarded. Was it his strategic brilliance that landed you here, nestled in the curve of his chest, your skin mapped with the purple and blue bruises of his possession? Or was it fate, pulling the strings? He doesn’t care. If this is a sin, he will burn in the darkest pit of Eywa herself just to keep you pressed this close to his heart.

He looks down at you. You are a puzzle, a paradox of warmth and steel. He wonders, with a sudden clarity that almost brings him to his knees, what he ever did to deserve this—to have you breathing against his sternum, your scent—a heady, complex blend of sandalwood, sweat, and your own sweet, floral arousal—filling his lungs. He is so exhausted, his muscles trembling from the exertion, the adrenaline fading into a heavy, narcotic lethargy. He almost falls asleep, his chin resting atop your head, his eyes fluttering shut, convinced that this—this absolute, total ownership—would be the sweetest death imaginable.

But you are a creature that refuses to lie still. You wriggle, your body shifting against his, your hips rolling in a way that sends a jolt of renewed, aggressive fire through his groin.

Neteyam lets out a low, gravelly grunt of protest, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you so hard against him that your ribs press into his, the contact bone-deep. "Hush, yayotsyìp," he mumbles, his voice thick with the slurry of near-sleep, his breath ghosting against your hair. "Just stay."

But you move again, your body fluid, alive, and suddenly, he feels the cold, jarring reality of the space between you. The weight of you is gone.

He opens his eyes, his golden irises sluggish, dragging themselves back to the present, expecting to see you reaching for a cloth to wipe the mess he’s made of you. Instead, the air in the yurt seems to freeze.

You are sitting up, your hair a wild, tangled halo of dark strands, your skin slick with the sheen of your intimacy and the bright, copper-bright smear of his blood from his side. Faint, dark hickeys bloom like bruised flowers across your collarbone and down the slope of your chest. But it’s not your face that holds his attention—it’s the obsidian dagger, the one he keeps at his hip, now pointed with unwavering, lethal precision directly at his heart.

It is a mirror of the first time he ever really saw you—a hunter, arrow drawn, eyes calculating, but not cold, unlike the first time. Now, there’s something akin to love in your eyes.

Neteyam doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for his weapons. He just lies there, his chest bare and rising, his body still marked by the rhythm of his own climax, and he smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, that soft, terrifyingly fond expression that usually only appears when he’s watching you sleep. He reaches out, his hands wrapping slowly around your wrists, his palms warm against the cool, dark stone of the blade, and he gently, teasingly, applies pressure—eggling you on, pulling your hands toward him, inviting the steel to bite.

He is the most dangerous man in the Omatikaya, and yet, looking at the edge of the blade, he wonders how such a bad man could possibly be allowed to die in such a good way.

"Do it, then," he whispers, his voice a challenge, his pulse thudding a steady cadence against the tip of the dagger.

"Show me if you've got the heart for it, ma yawne (my love)."

like i said i prolly won't post part two so i can say you definitely don't kill him SORRY SPOILERSSSS. i'm still debating whether you end up getting pregnant or not, cuz that would be funny (funny like in an ironic way, not cuz it's actually funny, it's not)

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