The sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, its light stretching out and covering the sheltered cove in a gentle hue of gold and pink.

It was their special place. The hidden little beach enclosed by the mangroves, which seemed to fold around the shore like an embracing arm. It was a haven where nobody ever walked except the ilu flitting past, and the occasional curious skimwing flying overhead.

Ao'nung had found it many moons ago, and he had brought her there on their third night out. Ever since then, it had been theirs, a secret little corner of the world that belonged to nobody but them.

Beside you on the flat rock, the woven bag sat, not merely woven fabric and strings, but a vessel for your secret, for your most treasured gift, for the work you spent weeks on, hidden away in the quiet hours of the house, dimly lit, all others asleep, all else listening to the small noises of the night.

The noises of his coming reached you before you could see him, the small, practiced splash of his entry into the water, the even, measured strokes of his swimming. Water clung to his black hair, tracing the sharp lines of the tattoos that marked him, catching the sun in a way that seemed to make them glow.

He shook his head as he came up out of the water, sending droplets flying about his face, and then his easy, reckless smile crossed his face the moment his eyes found you.

"You're early," he said, wading in towards the shore. "I like when you are early."

"I have something for you," you said, your words tumbling out with a tremble that you could hear in your own voice.

He stopped halfway through taking a step, his eyebrows rising with surprise. "For me?" He settled down on the rock beside you, his body warm enough that you could feel it radiating off his skin and onto yours. "What is it? Did you weave me another net? Because the last one—"

"It's not a net." you brought the woven bag back into your lap and held it there, your hands weaving through the strands so that they rested against your legs. "Well, it's for me. To wear. For you."

His eyebrows shot up as his face changed, his interest growing into something more defined and focused. "For me to see?"

You nodded, and your face began to soften, your nervousness betraying your shyness around him. "I made it myself. The beads are from the shells I gathered on the northern reef, the ones you showed me, and the fibers are dyed with—"

"[your name]." His hand reached out to yours, calming the nervous tension in your fingers before placing them firmly around the bag. "Show me."

You took a quick breath to steady yourself, and then your hand went into the bag, extracting the outfit with a quiet, measured motion.

The top unfolded like a beautiful waterfall of fabric, with soft, creamy white fibers changed to the palest shade of pink, reminiscent of the sunrise shells they collected together.

Beads of all sizes dotted the outfit, each one individually sewn and selected to refract the light and send it dancing in pale shades of pink and pearl.

The neckline plunged deeper than anything she’d ever worn before, creating a sweet V shape that would follow the curves of her collarbones.

The straps were thin, almost invisible, and the back was almost completely open, except for a few strands of fabric crisscrossing across her shoulder blades.

The bottoms matched perfectly, falling low on her hips and securing only at the sides with more of the sparkling little beads. They would rest across the curve of her hip bones, leaving the line of her legs exposed.

You held it up, and the dying sun shone down upon it, and within that light, every single bead and thread seemed to shimmer and come alive.

“I thought,” you said softly, almost in a whisper, “since it’s just for you… it could be a little… more.”

The silence between them grew thick and heavy.

You tilted your head and looked up.

Ao'nung stood there like a statue, the moment suspended about him. His eyes were fixed intently upon the outfit she held, and yet they were not just seeing. They were seeing and imagining and dreaming. His eyes took in every detail, every fold and crevice, every place he could envision where this outfit would rest upon her skin.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them made your breath catch.

His ears lay flat against the sides of his head not out of anger, never out of anger directed towards her, but out of that same, almost visceral reaction he got when he was trying to control himself, when something had affected him so deeply that he had to physically control his response.

His eyes grew wide, the irises shrinking to narrow rings around an empty hole of black. His chest expanded with a breath deeper and slower than any he had been able to manage since he had emerged out of the water.

He did not say anything. He was not yet capable of it.

His hand, however, moved forward, his fingers, calloused and strong and slightly shaking, tracing the edges of the one that would rest against your collarbone. "You made this," he said, his voice rough, scraped raw from the effort of keeping his emotions inside. "For me."

"For you," you said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Only for you."

His jaw clenched, and the tension in it made the skin pull tight. One muscle was working beneath it, betraying the tension he was struggling to contain. He took in another of those deep, deliberate breaths, making it seem as though each one was an effort to rein himself in.

But then, his hand, which had been resting on the clothing, moved towards your face, cradling your jaw in a gesture so tender it made your heart hurt.

The pads of his fingers followed the curve of your cheekbone, your lower lip, and his eyes seemed to track the movement, as though he were discovering you all over again from the very beginning.

“Put it on,” he said, not commanding, but asking, which was sounding more like a plea.

“Now?”

“Now.” The word was barely out of his mouth when his voice cracked, “Please.”

You stood, and he let you go slowly, his fingers lingering on your skin as if unwilling to you her go. You moved behind a screen of ferns and peeled off the simple garments you had been wearing, slipping into the ones he had just held.

The beads caressed your skin with a chill at first, then warmed as they molded to your body. The fit was perfect, as you had calculated a dozen different times against your own body.

The top fit you just so, with a low neckline as you had designed it. The back was open to the evening air. The bottoms were low and bare, with the beads digging into the curves of you hipbones as you moved.

You stepped out from behind the ferns, stepping into the fading light.

Ao'nung was there, in the place you left him, but he’d risen from the rock, standing taller. When his gaze found yours, it seemed like he’d stopped breathing, like the air itself had paused to see him look at you.

The sun set on you in shades of gold and pink, making you shine like a constellation. The beads sparkled, catching the last rays of sunlight and sending them out in all directions, like tiny little stars on your skin.

The pink of it matched perfectly, in both tone and shade, to the inside of a sunrise shell. The low cut of it hinted at your breasts, the back of it highlighted your elegant spine.

His eyes moved, tracing out the shape of you, moving down slowly, reverently, over every part of you that was exposed, then moving on to every one of the beads, which highlighted every curve, every dip, every long, smooth length of your legs.

His ears pinched back further, and the familiar creases of his expression seemed to sharpen, becoming more focused. A low, throaty noise gathered in him, between a growl and a groan, and it rumbled up from his chest and out into the space between them.

“[your name].” The word escaped him in a broken, almost brittle breath, as if the syllables had shattered beneath him. He moved closer, then another step, until he was close enough for the heat of his body to reach out to touch yours.

He raised his hands, and they seemed to float, hovering above your shoulders, not quite touching, not quite. They quivered, full of the moment, full of the tension of what was about to occur, full of the need.

“This is….” He spoke, and the words trailed off into a whispered, trembling breath.

“Too much?” you said, your voice sharp—edged, as if the question might shatter the moment, send it fleeing like some frightened creature.

He replied not in words, but in a sound, one that was almost, but not quite, a laugh, and yet had no humor in it.

It was full of awe, full of hunger, and full of a kind of desperate, reverent longing, one that seemed to fill the space between them, one that seemed to be able to consume them both whole.

“No,” he breathed, in a voice that seemed to be addressed to the space around them. “Not enough. It could never be enough.”

Time seemed to hold, stretched out in an electric tension, as if the world itself had shrunk down to the space between them, to the breath they shared.

And then, finally, his hands found their way to you, meeting your own with a tremor that seemed to run through his own frame. One hand fell down to rest on the smooth skin of your lower back, fingers sinking into the warmth of it just long enough to anchor the moment.

The other hand rose more slowly, making an arc up to where the top of your clothing met your collarbone, tracing it reverently, as if in awe of it, as if in awe of you.

He leaned in closer, and his forehead rested on yours. His eyes were shut, and his breathing came out in ragged bursts.

"I need to kiss you," he whispered. "Can I ?"

You answered him by closing the distance between them.

His hand landed on your back, drawing you in closer to him. His other hand went into your hair, tilting your head back slightly. You melted into him, your arms going around his neck, your beads brushing against his overheated skin.

When they finally broke apart for air, both of them were gasping for breath. His eyes looked wild and unrestrained with need. He looked you over, every inch of your outfit that showed your skin, every hint of trust in your eyes.

"[your name]." His voice was torn apart with emotion. "I want—"

"Yes," you breathed, your voice steady and sure. "Whatever you want. Yes."

He pressed his lips to yours once again, his hands caressed the smooth skin of your waist, feeling the gentle curve of your hip where the beads rested, and you felt a thrill of response to his touch.

He raised you with ease, and you wrapped your legs around him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath the beads, feeling the heat of his body seep into you through every point of contact.

And then he carried you to a patch of sand under the mangroves, away from the water and the rest of the world outside their little circle. He lay you down with a tenderness that took some of the fierce intensity out of his eyes, and when he moved on top of you, he encircled you with the strength of his arms, gazing down at you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

“You are mine,” he said, and there was no room for doubt in his tone, it was an simple unadorned truth.

“Yours,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

His lips found the curve where the beads began, and he kissed you, tracing the slow line of the edge of the fabric. He followed it down, his breath warm against your skin, his mouth caressing the seam and skin beneath it. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and your back arched with a natural, unguarded response.

“Ao’nung—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your collarbone, “let me. Let me just…”

He pressed his lips against the shape of your breast through the fabric that barely covered it, and you breathed in sharply, surprised by the feel of it.

When his lips finally found yours again, it was deep and slow. His body pressed against you, warm and solid, and the world narrowed to just this.

The Eastern Atoll, while smaller than Awa'atlu, had fewer people and a less generous reef. But these were her people, this was her home, and that, in itself, was a power beyond measure.

She had spent the years of her life on the island, learning the rhythms of the sea, memorizing each current that swirled beneath the surface, each shaded place where the sea creatures hid among the mangroves and each place where the sun lingered on the rocks to warm the tide pools.

She knew the calls of all the birds, the taste of each fruit that ripened on the branches, the voices of each elder who wove under the shade of the communal trees.

And then, beyond all of this, there was the fact that she was the Olo'eyktan's sister. That, too, had its own power, its own destiny that ensured that her life was not as she might have wanted it to be.

The morning sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon, casting a pale, gold—tinted glow across the waters when her brother Kavik finally found her at their favorite cove.

It was a place filled with memories. The same stretch of shoreline where they used to line up and race each other as children, a playful ritual that now felt distant and wistful, especially since duty had hardened him into someone she barely recognized.

He stood with his feet at the water’s edge, his arms crossed over his chest, silently watching her as she floated on her back in the shallow waters, letting the currents gently cradle her.

“You’re avoiding me,” Kavik said, his tone steady, though there was something beneath it, something that Rial couldn’t quite define.

“I’m breathing,” Rial said, still not bothering to open her eyes. “Two very different activities.”

There was a long, still moment of silence between them before Kavik waded a little deeper into the waters, not caring that his ceremonial wrap flapped in the current.

He sat down beside her, the waters meeting him halfway, flowing around him like a liquid embrace as he sank into a crouch, then a comfortable seated position.

When she finally opened her eyes and glanced over at Kavik, she could see the weight of his burdens in the sharp line of his jaw, in the shadows under his eyes, shadows that never seemed to go away anymore.

“The Metkayina envoy arrives tomorrow,” Kavik said, his voice soft, almost as if he were afraid of startling the sea itself. Rial's stomach knotted with nervous tension, but she managed to keep her face smooth and unreadable.

“I know,” she said.

“They'll escort you back to Awa'atlu. The ceremony would take place within the next full moon cycle.” His eyes never met hers, he kept them averted from her face as though the truth of the moment was too bright for him to behold. “Ao'nung would be their future Olo'eyktan, you’ll be his mate. It was done.”

"It's done." she repeated the words flatly. "Like a fish being cleaned, gutted, and prepared for someone else's table."

Kavik winced at her words, a protective instinct in him stirring in spite of himself as he sought to temper her words. "That's not exactly—"

"That's exactly what it is." Her form rose higher in the water, she kept her hair slick with water as it fell down her back and turned her face to him, all of her fury and anger pent up for weeks finally bursting forth in that moment. "You never asked me. You never warned me. You signed those papers with Tonowari and came back and told me like I was being informed of something for dinner."

"I had no choice."

"You always say that," she breathed, her words cracking and crumbling at the edges. "When Mama died, you always said there was no choice but to send me to Auntie's for a year. After the hunting parties failed, you always said there was no choice but to take the young men out into those treacherous waters. And when the elders asked for more tributes, you always said there was no choice but to give them our finest fibers, our finest shells, our finest—" Her breath came in sharp gasps.

"Our finest sister," Kavik finished for her.

The phrase seemed to hang in the air between them, sharp and cold and edged.

"Is that what I am? Your finest offering?" she breathed, her words almost inaudible.

Finally, he looked at her. His pain was unmistakable, so real that it seemed to shiver and crack the space between them.

"You are my only sister. My only family left in this world. Do you think I want this?"

“I think you're doing it anyway.”

"Because I HAVE to!" The words echoed through the clearing, startling birds out of the mangroves. Kavik's normally meticulous composure, the one he kept pinned tight and unreadable, snapped open and spilled out in a ragged, unguarded, and vehemently young and desperate speech. "You think I take pleasure in trading my blood like cargo? You think I sleep easy at night?"

Rial stared at Kavik, his mouth hanging open in shock at the vehemence of the outburst.

Kavik dropped his head, letting his hands cradle his face as if to still a shaking, fragile thing. When he began to speak again, his words came out in a muffled, fractured speech as if he was speaking through a shell.

"The reef is dying, Rial. The eastern current changed three moons ago, and you didn’t even notice because I kept it a secret. The fish are leaving. The catch is half of what it used to be. Our people are starving, and the elders say that I’m too young, too inexperienced, that my father’s death was a sign of Eywa’s disfavor."

She had become aware of the smaller catches, the way the lines came in lighter and thinner than they used to be. She had felt the heaviness in the village, the way conversations ceased the moment she approached. She hadn’t known it was this weak, this dangerous.

“The alliance with Awa'atlu,” Kavik continued, his chin rising to meet her eyes, “gives us a foothold in their fishing grounds, their protection, and the use of their name.” His mouth twisted into a sour expression. “Tonowari didn’t ask for much, just a thread to connect us, a joining of bloodlines to secure the alliance.”

“Just my sister,” Kavik’s words cracked out, his tone like something broken and brittle, “Just you.”

“Just me,” Rial echoed, the words no longer a question, but a tentative acknowledgement.

“If there was any other path I could take, I would take it in a heartbeat. I would trade my life for yours in an instant, and I would call that a fair trade.” Finally, tears began to fall from his eyes, tracing the paint that he had long since ceased to remove, at least after all this time. “But I cannot,” he said, his voice cracking entirely, “for I am the Olo'eyktan. I have a duty to my people.” His voice trailed off completely, “My duty—is to give them you.”

Rial stood motionless, the water rising up to her waist as the waves whispered around her, as she watched her brother fall apart.

He was the big brother who had taught her how to swim, who had caught her after she had tumbled out of the first tree that she had tried to climb, who had held her at their mother’s funeral and promised that he would always protect her.

He was protecting her. That was the cruelest part. He was giving her away to save everyone else.

"When do I leave?" she asked, her voice small and her words chosen with the same care as she might use when handling a fragile thing.

"Tomorrow, at dawn." He wiped his face on the back of his hand, a movement so unwarrior—like that it was almost painful, and Rial felt her chest constrict.

"Everything is ready, and I asked them to add extra soft mats to your quarters. I also packed the wrap Mama made for your naming day, the one with the pearl beads. I thought... I thought you might want something from home." His words trailed off, and he looked at her, his eyes dark and troubled.

Rial closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the wrap, the one thing her mother had made for her before the illness consumed her, and knew that Kavik remembered, knew that he would not forget.

"Come here," she said, her voice a little stronger.

He looked at her, unsure.

"Come here, you skxawng." She opened her arms, and he stepped into them, stepping into the embrace as though he were a small boy again, as though they were children hiding from a storm, as though the world hadn't grown dark and difficult between them.

They stood there, the water swirling around their ankles, and for a few moments, they forgot to be Olo'eyktan and bargaining chip, forgot the world and forgot the danger, and just stood there, Kavik and Rial, brother and sister, two orphans who had no one left but each other.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, his arms wrapped tight around her waist.

She held him close, feeling his warm breath on her neck, and said, "I know."

The journey had stretched across seven suns. Seven days of watching the Eastern Atoll steadily shrink towards the horizon, shrinking until it vanished from sight.

until Rial became nothing more than a daughter traded, a sister sold, a future bride hauled ashore like cargo to an unfamiliar shoreline.

Awa'atlu rose up from the turquoise sea as if it had emerged from a dream. Winding walkways curved gracefully among the massive mangrove roots, glowing pods hung suspended, bright as captured stars, and children laughed and shouted as they leaped from platforms into the clear, crystalline depths.

It should have taken her breath away, instead, it made her chest feel hallow.

The very first day, his little sister, Tsireya, greeted her with a warmth that seemed genuine, offering soft words, a plate of fresh fruit, and a guided tour of the village that Rial barely registered.

The sister of the future Olo’eyktan was indeed kind. Rial hated how much she wanted to trust her.

“Tell me about him,” Rial had asked her that evening, as they settled into the weaving circle in the communal area.

Tsireya’s smile faltered for a moment. “He is... my brother. Strong. Protective.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything at all.”

There was a pause, then Tsireya went on. “He will be a good mate. My mother says so.”

‘My mother says so.’ Not I know so. Not ‘he is good.’ Just what someone else has said.

On the second day, Rial decided to try a different approach. She strolled along the docks until she spotted a older hunter mending his nets, a grizzled old man with eyes that reminded her of her uncle.

He stood there with a patient, unhurried air, like a man who had seen a lot of seasons come and go. There was something homey, something lived—in, about him that Rial found reassuring.

“The future Olo'eyktan,” Rial said, deciding to keep her tone casual so that the hunter would continue to talk to her. “What is he like?”

The hunter let out a loud, rough laugh, almost like a nervous one. “Like a reef boy who thinks he's already chief. You'll see him soon enough.”

“You won't tell me?”

“Better to see him for yourself. No expectations.” And with that, he clapped her shoulder in a friendly fashion and went off.

No expectations. It was a phrase that stuck in Rial's head, like a stubborn knot in her chest. As if she could have anything but expectations when everyone refused to speak.

It seemed almost impossible to disassociate herself from all of that, from the implication that something big was waiting just around the corner.

On the third day of her stay, Rial had sunk into a kind of desperate quiet. She asked her questions of the weavers first and they exchanged glances and offered her one word of appraisal: "Talented."

Next she asked her questions of the fisherwomen: again, she got only half—answers: "Respected."

Finally, she asked her questions of the children who played in the shallows: she hoped their innocence would give her access to the mystery.

"Have you met the Olo'eyktan's son?"

The little girl nodded, her eyes wide with both fascination and wariness. "He's very tall."

"And?"

"And... he's tall." The little girl shrugged and went back to her game.

That's all she would get from anyone. Not another word.

No word about his face or voice or attitude. No word about his nature or character. No word about whether he was kind or cruel or sharp or gentle.

The fear inside her swelled up with the tide of unanswered questions.

Why won't they tell me anything?

What are they not telling me?

Is he deformed? Diseased? Monstriuos?

Did they bring me here because no one else would take him?

By nightfall on the third day, Rial found herself gasping for air. The walls of the guest marui seemed to close in around her, squeezing the air from her lungs and making her feel trapped.

Every act of kindness seemed to be a cage shutting itself around her, every smile a tether binding her wrists together. She was a fool, a sacrifice, a lamb led to slaughter with flowers woven into her hair.

Her thoughts went back to her brother Kavik, as they parted ways. She saw the tears welling up in his eyes, the way he held her as if already mourning her departure, telling her, "If you ever need to come home, I will move the ocean to bring you back."

But the ocean stretched between her and her brother, and home was an impossibility. Tomorrow, she would face the man who would own her future, the man whose face remained a well—guarded secret.

“I cannot do this.”

The phrase was a mere murmur at first, a faint tremor of air that didn't quite touch her. But it grew, louder and more insistent, until it was a scream that shattered the air around her.

"I cannot do this!”

Rial slipped silently away from the guest marui as the village fell into a deep, quiet sleep under the watchful eye of the larger moon shining high in the night sky.

Her bare feet knew the paths she had memorized during the many restless wanderings that had kept her company, paths that led her further and further away from the center of the village, further and further away from the ceremonial grounds, further and further away from him.

She knew where she was going, no, that was a lie. She knew nothing of the sort. What she knew was that she could not stay where she was, that she had to move, that she had to escape, that she had to find a place where the fear that hunted her could not intrude.

And the spirit tree found her first, or perhaps Eywa, in her boundless mercy and compassion, guided Rial's steps.

It rose out of the hidden cove, a dominant figure, a figure of power rising out of the darkness, its glowing tendrils reaching out towards the stars. The water around it was still and black as night, impossibly deep.

Not merely a path, but an escape, a promise of a way out, a reaching towards a sky that belonged to no clan and no chief, a sky that stood apart from the world that had once defined her.

Rial went into action, showing no signs of hesitation. She pulled her wrap up higher, making sure it was secure and providing her with protection and support, before jumping towards the lowest branch with a resounding push.

Her first attempt, however, was not as successful as Rial would have liked. She lost her footing as she reached for the branch, and the bark beneath her hands burned her palms with an unusual, glowing sensation. A hiss escaped her lips as she moved her hands, trying to steady herself.

Her second attempt was slightly more successful, although by little. She was able to get one foot on a branch, although her movements ceased almost at once. She swung slightly, and for a moment, Rial found herself dangling awkwardly, her arms trembling with the strain of keeping herself upright and on the branch.

“Do you need help?”

Rial froze where she stood, and the moment seemed to stretch out before them, as if time itself had come to a stop. Her muscles seemed to tense up in that instant, bracing for something, for trouble.

Her heart beat wildly, pounding away at her rib cage, the sound almost palpable, almost audible enough to be felt at the back of her throat. And then, with painstaking care, she moved, turning her head, bit by bit, to survey the situation behind her.

A figure emerged at the bottom of the tree, standing between the rippling, moon—lit waters at his back. He stood tall, broad—shouldered, the epitome of power, his black hair slicked back his face.

His chest was bare, already displaying the faint signs of warrior tattoos, his very presence seeming to swallow up the space between them.

His arms were crossed lazily across his chest, giving him a look that seemed to border on the slyly amused, the kind of pose that spoke of a man who knew exactly who he was, exactly where he stood, and exactly where the other person stood.

And as Rial met his gaze, she saw that the man was not looking at her, not really. He was looking at her as if she were the most intriguing thing he had come across in years.

"No," she said hastily, her tone a little too sharp. "I do not need any assistance. You can go back inside and wait with all the other gawkers.”

"I…will." he said, still not moving. "But first, I'm curious. What are you doing?”

"Nothing."

"You are certainly doing something." His lips curled slightly.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are!”

Rial's arms were shaking now, and the tree trunk beneath her hands felt slick with dew. Her face felt hot with embarrassment, competing with the fear that still clawed at her chest. She should let go. She should run. She should—

"If you must know, I'm trying to ascertain the best way to climb over this tree.” she said, a little more smoothly than she felt.

“Climb..” he tried in confusion, “whatever for?”

She twisted a bit more, turning to face him properly, and the weariness and fear she carried mingled with a growing exasperation as she spoke.

Rial drew in a steady breath, weighing her options in the moment. She could continue to hang there, looking like a caught fish, or she could choose honesty with a stranger who would never know that she was the future Olo’eyktan’s betrothed.

“Because I think he may be a beast,” she admitted, choosing truth at last.

“A beast?” he repeated, slightly taken aback.

“Or a troll.”

A small flicker passed across the young man’s face, something unreadable and quick. “Who are we discussing?”

"Well, that is impertinent. None of your business."

He said nothing, just watched her with those intense blue eyes.

Rial's arms were really starting to ache. "The future Olo'eyktan. No one will speak of him. No one. He is clearly a beast or a troll."

“Understood.”

She gestured vaguely with her head toward the branch above. "You know, if I grab there, perhaps you could assist me by lifting me up there."

"One question," he said, his voice calm. "You do not like beasts or trolls. What he looks like matters to you?"

"I do not care what he looks like," Rial said fiercely, her grip tightening on the branch. "What I do not like is not knowing. Now, here—just take hold here and with a lift, I believe I can make it over the tree."

"You want me to lift you over the tree so you can escape?"

"That is what I said. Yes.”

"People will notice you are missing, will they not?"

Rial waved the concern away impatiently. "I will worry about that later. Now, if you please, I just need a little help.”

The young man's arms remained firmly crossed. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

Rial stared at him, incredulous. "I am a woman in distress. You refuse to help a woman in distress?"

A long pause. Then he spoke, and his voice was different now, softer. "I refuse when that woman in distress is trying to go over a tree so that she does not have to marry me."

The words lingered in the air, heavy and charged, as though they were thunder waiting for the rain to arrive.

Rial took a long, slow breath, and then exhaled it, releasing the branch and stepping down. The distance was not far, but it was enough. She felt her feet make a muted, almost muffled thud on the soft sand, and the sand scattered around her ankles in a delicate spray, coating the gaudy ceremonial shells that hung from her wrap.

She was unable to make eye contact, though. She simply was not capable of it. She knew, though, that she could feel the grin on his face, the insufferable air of confidence and knowledge that radiated from him.

“Hello, Rial,” he said, cocking his head to the side, just a little. His tone was warm, and playful, and teasing, but beneath all that, there was something else, something soft and gentle and kind. “I’m Ao’nung.”

She made herself look up, and meet his eyes,

The moonlight now bathed him in full, and Rial found her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He was, quite simply, beautiful, and there really wasn’t any other way to describe him.

"I am deeply s—" Her words trailed away before she could finish them.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting and measuring her.

"Olo'eyktan," she breathed, and her formal respect began to find its way into her tone of voice as she began to lean forward in the traditional gesture of respect for a chief's heir.

His hand caught hers, staying her gesture before she could complete it.

"Not your Olo'eyktan," he breathed softly, his voice steady and low. His fingers were warm, curling around hers with a gentle strength. "Ao'nung."

He released her slowly, the touch he'd just given her on her skin lingering a beat longer than was actually necessary before his hand fell back to his side.

Rial noticed, with a quiet attention, that he flexed his fingers a fraction of a second afterward, as though he was trying to memorize the exact feeling of her skin, to commit it to memory so that it would stay with him a little longer than the touch itself.

“I mean, yes, Olo'eyktan,” he said, and a small part of his old grin crept back into his face, soft and almost teasing. “But to you... just Ao'nung.”

Rial gulped, her throat feeling tight, as though someone had constricted it with a careful, undeniable grip. Her pulse was going at a wild, crazy pace in her ears, loudly enough, she fancied, that he might hear it in the quiet of the night. “I am... please accept my apology. If I had known that you were you—”

“What would you have done then?” His grin came back, though this time it was a little softer, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in amusement at her. “Not told me that you were trying to escape?”

“Well, yes. I mean—”

He chuckled, though, a low, warm sound that rumbled up from deep within his chest and caused something both strange and fluttery within her stomach. It was not a laugh of mockery, though, but a genuine one, almost delighted, as though he was finding her situation somehow amusing, in the most unexpected way.

“I do apologize, Olo'eyktan.”

“Just Ao'nung,” he said, his tone firm and clear.

Her lips pressed together as she struggled to keep the smile from surfacing despite all that had transpired around them.

He took a small step closer, his voice dropping to a low, warm tone, "The Olo'eyktan situation... it looms over all of us. An accident of birth for me." He stopped, his gaze seeking hers, as if waiting for an opening, a way in. "But I thought, perhaps, as my mate, you could look past it. And I could be just Ao'nung to you." That spark of mischief danced in his eyes again, as if he took a certain pleasure in the game of space and boundaries. "That was, of course, before I discovered you do not wish to be mated with me."

Rial took a step back, her body angling slightly to the side in a defensive position that felt almost beyond her control. "I did not say that."

"Oh, you did. You said, and I quote, 'He could be a beast. A monster. He could have three eyes and scales.' You said those exact words."

"I was talking theoretically," she said, attempting to control the quiver in her voice.

"Theoretically." He drew out the word, savoring it like a fine wine and a rare note in a melody.

"Yes. Theoretically. There is a difference."

"Is there?" His smile played across his face, his entire demeanor radiating a carefree confidence that was almost, but not quite, infectious. "From where I was standing, it sounded like you meant something a little more personal."

Rial's face flamed with heat, a flush that she could not control. "It is not—" She huffed out a breath, a combination of fluster, aggravation, and something else entirely. "I do not know you."

“I don’t know you either.” He uncrossed his arms and gestured at her situation with a nod at the tree. “Except that you are terrible at climbing. Truly, astonishingly bad. I’ve seen baby ilu try to haul themselves onto rocks with more grace.” He tilted his head. “You know, I have some forest friends, Sully kids, that might help you with that. Lo’ak is especially gifted at failing upward. You two would get along.’

Rial looked down at herself, at the ridiculous ceremonial wrap with its multiple layers, shells, and beads that weighed her down like fishing weights, at the sand that clung to her legs, at the whole undignified mess she’d made of herself in front of the one person she was meant to impress.

She pulled at the fabric. “You try climbing a tree in all of these garments. This thing weighs more than I do. I’m wearing roughly forty—seven shells, none of which serve any practical purpose.”

“That many?” He looked at her wrap with a serious face. “I only counted forty—six.”

“Now you are mocking me.”

"Only a little," he said, holding his hand out to show the distance with his thumb and finger, as if measuring the smallest sliver of space possible. "This much. The rest of it is genuine fascination."

They stood there, locked in a gaze that neither of them broke, letting the moment hang suspended between them.

A moment of silence hung in the air, and then something changed. The tension didn’t break, exactly, but it softened, ripened, became something warmer.

Rial felt the corner of her mouth curve up, small and uncertain, and his lips curved in response. In that moment, they were both grinning at each other like two skxawngs under the moonlight, the entire ridiculous situation suddenly cracking open to something lighter, almost playful.

"What?" Rial asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be, a shy, almost tentative smile trying to creep out around her lips despite her best intentions to keep it under control.

He looked at her for a long time, the light in his eyes changing from the mischief of a tease to something deeper, almost contemplative.

The spark of humor in his eyes died, replaced by a warmth that felt almost vulnerable. He took a half—step closer, as if drawn in by some sort of gravity to a moment that neither of them could deny.

"You are incomparable," he said, plain and steady, as if presenting a basic fact, as inevitable as the tide, as plainly true as the sky. "No one told me you'd be this beautiful."

A glint of teasing returned to his eyes, but it was softer now, gentler, as if he kept it in check. "You may be too beautiful to mate with me. People will talk." He leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Given I’m a troll.”

"Olo'eyktan," she replied, her voice calm despite the fluttering in her chest.

"Ao'nung," he corrected her immediately, the correction almost automatic, like a reflex.

She let out a soft chuckle, and for a moment she sounded like she actually meant it, a real laugh this time, warm and unforced. "Ao'nung," she murmured again, savoring the word as it rolled across her tongue. It felt right. Warm. Hers to say.

His eyes softened on that sound, "What do you want to know?"

"What?"

"You do not know me." He stepped closer until the warmth from his skin was almost palpable, and she could catch the scent of salt in the air, and something clean underneath. "What do you want to know about me?"

"Well, that is—"

"Mm-hmm." He nodded in encouragement, that confident grin fully in place again. He seemed to be savoring her fluster a little too much.

"I do not—"

He flashed that smile again, and her brain briefly flickered like a circuit rebooting.

"Everything," she whispered.

“All right.” He took a breath, and when he spoke, his words lacked the teasing edge he’d used before. “I was born in a storm, the worst one we’d seen in a decade. My mother says I came into the world screaming and never stopped. My father says I have been fighting the tide ever since.” He paused, and a small, wry smile played around his mouth. “I can hold my breath longer than anyone in my clan. I timed myself once. My friend Rotxo called me a show—off, and he wasn’t wrong.”

Rial forced a smile to her lips, though it was not easy.

“I’m terrible at weaving nets,” he continued,“Embarrassingly bad at it. My sister Tsireya is very kind to me about my lack of skill at it. She’s tried to teach me seventeen times, and I’ve managed to fail seventeen times. But she still believes in me, and I don’t deserve her.” His face took on a more tender, almost wistful, expression. “My sister Prill thinks I hung the moons, though, and I don’t bother her about it. It’s wonderful, in its own way, to be a hero to someone.”

He shifted his weight, crossing and uncrossing his arms in a gesture that was almost nervous, almost at peace. “I love the deep water. The places where the light doesn’t penetrate, and the old ones swim. It’s the only place I feel... quiet. The pressure, the darkness, it clears my head. Just me, the water, and whatever’s down there.” He looked at her, his eyes locked on hers. “My father tells me that’s where I’ll find my strength as Olo’eyktan. In the quiet, not the noise.”

Rial listened, her heart swelling at every word.

“I am proud,” he went on, his voice steady. “Too proud, perhaps. I know that, yes. My father tells me that often enough. The elders tell me that often enough. Even the deep water tells me that often enough.” He had a self—deprecating little smile on his face. “I am working at being better. Learning to listen before I speak, to think before I act.” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few more strands from his tie. “I am terrified of disappointing him, of disappointing my people.” He looked at Rial, his eyes locked on hers, and Rial knew that there was nothing hidden behind them.

“And I am very nervous about mating a girl I am only just meeting minutes before my wedding. But I cannot show it and climb over a tree, because I am the Olo’eyktan to be of Awa’atlu, and that would cause problems.” He paused, his eyes locked on Rial’s, searching them. “But I promise you, I am neither troll nor beast. I am Ao’nung.”

The silence that followed seemed to settle around them in a way that felt almost palpable, like something woven from the stars and moonlight and the gentle, living breaths of the sea.

Rial turned to him and looked her fill. She saw the hope in his eyes, that tentative and nervous glint that made her pause and take him in more closely.

She saw the quiet strength in him, too, the quiet determination that had settled in on his shoulders and weighed him down without complaint. She saw how he had opened himself up to her, a stranger, and offered her pieces of himself that he might not have shared with anyone else.

She saw how honest and open he had been with her, those pieces of himself that he kept hidden even from other people. And she saw the faint trembling in his hands, something he tried to hide from her sight.

"Ao'nung," she said softly, choosing her words with care in order to respect the moment.

"Just Ao'nung," he repeated back to her, his voice little more than a breath, almost shy. "If you'll have me."

Rial did not answer him in words. Instead, she allowed herself to smile up at him, a genuine and open smile that carried warmth and invitation with it.

The sun was high and unyielding in the sky above Awa'atlu, beating down upon the woven pathways like a furnace of heat and glare.

In the cool, shaded grove in which teaching was done, Seyla found herself locked in a quiet but stubborn battle of wits with a length of slippery, stubborn sea—grass.

It was supposed to be an easy binding technique, a neat and simple knot or weave that any person could accomplish with a few quick, precise motions.

But the flexible reed—like strands seemed to behave like a deranged eel, twisting and squirming away from her hands as if bent on defying her every attempt.

"No, no, skxawng! Like this,"

Ao'nung's shadow fell across her work. He'd been "overseeing" Tsireya's lesson, which mainly entailed lounging against the base of a mangrove tree, crossing his arms over his chest, and offering no more helpful commentary than the odd grunt of half—formed criticism.

Now he sat down beside Seyla, his movements lazy and snatched the cord from her.

"You are fighting it. You must move with it. Move as if you are part of the current, flowing with the flow." His fingers, deft and sure, worked the cord with practiced ease.

In three seconds, he had produced a perfect, tight knot. He held it up before her face, a smug smirk spreading across his lips. "See? Strength alone isn’t enough. You need finesse." He released the knot, letting it drop into her lap. "Try again, Forest girl. Try not to strangle it this time."

Seyla gritted her teeth at the jab. Forest girl. He’d picked up on Tsireya’s affectionate nickname and turned it into a patronizing barb. "Maybe if your people used fibers that didn’t feel like wet snake skin," she muttered, picking up the cord to try again.

From his perch on a nearby rock, Lo’ak snorted. "Careful, 'Nung. She’s got that look like she could stab you with a weaving needle if you push too far."

“She would have to be capable of holding the needle first” he snapped, his eyes never leaving Seyla’s hesitant, fumbling hands.

He was the picture of arrogant, effortless superiority, the future Olo'eyktan condescendingly allowing the clumsy land—dweller to intrude upon him, a being who seemed almost beneath him in every possible way.

The dynamic never varied throughout the course of the day.

At spear practice, he might correct her posture with a sigh, his hands brushing hers before he stepped back as if burned by the heat of his own prestige.

During a swimming lesson for the newer arrivals, he might call out, “Your kicking looks like a panicked yerik. Less splashing, more glide.” It was always the same. A constant, low—grade barrage of tough—love criticism, always delivered with a bored, superior air that never varied and never fully hid his contempt.

And when came evening time, Seyla felt utterly worn out, with exhaustion etched on both body and mind. It was not just the exhaustion from the day’s events, but also the exhaustion from navigating Ao’nungs constant commentary and the flood of new experiences bombarding her senses.

The communal fire provided a welcome respite from the events of the day. Seyla snuggled in close to Kiri and Tuk, gratefully accepting a bowl of stew from Neytiri. The firelight was golden and forgiving, and Seyla began to open up about the events of the day as if the flames were coaxing the tales from her very lips.

Even Ao’nung seemed to relax around the firelight. He sprawled across from Seyla, making light—hearted jokes with Rotxo and Loak. The barbs from before began to fade into laughter and jokes as the firelight danced across their faces.

As Jake began to spin a yarn about his first flight on his ikran, Seyla’s exhaustion began to dissipate, washing over her in a soothing wave.

The firelight warmed her through and through, and the voices around her began to fade into a soothing background noise.

Her head began to lull forward, and before she knew it, she shifted slightly to the side. Her temple rested against something broad and warm—Ao’nung’s shoulder.

And with that, she fell fast asleep, carried off by a dream of silent forests and winding paths.

And then, almost at once, the mood around the campfire shifted, a small shift, but one felt by everybody.

The story continued to tell itself a Jake spoke uninterrupted, even as the atmosphere around the campfire circle began to shift and change in a small but intriguing way.

Lo'ak's eyes opened wide in a manner that was almost comical to behold, as though he had been startled into a revelation by the dancing flames themselves.

The grin on Rotxo's face spread from one ear to the other, unashamed and wide, a sign that a joke or a trick was about to be pulled off with impeccable timing.

Kiri smiled demurely into her bowl, suggesting that she was enjoying herself as much as everyone else was, content to simply sit back and allow the laughter to build without contributing anything more than a soft, admiring smile.

Spider then nudged Lo'ak in the ribs, and Lo'ak responded with a silent but emphatic "no way," words unspoken but crystal clear in the argot of their group.

Ao'nung had gone absolutely rigid.

The easy, relaxed pose he had assumed just moments before was gone, replaced by the stillness of a statue. His arm, which had been slumped casually across his knee, was suspended in mid—air, frozen in time like the rest of him.

He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched in an attempt to keep his composure. The tension in his body was screaming at anyone who was paying attention: DO NOT MOVE.

Tsireya, sitting next to him, pressed her lips tightly together for a moment, biting down to keep from laughing at the display of discipline and restraint that was currently in full swing.

Jake, having told his story, let the circle settle into the comfortable, easy silence that followed, the only sound the crackling and hissing of the flames.

It was in this silence that Lo'ak found his opening to speak up, his voice laced with an over the top innocence that was just the right amount of playfulness and tease.

He leaned forward slightly toward Ao'nung, or possibly toward the edge of the circle itself, before letting the words fall out in an easy, clear manner: “Hey ’Nung, you good? You look… stiff. Something wrong with your back?”

Ao'nung’s eyes locked directly on him, with a silent and deadly promise of future retaliation hovering. He said nothing, nor did he even give a single shake of the head to reveal his true thoughts.

Rotox stepped in to fill the awkward moment with his own theory, offering it up with a shrug. “Maybe he’s meditating. You know, pondering the vast, endless ocean. While being used as a pillow,” he added with a casual quip, attempting to lighten the atmosphere with a casual smile.

Ao'nung’s ears flushed with a faintly pinkish color, giving away the true depth of his feelings. Ao'nung tried to divert his attention away from the situation, turning his face away from the others and focusing his attention on the distant wall of the marui.

But his eyes kept darting downward, not at Seyla's peaceful face, but at his own lap. At the very obvious, very inconvenient situation developing beneath his loincloth.

Because she was warm. And soft. And her hair smelled like flowers and forest rain. And his body, traitor that it was, had decided this was the perfect moment to express its enthusiastic approval of the arrangement.

Seyla let out a soft sigh in her sleep, her body moving with a soft, unconscious nuzzle against his shoulder as though seeking comfort in the warmth of someone familiar.

Ao'nung closed his eyes briefly, as if in prayer for strength. Or death. Either would be acceptable.

“Aww, look,” Tuk breathed with a loud, buoyant tone, seemingly amused by the sweetness of the situation, though she did not quite catch the teasing going on. “She’s cozy.”

That words were the final straw for Lo'ak, who stifled a snort—laugh in his hand as if he was attempting to contain a sound that could possibly lead to his laughter being revealed.

For over an hour, while the flames in the fire died down and others started to make their way to their pods for the night, Ao'nung stayed completely still.

He didn't make a single movement, not a shift, not a single attempt to adjust his position. He just sat there, a stoic mountain, long—suffering, offering a steady and unwavering pillow to the forest girl who had completely driven him crazy throughout the day.

But mostly because if he moved, everyone would notice the situation he was desperately trying to hide.

Finally, Tsireya intervened with a touch of pity. She shook Seyla's other shoulder gently. "Seyla. It is time to sleep in your hammock."

Seyla jolted up from sleep completely disoriented. She blinked, realizing where her head had been moments before. She scrambled away from Ao'nung. "I am so sorry. I didn't—"

"It is fine," Ao'nung said, his voice sounding strangely hoarse. He finally started to loosen his stillness, rolling his shoulder with a barely audible groan. He stood up, avoiding everyone's eyes. "You were tired. It means nothing."

But as he turned to walk away, Lo’ak just couldn’t resist one final jab. “Hey 'Nung.”

Aonung stiffened at the sound of his name. His back straightened into a rigid column. Lo’ak’s grin grew wider and wilder. “Your 'finesse' is showing.”

Aonung’s ears folded back against his skull. A muscle in his jaw worked with obvious tension. He never turned around. Never said a single word. He merely flipped a crude gesture over his shoulder before lurching off into the night.

Seyla, still embarrassed and clueless about what was really going on, turned to Tsireya. “Is he...mad?”

The sun beat down in the afternoon, pouring its rays across the training grounds and transforming the packed sand into a sunlit expanse where the young Metkayina honed their spear skills and hand—to—hand combat techniques.

Beyond the training grounds, the lagoon shimmered like a restless mirror, and from the far side of it came the faint but familiar sounds of an ilu playing across the surface of the water on a delicate breeze.

In the midst of the center stood Aonung, spear held tightly in hand as he surveyed the young males as they carried out their spear thrusts with meticulous and well—practiced movements.

Not an official instructor by any stretch of the word, it was simply understood by everyone in the training grounds that it was a complete waste of time, and they knew better than to even question him.

He was the Olo'eyktan's son, the most skilled hunter of his age. The one everyone watched.

And you were watching him, too.

You sat perched on a fallen palm trunk at the edge of the training grounds, handwork in progress or so it seemed as you attempted to weave a small basket from palm fronds or so you pretended to be doing.

In fact, you were watching Aonung. You watched the muscles in his arms as he went through the motions of spear thrusts with precision and control in each measured movement.

You watched the small crease that formed between his eyebrows as he surveyed the young males and their efforts to mimic his actions with less precision and control.

You watched his tail lash with evident irritation as one of them made a mistake in the rhythm of their practice.

Hours dragged by before you, and you watched him with an intentness that never wavered.

And he never once looked in your direction.

Not a single glance in your direction.

You understood, in a clear and logical way, that he was focused. You understood that training was important. You understood that he had responsibilities as the future leader. You understood all of that.

But you had been sitting there for hours. In the sun. Trying to weave this basket, which was coming out lopsided no matter how hard you tried to get it straight. And he had not so much as glanced your way.

Across the training ground, a young hunter named Ka’än finished his training drill and stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow. He saw you looking over at him, but not at him specifically, just looking over at him in general, and smiled.

You smiled back at him only to be polite.

Ka’än walked over to you.

“Hot day for weaving,” Ka’än said, nodding at your basket.

You held it up. “It’s supposed to be a basket. It’s turning into... something else.”

Ka’än laughed. “Looks like a basket to me.” He sat down on the log next to you, not too close, but closer than a stranger would sit down. “You’re Aonung’s mate, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He nodded at the training ground. “He’s a good hunter, but a bit intense, isn’t he?”

You looked over at Aonung. He was still not looking at you. Still focused on the training.

Something was prickling in your chest.

"He's not always serious," you said. "He's—" You stopped in mid—sentence. What was he to you, really? Quiet. Present. His hand always finding yours in the dark. His voice whispering in your ear, saying things that no one else ever heard.

But in this moment, he was completely ignoring you.

Ka'än was continuing to talk, spinning a rough narrative about a hunt from the previous week, a fish that had gotten away, and someone who had escaped from a canoe. You laughed briefly as Ka'än paused in his story, but you weren't really listening to him, not really.

You put your basket down and stood up straight, stretching high above your head in a way that was meant to be noticeable, to get a few people to look in your direction. Aonung never glanced in your direction.

You touched Ka'än on the arm to emphasize a point you never had made, a point you never needed to make in the first place. Aonung never looked in your direction.

You leaned in a little closer to Ka'än, letting a laugh escape your lips as you talked about something else, the sound of your shoulder brushing against Ka'än's as you moved in closer.

He never looked up.

Fine.

You stood up straight then and there and decided to do something decisive. "I'm going to get water," you said aloud. "Do you want a drink while I'm up there?"

Ka'än blinked in surprise, “Uh... yeah. Sure."

You walked along the shore, making a point of choosing a path that would ensure your proximity to the training ground. Making a point of keeping yourself in Aonung's line of sight.

He was in the middle of demonstrating a grip to one of the younger boys, explaining the proper way to hold the spear in order to use it to its full potential. His back was to you, oblivious to your approach.

You came to a stop at the water's edge, and then bent down to collect a gourd. And then—

Someone's hand closed around your wrist.

Hard.

You let out a startled breath, spinning about to face the person, and found Aonung standing behind you, his dark eyes locked intently upon your face, his jaw clenched, and his tail perfectly still, as if he were the most stationary object in the world.

“Come.”

He pulled you back, away from the water, and the training ground, and Ka'än's confused face. He pulled you past the row of palm trees, past the weaving shelter, past the last place where anyone might possibly see you.

Behind a row of ancient canoes, he stopped.

He turned to face you.

The silence between the two of you stretched out

“You want to tell me” he said slowly, “what that was.”

Your heart was suddenly pounding in your ches and yo found yourself stammering out a reply, “I was getting water—

“Don’t.”

“—for Ka’än, because he was—

“Don’t,” he repeated, firmer this time.

And then you stopped, the words dying on your lips.

He took a step closer to you until he was close enough that you had to tilt your head back just to meet the line of his gaze.

“You’ve been sitting there all afternoon,” his voice was quiet, controlled. “Watching me. Waiting for me to look at you.” He took another deliberate step forward. “I was training. Focused. You know this.”

You swallowed hard. “I—

“You know I can’t look at you when I’m training. You know this.” His hand rose, fingers finding your chin. “So you found someone who would.”

“I wasn’t—

“You touched him.” His tone was flat, undeniable. “Leaned into him. Laughed for him.” His eyes searched yours. “Made sure I saw.”

Your face burned hot. “You weren’t looking anyway.”

“I’m always looking.” His thumb traced along the line of your jaw. “Always. Even when I’m training. Even when my back is turned. I know where you are. What you’re doing. Who’s near you.” He paused, “I see you.”

The words hung there between you.

"So." His head cocked a little to one side, a subtle movement that was full of weight. "What was it, really? Were you bored? Were you lonely? Did you want me to stop training and come look for you?"

You didn’t have the courage to look at him.

“Look at me.”

You looked up at last, meeting his gaze.

“Which was it, really?” he asked again, his tone soft but sharp beneath.

Your own voice was small and almost overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. “You were ignoring me.”

“I was training.”

“For hours.”

“I’m the future Olo’eyktan.” The words were simple, as if it was the answer to this whole situation. “Training is part of that. You know this.” His thumb made a slow, soothing motion against your cheek. “You’ve always known this.”

Tears prickedled in the corners of your eyes. They weren’t born of sadness so much as of a sudden, biting frustration. The blunt, uncomfortable realization that he was telling the truth.

You’d been foolish to believe what you’d believed. And now you stood there, exposed and vulnerable, out in the open with no place to hide.

Aonung looked at you for a long time, then his hand left your face to wrap around the back of your neck, a gentle touch but a firm one.

“You're sweet.” His voice was soft. “You're the sweetest thing in this village. Everyone says so. Everyone talks to you. Sits with you. Smiles at you.” His hand squeezed a little. “But sweet doesn’t mean you get to act like this.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” he cut you off. Not with anger, exactly. Not even with rage. Just with a certain kind of unwavering resolve. “You wanted my attention, and you got it. Now you’re going to remember what happens when you forget who it is you chose.”

His other hand found your hip, turning you the other way and guiding you until you were bent over the edge of the nearest canoe. The wood beneath you felt warm from the sun, soaking into your palms as you gripped the rim for support.

“Aonung—”

“Quiet.”

His hand rose,

SMACK.

The sound cut through the air, sharp and crisp. The sting that followed was even sharper. You gasped, surprised by the bite of it.

“That”, he said in a steady, even voice, “was for touching him.”

SMACK.

Another strike in the same spot. Heat bloomed along your skin where heat shouldn’t be.

“That was for leaning into him as if he mattered to you, as if his presence could somehow change your world.”

SMACK.

You whimpered, and the sound came out in a soft burst of air.

“And that.” his hand smoothes over the stinging skin, caressing the red marks, warm and almost comforting in its gentle pressure, “was for forgetting that I’m always watching.”

Your breathing came in ragged gasps, and your inhales shuddered a little, as if they trembled from inside out. You felt scorched, as if the sun itself had decided to burn you from the outside in, and your heart thumped so hard, it felt like it would burst out of your throat.

His hand remained firmly on your hip, refusing to let go.

“You’re mine.” he said firmly, but soft, in a way. “Not because I’m supposed to think that, or because I’m supposed to know that, or because I’m supposed to follow some rule or edict that says so. But because you chose me. When the day came, and I walked up to you, and told you, in no uncertain terms, that I, wanted you.”

"You remember?" he said, his voice low but with something in it that you couldn't miss.

You nodded, pressing the side of your face against the rough wood of the canoe.

"Then behave," he said, his hand rose slowly and then came down one last time, almost gentle, almost a touch or a tap on your skin. “Good girl.”

He steadied you, turning you to face him so that he could study your face. He looked at the lines you couldn't hide, the sheen in your eyes, the tremble of your lips, the flush that colored your cheeks and crept up to your ears.

His thumb brushed away a single tear that had somehow escaped you, a small and almost tender gesture that seemed out of place in what was happening.

"Are you done?"

You nodded, still catching your breath, still trying to gather in the fragments of yourself that had somehow come loose in his presence.

Aonung met your gaze again, and that was the sort of look that made you feel like you'd been seen, completely and deeply, like he could see every hidden corner of you with just one look.

And then he was moving in again, closing the space between you. The kiss was soft, gentle, and tender, nothing at all like the firm, almost commanding kiss he'd given you before.

His lips rested on yours, moving slowly and deliberately, like he had all the time in the world, like time stretched out before him and he knew he'd have every last second of it, though he knew the clock was running and the time was running out. It felt like you were the only thing in the world that was worth stopping for, worth waiting for, worth kissing like that.

Your eyes drifted shut, and your hands found his chest, your fingers tightening on the woven wrap he wore.

You put everything you couldn’t say into that kiss, the apology that was waiting, the longing that was building, the love that felt too big to speak in plain words.

Finally, he lifted his head, and your breathing was a little more rapid, in sync in the space between you.

His forehead rested on yours for a moment, quiet and still. And then his lips touched your ear, and his voice was slow,

“I have to get back. I'll come find you.”

The afternoon sunlight cast colors across Awa'atlu, its usual rhythm and life filled with the sounds of children playing in the water, women weaving palm fronds for repairs, and hunters coming back from their day's work.

Aonung stood up, hauling his spear onto the dock, water dripping from his cyan skin, and the fin—like ridges on his forearms catching the light and casting rainbow colors across the old wood.

Behind him, Rotxo and a few others were already bragging about the size of their catches, their voices loud and their laughter easy, jostling each other in a camaraderie of a successful hunt.

But Aonung did not hear them.

His eyes immediately focused on you, just as they always did. You stood near the center of the gathering, your curly hair tied back with a woven cord, laughing at something.

The arragment had happened when you were both still just children, a promise between your parents and his, one that had been sealed with words and ceremony and the blessing of Eywa herself.

Aonung had grown up knowing you would be his. And unlike some who might chafe at such a fate, Aonung had always been perfectly satisfied with it.

Because you were beautiful. You were strong. You were his.

And so the circumstances that were currently playing out before him had Aonung’s blood running hot with a mix of anger and humor at the sheer audacity of what he was witnessing.

You were talking to Raxa.

Raxa was a good hunter—Aonung would admit that much. He was broad—shouldered and had the skills of one of the best spear hunters in the Metkayina. He had a quick wit and a quicker smile and had often been known to charm the females of the group with his words and mannerisms.

He was the kind of male who thought that smooth talk and good looks might just make up for the fact that he was not the son of the Olo’eyktan, not the future leader of the Metkayina, not the mate of the future leader himself—Aonung.

The kind of man who had been foolish enough to begin circling around you like a hungry fish circling its food, all because he had been foolish enough to believe he had a chance.

Raxa’s hand rested firmly on your forearm.

His thumb had traced a slow path along the inside of your wrist, that place where the skin was thinnest and the pulse beat closest to the surface.

Raxa had leaned in closer still, his foolishly bright smile inches from your face, his lips moving to form words that Aonung had not been able to hear but had imagined easily enough.

Flattery and compliments and other such niceties that might have worked on some naive young girl, but should have had no effect on the mate of the man standing beside him.

And you—you had looked slightly puzzled, slightly uncertain.

But you had not pulled away.

Aonung’s lip curled, but it was not with jealousy, because Aonung did not feel jealousy. Aonung felt annoyance.

Annoyance that this mediocre hunter thought he had any right to claim what was rightfully to be claimed by the future Olo’eyktan. Annoyance that you were standing there, seemingly too polite or too unaware to stop this in its tracks.

Annoyance that he would soon have to remind everyone just to whom you belonged.

“Hey, Aonung.” Rotxo appeared at his side, his eyes following Aonung’s gaze. “Everything good?”

Aonung’s gaze did not move from you when he talked to his friend, “Everything’s about to be better.”

Aonung brought his spear back to rest against the dock with a loud clatter then moved slowly towards you.

He was not angry. Angry people were people who felt threatened.

Aonung was simply asserting.

You could sense him before you actually saw him. The slight, telltale shift in the crowd, the way other people's conversations seemed to stop, as if someone had hit the mute button on them all.

You turned to look at him in that instant, and his expression was what hit you squarely in the gut, making your breathing catch in your chest.

He wasn't mad. He wasn't even frowning.

He was smiling.

The slow, inexorable smile that made your stomach do flips the moment it touched the corners of his lips. The kind of smile that told you he knew something you didn't, that he was in complete control, that what was about to happen was going to happen exactly the way he wanted it to.

"Aonung." Your voice was a little shaky, as if you'd been caught off guard by surprise. "You're back early."

"I am." His eyes flicked to Raxa's hand, still on your wrist, still motionless, as if a fish trapped beneath glass had suddenly realized it couldn't swim anymore. "Having a good conversation?"

Raxa's hand dropped fast.

"Aonung." His voice was too bright, too friendly, with just a little too much of an edge to it, a little too much of an undertone to it, "Good hunt?"

"Excellent hunt." Aonung moved closer. He filled the space between you and everyone else, he claimed his space, he claimed his position, he claimed his people. "Caught more than enough to feed my family. My future family." His eyes locked on you, warm, possessive, even more so than they had been before. "My mate."

Raxa’s jaw clenched, ever so slightly, as if he were struggling not to react. “Right. Of course. Well, I was just—”

“You were just leaving,” Aonung said, the smile never wavering from his face. “Weren’t you?”

For an instant, something flickered in Raxa’s eyes, maybe frustration, or possibly pride, but he was not stupid enough to try and push the issue with Aonung.

“Right. Yes. Leaving.” Raxa took a step back, then turned and disappeared into the crowd of people.

You watched him go, then turned back to Aonung. “What was that?”

Aonung's eyes locked on yours, "That was me stopping him from putting his hands on what's mine."

"’What's mine’?” The words burst from you, shocked and a little bit rebellious. "Aonung, we were talking—"

"Just talking." His words were laced with sarcasm and disgust. "He was touching you. Stroking your wrist. Leaning into you. Making it very clear what he wants."

"He was asking about his mother's ceremonial weave—"

Aonung chuckled again, the sound louder this time, filling the room with the rough heat of it. "His mother's weave." His words dripped with disdain, and he shook his head, as though considering you. "You really are blind."

"I'm not blind—"

"Then what do you call it?" His face was close to yours, the space between you shrinking as he stepped forward, looming over you. "He's been circling you for months. Every time I turn around, he's there. Touching you. Finding ways to get close to you. And you stand there, smiling at him as though he deserves it."

"I'm polite, Aonung. I'm not going to be rude to people—"

"Polite." The word dripped with disbelief, a sour echo in his voice. "You call it polite. I call it something else."

"What do you call it?"

"I call it entertaining them." His voice rose, turning into a scalding line of sound. "I call it letting them think they have a chance. I call it standing there looking beautiful while they put their hands on you, and doing nothing to stop it."

Your temper flared, a flame snapping to life inside you. "I don't have to stop anything. I'm not your property—"

"No." He cut you off, stepping closer still, his presence swallowing the space between you. "You're not property. You're my mate. My promised mate. The woman I'm going to spend my life with, provide for, protect." His eyes blazed with a heat that felt almost palpable. "The woman who stands there smiling at other males while I watch."

"I was just—"

"You were just letting him touch you." His voice cracked with emotion. “You were just standing there while he stroked your wrist. You were just being polite while he imagined what it would be like to have you."

"You don't know what he was imagining—"

"I know exactly what he was imagining." Aonung's fists were clenched at his sides. "Because I know what we think when we look at you. I know what we want." He clenched his jaws. "And you just let him stand there and want you. Right in front of me."

Your heart was pounding. "I didn't let him do anything—"

"You didn't stop him." Aonung's voice had dropped to a whisper, but it was more dangerous that way. "That's the same thing. You didn't pull away. You didn't tell him to leave. You just stood there, being polite, while he touched what's mine."

"I'm not yours yet."

"Soon." The word was sharp and cutting. "Very soon. And until then, you're still mine. You've always been mine. Since we were children. Everyone knows it. Including Raxa." He stepped closer, forcing you to look at him with a hold of your chin. "Including you."

You stood your ground. "You can't just—"

"I can." He glared at you with burning eyes. "I'm the future Olo'eyktan. I can provide for you. Everything you need. Food. Shelter. Protection. A home. Children. A life." He moved closer still. "I can give you anything you want. Anything you could possibly need."

"I know that—"

"Then why?" The question was sharp, demanding. "Why do you let them close? Why do you let them touch you? Why do you stand there smiling at males who want to take what's mine when I'm right here, ready to give you everything?"

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"You know damn well I can provide for you." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Everything you need. And more. So much more than any of them could ever dream of giving you." He tilted his head, studying your face. "So why? Why do you waste your time on them? Why do you hand out those smiles like they cost nothing?"

"They do cost nothing—"

"To you, maybe." He shook his head slowly. "To them, they're invitations. Hope. Permission to keep trying. Permission to touch." His eyes hardened. "You're a brat."

The words hit like a slap.

“Excuse me?”

"A brat," he repeated, the word soft and singular, as though tasting it again. "A beautiful, oblivious brat who stands there while hunters stroke her wrist, and her mate watches. A brat who smiles at everyone as though they matter, as though she doesn't know exactly what she's doing."

"I don't—"

"You do." His hand wrapped around your wrist, though not tight, though firm. His thumb touched the same spot where Raxa had touched you. "Right here. He touched you right here. Stroked you right here. And you just let him. Just let him put his hands on you as though he had any right to at all."

He shook his head slowly, and a half—smile played on the corners of his mouth. “You’re lucky I find it endearing.”

“Endearing?”

“Very,” he said, and then he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the end of your nose. “Annoying, but endearing. Because, at the end of the day, you’re still here. Still mine. Still about to get exactly what you’ve been needing.” His hands moved with a confident touch, down to your thighs and then lifting you with ease. “What I’ve been waiting to give you.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, and he groaned approvingly.

"Good girl." He carried you toward the furs, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. "Now let me show you exactly what providing means."

The kiss broke only long enough for him to pull back and drink you in, his cyan gaze raking over your flushed face, the elegant curve of your throat, the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath the thin beaded top. A

“You tremble already, paskalin.” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, laced with that canonical smugness that made your heart stutter even as it infuriated you.

One large, calloused hand slid up your side, tracing the delicate curve of your ribs with surprising gentleness, then cupped the side of your breast through the fabric. His thumb brushed over the hardening peak, sending sparks straight to your core. “And I haven’t even started. already so needy for me, aren't you?”

You tried to arch into his touch, seeking more, but he pinned your hip down with his other palm, his fingers splaying wide and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted. The control was effortless for him.

“Patience.” he drawled, the word dripping with fondness, his lips curling into that infuriating half—smirk. “You’ve been teasing me all night with those smiles for lesser. Now you’ll wait for what I give you. And you’ll thank me for it.”

He shifted his weight, settling fully between your thighs, the hard, throbbing length of him pressing against your core through the frustrating layers. His expression softening just a fraction as he rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding against you with just enough pressure to drag a soft, involuntary whimper from your lips.

“Mmm..”

“There it is,” he breathed against your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive tip in a way that made you shiver. His breath was warm, scented with salt and sea, and he nipped lightly at the shell before soothing it with his tongue. “That’s the sound I’ve been craving since I saw that skxawng’s fingers on your skin. Pathetic little moans, all for me.”

His hands moved with confident purpose now, those long fingers hooking under the ties of your top and tugging them free. The beads clattered softly as the fabric fell away, exposing your breasts to the cool night air of the marui.

Your nipples pebbled instantly under his gaze, and Ao’nung groaned at the sight. “Eywa, you’re beautiful,” he admitted, almost reverently, his arrogance giving way to a rare moment of awe as he traced the glowing freckles across your chest with his fingertips.

But the tenderness was fleeting. His mouth descended hot and wet, sucking one peak between his lips while his fingers rolled and pinched the other with just enough edge to make it sting sweetly.

He wasn’t gentle. Teeth grazed your sensitive skin, his tongue flicking in sharp, teasing circles before soothing with slow, languid laps. You writhed beneath him, hands fisting in his thick braids, pulling just hard enough to earn a pleased grunt from him.

“Ao’nung—please,” you moaned, your voice breaking into a breathy “Mmmh..” as he switched sides, lavishing the same ruthless attention on your neglected breast.

Every time you arched too high, chasing the heat of his mouth, he pressed you back down, controlling the rhythm, the depth, the everything. It was so him. Dominant, teasing, making you earn every scrap of pleasure.

When your hips bucked instinctively, seeking friction against the rigid heat of him, he lifted his head, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. Strands of his braids fell forward, framing his sharp features.

“No,” he said simply, his voice a low command. “Not yet, you greedy thing. You’ll come when I decide you’re ready.”

He kissed down your stomach then, slow and worshipful, his lips leaving glowing trails where his bioluminescence brushed against yours in soft, intimate sparks.

Open—mouthed presses lingered on the soft plane of your belly, his tongue dipping into the divot of your navel, making you gasp. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending fresh waves of need pooling between your thighs.

When he reached the ties of your loincloth, he paused, looking up at you through those thick, dark lashes, his expression a perfect blend of smug possession and tender heat.

“Say it,” he demanded, his fingers tracing the edge of the fabric but refusing to untie it, teasing the sensitive skin beneath.

You swallowed hard, your voice shaky with want. “Say… what?”

“That you’re mine.” His touch ghosted lower, brushing just shy of where you ached most. “That no one else touches you like this. That no one else gets to see you fall apart.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“Mm, you can go louder.”

“I’m yours, Ao’nung! Only yours…”

His answering grin was feral. With one sharp tug, the loincloth came free, the cool air hitting your slick, heated folds and drawing a sharp gasp from you.

He spread your thighs wider with his broad shoulders, settling between them like he belonged there—and he did, didn’t he? His gaze fixed on your exposed core.

The first stroke of his tongue was pure devastation, broad and flat, dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, slow pull that had your back bowing off the furs. “

“Ao’nung!” you cried, the sound high and needy. He pinned your hips down again with one forearm, holding you open and helpless for him.

He ate you like a man starved, no teasing flicks at first, just deep, hungry licks that filled the marui with obscene wet sounds, his tongue delving into every fold, tasting you thoroughly.

When your thighs started quaking around his ears, he zeroed in on your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue in tight, precise patterns before sucking gently, then harder, until your hands were clawing at his scalp and broken moans spilled from your lips.

“Yes—oh Eywa, Mmmph!”

He pulled back right as the coil in your belly tightened to the brink of snapping, leaving you throbbing and empty.

“Ao’nung—please, I was so close—” you sobbed, tears pricking your eyes from the denial.

“Not yet,” he said, kissing the trembling inside of your thigh, his teeth grazing just enough to mark without breaking skin. “You don’t get to come until I say. That’s what brats like you learn the hard way.”

He did it twice more, built you to the shattering edge with his relentless mouth and those thick fingers, two curling inside you to stroke that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, his thumb rubbing your clit in maddening circles.

Each time, he stopped just before release, leaving you writhing, begging with whimpers. “Please, Ao’nung… I need it, please!”

By the third denial, you were trembling all over, tears slipping down your cheeks as you babbled incoherently. “I can’t—too much—mmm..”

He rose over you then, his own arousal evident in the way his cock twitched against his thigh. He’d shed his loincloth at some point, and now it hung heavy between you—azure skin veined and ridged, thicker at the base, the tip glistening with precum that beaded and dripped.

He fisted himself once, twice, smearing the slickness, his eyes locked on yours with that canonical intensity, arrogant yet achingly tender.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Your eyes met his, wide and pleading.

“You feel this?” He notched the broad head at your entrance, pushing in one slow, relentless inch. The stretch was exquisite agony, burning sweetly as your walls fluttered around him, unused to the invasion. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry.

“This is what I give you,” he groaned, sinking deeper, inch by torturous inch. “Only me. No hunter. No worthless male who thinks he can touch what’s mine.” Halfway in, he paused, letting you feel every ridge, every throb, his forehead pressing to yours as he breathed you in. “Say it again”

“Yours,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks on his skin. “Only yours—oh fuck, Ao’nung~”

He thrust the rest in one smooth, claiming stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out sharply, the fullness overwhelming, stretching you perfectly, like you were made for this, for him.

He stilled for a moment, his massive frame shuddering above you, forehead still against yours in a rare, fluffy gesture of connection, his breath mingling with yours, his tail curling possessively around your leg.

“So tight,” he groaned, voice wrecked with pleasure. “Squeezing me like you never want me to leave. Made for me, aren’t you?”

Then he moved, slow at first, long, dragging strokes that let you feel every inch pulling out, every ridge claiming you anew as he sank back in. Each time he bottomed out, he ground against your clit, rolling his hips in tight, sinful circles that made pleasure spike sharp and bright, drawing out more whimpers “Mmm~ right there!”

Your legs wrapped around his waist tighter; he hooked one over his elbow, opening you wider, allowing him to hit deeper, sweeter angles. The pace built gradually, harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing with his low, animalistic grunts and your escalating moans.

“Ohh..Aonung, please!”

His tail lashed behind him, wrapping around your calf in a fluffy, possessive hold, grounding you both as the rhythm turned relentless.

When your walls started fluttering wildly around him, signaling your impending release, he slowed just enough to edge you both, his smirk returning even through his labored breaths.

“Not yet,” he snarled against your throat, teeth scraping in a love bite that would bruise beautifully. “You take what I give, remember? Hold it for me, be good.”

But he couldn’t hold back forever. He flipped you suddenly, pulling out only long enough to manhandle you onto your stomach with that effortless strength, then tugged your hips up into a submissive arch.

He entered you from behind in one brutal, perfect thrust, deeper than before, hitting spots that made you see white—hot stars.

One hand planted between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned and arched just right, the other gripped your hip, fingers digging in with bruising force as he set a punishing pace.

“Mine,” he snarled with every snap of his hips. The angle was merciless, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in rhythmic “Uh, uh,uh” moans.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles that matched his rhythm. “Come for me,” he commanded finally, his voice breaking with his own nearing edge. “Come on my cock, little one. Let me feel you milk me—show me you’re mine.”

The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, violent, all-consuming, your walls clamping down in pulsing waves as you screamed his name.

“Ao’nung—yes, oh Eywa~!” Sobs tore from your throat, tears streaming as pleasure bordered on pain from the intensity.

He fucked you through it, slower but deeper, drawing out every aftershock until you were shaking, oversensitive and whimpering “Too much—”

But he didn’t stop, his fingers gentling on your clit, petting insistently to build you up again even as your body trembled.

“Too much?” He leaned over you, his sweat—slick chest pressing to your back, lips at your ear in a hot whisper. “You can take more. You will take more—for me. My good girl, my perfect girl.”

The second orgasm hit sharper, shorter, a fresh wave ripping a choked moan from you as you clenched around him again. Only then did he let go, a few more erratic thrusts, deep and claiming, before he buried himself to the hilt, hips flush against yours.

His cock pulsed hot and thick inside you, spilling in long, heavy ropes of cum that filled you utterly, the creampie warm and possessive, marking you from within. His groan was long and broken, almost pained.

He stayed draped over you, breathing ragged against your neck, his hand sliding up to intertwine with yours in a surprisingly soft gesture amid the afterglow.

After a long, shared moment, he softened enough to pull out slowly, both of you hissing at the sensation, his release trickling down your thighs in a beautiful, messy reminder.

The marui was still, its stillness almost palpable, except for the soft, rhythmic lapping of the water against the stilts that held the shack aloft, and the distant, haunting song of some night creature out there beyond the reef.

Moonlight filtered through the walls of woven material, spilling through the gaps, forming intricate, lacy patterns on the floor, on the sleeping mats, and on you, as if tracing the outline of your body.

You sat there, with your back against the curve of the wall close to the entrance, knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped around them.

The position was uncomfortable, uncomfortably so for several hours, yet with every surge of the need to lie down, to give in to the tiredness that pulled at your limbs, you told yourself to wait just a little longer. He’ll be back any moment, just a few more minutes.

The hunting party had slipped away at first light, leaving the world still and pale as dawn. The moon, meanwhile, hung high and bright in the sky.

Your eyes burned with fatigue. Your head was heavy on your neck, a dull, persistent pressure that made it feel as though it might tilt forward and nod in surrender every few seconds.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d jolted upright in a start, heart hammering in your chest, convinced you’d heard his voice drifting from outside.

Each time, it proved only the wind. Only the lapping of water. Only your own stubborn, hopeful imagination.

Your mate, Your Aonung, out there on the dark water somewhere, while you remained here, stubbornly awake, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but wait.

He’d return, you told yourself for the hundredth time. He always comes back.

But the certainty of knowing and the certainty of feeling were two different things altogether.

Your eyes fluttered shut yet again. Your head began to droop. Your body sank against the wall, heavy and weary—

And this time, you did not wake.

The scratch of the canoe against the dock didn’t penetrate your tired mind as you lay there, its sound blending in with the soft whisper of water over stone. Neither did the creaking of the woven floor beneath your weight, nor the soft murmur of voices as the hunting party found their own quiet places.

The way the entrance flap closed, followed by an immediate stillness as the figure that had slipped inside disappeared from the light of the lanterns. None of these things broke through to your tired mind.

It wasn’t until you felt the warmth of those hands on you, one reaching behind your back to support you, the other reaching under your knees to lift you from the rough wall with a gentleness that didn’t quite match the calloused, webbed look of those fingers... that you finally began to come awake.

“Mmm?” The noise left your lips as you spoke, soft and undefined and full of sleep.

“Shh.” The voice came to you, rough and tired but with something softer beneath it.

Your need to argue, to disagree, grew inside you, a small, insistent voice telling you to open your eyes, to look again at his face, full and real, in the present moment.

But your body did not listen to that voice, did not respond to the need to see, to look away, to escape, but instead surrendered to the warmth that surrounded you like a fire burning steadily, burning with a heat that spread from his chest, to the curve of your own body, holding you gently against his will.

He carried you towards his sleeping place, and you knew where you were being taken by the smell of his skin, of everything in his space, the smell of salt, of sun, of something uniquely Aonung.

The mat was soft, conforming to your weight as he put you down with deliberate intent, but before you could feel the comfort of his warmth, dissipate, you were surrounded again, wrapped in warmth as he put his body behind you, his chest against your back, his arm snuggly around your waist.

“Missed you,” you mumbled, the words spilling out of you, in a haze of sleep, of warmth, of happiness.

His arm tightened around you, bringing you closer. His lips brushed the back of your head in a quiet kiss. "I missed you too. Go back to sleep, yeah? We’ll spend the morning together when you wake up.”

And you do. You fall back asleep as if you never woke at all.

Daybreak came slowly, filtering through the woven walls in soft, warm hues of gold and pink. It seeped into the space, illuminating even the mundane with a soft, golden light.

Gradually, piece by piece, you became aware of the world around you. The warmth on your back, strong and unambiguously male. An arm across your waist, a hand across your stomach, fingers sometimes twitching in sleep. A soft, even breathing against your hair.

Aonung.

Memory began to seep back into your mind, the waiting, the exhaustion, the relief of the moment that he had found you. He had gone out, had come back. He was here. He was alive, present, wrapped around you as if you were the only precious thing in the world to him.

A small, secret smile played on your lips, and you began to shift towards him.

The arm across your waist tightened, holding you closer.

“Stay.” His voice was rough from sleep, deep and vibrating against your back. “Too early,” he said. He would not rise.

“The sun is up,” you whispered back.

“The sun can wait,” he said. He pulled you closer, if that was even possible, fitting you against him like puzzle pieces. His nose pressed into your hair, inhaling deeply. “You smell like home.”

A warmth spread through your chest. “I’ve been in your marui all night. I just smell like you.”

“Good.” he said, kissing the top of your hair. “You should always smell like me.”

You laughed softly, the sound muffled by the quiet of the alcove. Outside, you could hear the village waking by distant voices, the splash of someone diving into the water, the call of an ilu. But in here, there was only the two of you.

His hand had moved slightly on your stomach, fingers spreading a little as they settled, brushing softly against the fabric of your top.

"You were pressed up against the wall," he murmured, voice still half—asleep, as if the morning moment had barely begun to wake him. "When I came in. Your posture was so upright. Fighting to stay awake."

"Mmm," you replied, a soft sound with little real intent.

"How long?" he asked, curious and sleepy at once.

"Dunno. A few hours, maybe," you offered, uncertain.

His arm tightened around you a touch,"Stubborn woman."

"Your stubborn woman," you retorted, half—teasing.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, a mix of approval, possession, and something darker that made a small shiver run along your spine. "Yes. Mine."

Then his lips found the back of your neck, landing a kiss on the sensitive skin there. It was a series of kisses, each slower than the last, until you found yourself pressing back against him almost involuntarily, drawn toward that warmth and heat that he offered so easily.

"Aonung." The name slipped from you, breathier than you had intended.

He hummed softly against your skin, seemingly satisfied with your response. His hand on your stomach began to move, slowly, lazily, in circles, his fingers drawing small patterns on the thin fabric that lay over your skin. He wasn’t in a hurry.

“I thought of you,” he said, “Out there, under that huge sky that never changed,” every night he found himself on the ground, his feet solidly rooted, looking up at the stars. He thought of the long journey back home, back to you, back to this moment, back to the two of you together.

“I thought of coming home to you. About this.”

His hand stirred almost silently, lifting slightly, the tips of his fingers brushing the tender underside of your breast before falling back down to rest on your stomach.

What a tease.

“This?” you managed to say.

“This.” He leaned in closer, letting his body settle against yours so that you could feel him. He was pressed against your back in full, his thick length a steady pressure that thrummed with need, grinding softly into the curve of your rear. “Waking up with you. Holding you. Touching you.”

He let his mouth drift back to your neck, tracing the familiar lines along your shoulder with those soft, lingering kisses that made your skin tingle.

Each kiss was a small, deliberate press of lips, then the warm, deliberate flick of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin as though he could never quite get enough.

“I thought about a lot of things,” he admitted, his voice low and close to your ear.

Your breath caught in your chest, the sudden stoppage of air to your lungs for a moment or two. “Like what?” you managed to get out, your voice already beginning to change, to grow husky with need, your body arching back toward him, craving more of that solid, undeniable heat.

His hand went again, slower this time, more patient. His fingers lingered at the waistband of your loincloth, tracing it with careful, nuanced strokes, dipping just beneath it before withdrawing, every movement building that need, that longing, until you were squirming against him, needing more.

He was teasing you, and it was almost torture, as if he was learning every inch of skin within reach. He was savoring the closeness, the unspoken invitation in your posture.

“Like the sounds you make,” he murmured softly against your shoulder, a warmth there that made your skin prickle. “When I touch you here—” His fingers found the bare skin of your hip, gliding along its curve, stroking with light, teasing pressure that sent shivers racing up your spine.

“And here—” He slid his hand lower, skimming the top of your thigh, the touch faint but persistent, inching closer to your core with maddening slowness, “And especially here,” he whispered as his hand slipped between your thighs, not quite where you wanted, but pressing against the inside of your leg.

you gasped, your hips involuntarily twitching toward his hand, meeting the sensation with a wary, eager need, your body begging for more as wetness gathered between your legs.

“Someone’s eager,” he breathed, and you could hear the smile in his voice, a hint of satisfaction curling at the corners of his words.

“Someone’s been gone for three days,” you shot back, your voice a touch unsteady, betraying more than you intended.

“Missed me that much?”

“Shut up.”

He let out a soft chuckle as his fingers started to trace along the edge of your loincloth, then slipped underneath it.

The rough pads of his fingertips brushed against your swollen folds, parting them with a steady, almost patient pressure to reveal the slick, heated entrance that waited for him.

He exhaled a soft groan against your neck, a raw yet tender sound, as he circled your clit with feather—light coaxing at first, gathering your rising arousal before guiding one thick digit deep inside you, slowly, so you could feel every inch.

You gasped, louder this time, instinctively bending your top leg forward just enough to grant him more room, allowing his hand to move more freely from behind.

“Aonung—”

“I’m right here,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire yet somehow tender at the same time, his lips brushing softly against your ear in a tender, lingering kiss.

“I’m not going anywhere” He added a second finger, then a third. As he moved with a measured, deliberate rhythm, each thrust curled inside you to caress that delicate, sensitive spot again and again.

Meanwhile, his thumb pressed firm, soothing circles on your clit. His arm remained securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you snugly against his chest as his hips began to move with a subtle, rocking motion behind you. His hard length pressed and thrummed against your backside in time with every thrust of his fingers.

He nuzzled your hair, kissing your temple, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb teasing your nipple in lazy circles that matched his thrusts below.

You moaned, needy and unrestrained, as his fingers crooked harder, hitting that spot relentlessly, pressure building like a storm. Your hips bucked back against his hand desperately, thighs quivering, head rolling onto his shoulder as you squeezed your eyes shut.

His lips latched onto your neck’s pulse point with open—mouthed kisses, sucking a faint mark. “That’s it,” he whispered huskily “Let me hear you. Let go, my beautiful girl.”

You whimpered in response, thhe walls seemed to pulse in response to his fingers, bending and bending again as wave after wave of release washed over you.

Aonung kept his fingers inside a little longer, giving slow, gentle curls until the last tremors eased. He pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, smirking against your skin. “Still shaking. Cute.”

You huff out a weak laugh, turning your face into the warmth of his neck. “Shut up… you did that.”

“Yeah, I did.” His voice is low, full of confidence, but the arm around your waist is tender, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles on your hip. He shifts your position until you’re both facing one another, legs tangled together, noses almost touching.

For a minute you just breathed together. Dawn light was creeping brighter through the woven walls, soft gold now, warming the marui. Outside, the first splashes and low voices of the village starting the day drifted in, but in here it still felt quiet, just the two of you.

You traced a finger along one of the tattoo lines on his chest. “You smell like the reef again. Missed that.”

He caught your hand, brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. “You smell like me now. Good trade.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “Skxawng.”

“Your skxawng.” He shifted a little, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you properly. “You okay?”

You shook your head, scooting closer until your forehead bumped his. “No… want more. Just… slow, okay?”

His smirk widened, eyes glinting. “Slow I can do.” He leaned in, kissed you once, hen again, deeper but still unhurried. When he pulled back he murmured, “Roll over for me.”

You did, settling on your back while he rose over you. The mat dipped under his weight as he braced on his forearms, thighs bracketing yours, tail curling loosely around your ankle again. He looked smug as hell already, eyes flicking down your body, then back to your face like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Legs up,” he said, voice low. You hooked them around his hips without thinking. He reached down, gripped himself, rubbed the thick head along your slick folds a few times, teasing your clit until you whimpered and hips twitched.

“Aonung..”

“Patience,” he said, still smirking. Then he pressed in just the tip. The stretch made you gasp, walls fluttering around him immediately.

You bit your lip, hands sliding to his shoulders. “Slow… please…”

He sank in another inch, slow and careful. “I heard you.” Another inch. The ridges dragged perfectly, making you whine. “But you’re taking it so well already. Look at that.”

“Aonung, slower—”

He paused halfway, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear. “It’s okay. Take it.” His voice was smug, teasing, but he kept the pace controlled, deep, measured rolls after that, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in, grinding against that spot inside every time he bottomed out.

You whimpered louder, nails digging into his back. “It’s.. too much—”

“Too much?” He chuckled low, hips rocking steady. “You’re dripping all over me. You love it.” He shifted his angle just a little, deeper, and you cried out softly, legs tightening around him.

“Fuck, Aonung—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, smug grin flashing before he kissed you again, swallowing the next whimper. One hand braced by your head, the other slipped between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles. “Come on, let me hear you. No one’s close enough to listen.”

You moaned against his mouth, hips lifting to meet each thrust. “Feels so good… don’t stop..”

“Wasn’t planning to.” He picked up the intensity just enough, still slow, but harder snaps at the end of each stroke, making the wet slap of skin echo quietly. “Gonna make you come again. Want to feel you squeeze me like before.”

You nodded frantically, voice breaking into whimpers with every thrust. “Yes, please Aonung, gonna—”

He ground deep, thumb pressing harder on your clit, and you broke, high, shaky moan of his name as your walls clamped down, pulsing hard around his cock, release gushing slick over him.

He groaned, thrusts stuttering as he followed, burying himself fully and spilling hot inside you, hips grinding through it until you both shuddered to a stop.

The rock was surprisingly warm.

Quaritch sank down onto one knee, his chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths. The breaths were painful, each one a reminder of the struggle he’d just gone through, of the cracked ribs, of the burned skin.

His left arm was still, hanging limply by his side, useless. Spider's bullet had done its work, a bullet probably meant more for his heart, but finding its way through the bicep instead. The blood was warming as it ran down his arm, pooling, then running down onto the rock beneath him.

On his chest, across his shoulders, the red Ash markings stood out, once bright, but dulled by the new wounds, by the scorch marks, by the signs of a battle he’d already lost, a battle he’d never really had a chance of winning.

Across from him, not ten feet away, Jake Sully also knelt, dropping down to the same ground, under the same weight, with the same strain written across his body, the same exhaustion bearing down upon him as well.

And between the two of them, the same boy lay upon the ground, Spider, out upon the rough surface of it, his breathing shallow, his cough struggling to come out through the stiffness of his chest.

The kid was a step away from tumbling over the edge of collapse, was a step away from giving in to the overwhelming pull of exhaustion and fear.

And would have, would have given in, were it not for the swift, instinctive intervention of each of the men.

Were it not for Quaritch's ability to reach him first, with his steady, uncompromising shot arm, were it not for his holding onto him even as the world spun around him, even as pain spiked through him—because there are some things you do not let go of, some things you hold onto, no matter what.

Jake's hand was still upon the boy's shoulder, a steady, almost instinctive touch. It was protective, a shield, a shield he offered without thought or question.

It was possessive, a claim, a claim he made upon the boy, upon this vulnerable life in the midst of their harsh, uncertain world, as if he were saying, in a way, that this boy, this vulnerable life, belonged.

Quaritch's hand was still on Spider's wrist. The left one. The one that didn't work right anymore. The one the kid had put a bullet through maybe an hour ago, maybe less, time was funny now.

When he'd had Quaritch at crossbow point and Quaritch had said you wouldn't shoot me and Spider had looked him dead in the eye and pulled the trigger anyway.

Little bastard, Quaritch thought. You actually did it.

And I still caught you.

For a moment, just a moment, neither of them moved.

Quaritch examined Spider, drinking in the boy’s profile, turned away and hidden from view. But the Lieutenant could feel it, the shaking of Spider’s shoulders, the quick breathing that punctuated the boy’s frightened state.

He could feel the kid was scared. Not of the ground giving way beneath his feet, but of what came next.

Fair enough. Quaritch was scared too. Not that he'd ever say it

Then heavy sound of ikran wings beating through the air suddenly. The slight but unmistakable shift of weight on the stone above them.

Quaritch did not raise his eyes to the source of the noise. He didn’t need to. He could feel them approaching as surely as a change in the atmosphere, as surely as if a storm were brewing, as surely as if he stood in the center of a field, waiting for the gunfire to break out, knowing only that they were outnumbered and outgunned, and the only question being how quickly it would be over.

Neytiri.

Quaritch, in that moment, had learned what hate could do to a person. He had earned it, and he had killed for it to prove a point, to gain the power he thought it would grant.

He raised his head, and the moment hung suspended.

There she stood, perched on the ridge above them, a dark figure against a gray sky filled with smoke. Her bow was drawn, the arrow nocked and steady, and it was aimed directly at his face, not his chest, but his face, because she wanted to see the moment of his death in the eyes of her enemy.

Behind her, the Sully children were moving, their weapons raised, their teeth bared in fierce intent. But he didn’t bother to look at them. He didn’t need to. They were just more arrows, more blades, more reasons for this confrontation to end the only way it could.

Neytiri’s lip curled, and from her throat came a sound, the kind of sound a mother makes when she finally has the object of her rage in her sights. It came from deep in her chest and climbed up through her teeth, a living thing made of hate and fire.

Another sound came from her throat, low and animalistic, a sound of hate, the kind of sound that would have made a younger Quaritch laugh in arrogance and fear.

But it didn’t make him laugh now.

Quaritch had killed her son.

And he had gone on fighting anyway, because of the nature of how he lived, because of who he was, a weapon that just did not know how to stop—

And here she was, standing over him, an arrow nocked and drawn, grief stretched taut as a string, The woman whose boy he'd put in the ground, standing over him with death in her hands and finally, finally, the chance to make it even.

Ain't this a bitch, he thought, and almost laughed with the irony of it all.

Her hand was trembling, not with fear, but with desire. She wanted to release the arrow, wanted to watch it fly. Wanted to see his eyes when it hit.

Quaritch turned to Jake.

Jake met his gaze with an even steadiness, a steadiness that barely concealed the shaking beneath.

The two men froze, locked in place for a long moment. Jake was half—sitting, his weight balanced on the rock beneath him. His hand rested on top of Spider, and his other hand pressed against the rock, as if he could barely manage to stay put, to stay on the rock, to stay alive.

For a long second, neither of them moved. Jake was half—collapsed on the rock, one hand still on Spider, the other braced against the stone like he could barely hold himself up. His chest heaved. Blood streaked his face.

Whose, Quaritch didn't know. His own? One of his kids? Didn't matter. What mattered was the look in his eyes.

Exhaustion. Pure, bone—deep exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion you feel after fighting the same war for sixteen long years. The kind of exhaustion you feel after losing a son. The kind of exhaustion you feel after watching the people you love come perilously close to death a dozen times, and still, somehow, having to get up and do it again.

Quaritch knew this expression. He saw it in the mirror every day of his life since he woke up in this blue body.

For a fleeting second, something passed between them. Not understanding. Not forgiving. Just..recognition.

Two soldiers, at the end of a very long war, holding the same boy, gazing at one another through ten feet of blood—warm rock.

Jake’s head turned. He looked up at his mate. He saw the arrow trained on the man facing him. He felt, in a very real way, the hatred in her eyes.

“Neytiri.” His voice was weak. Raw. Hoarse. Barely audible. “Wait.”

She made a soft hiss in response. The arrow didn’t waver by even an inch.

Jake tried again. Louder this time. “Wait.”

Quaritch examined her face, studying the complex mix of emotions playing across her features. He saw the hate, certainly, but he saw a great grief and a need struggling beneath the surface, working in her mind as she calculated the potential outcomes of her actions.

Could she get off the shot? Would the arrow strike Spider? Did she even care about the potential consequences?

He understood her in a burst of clarity. She would take the risk. She would risk him, if it came down to it.

The figure of Spider lay on the ground between them, vulnerable and in the direct line of fire. If Neytiri took the shot, the trajectory of the arrow would carry it over Quaritch’s head, or through it, and Spider would be in the line of fire of the potential consequences of her actions.

He would be right behind him, close enough to be in the direct line of fire of her potential miss. Close enough to be in the direct line of fire of her potential success, in which the arrow would strike true, but strike something or someone else in the process.

Perhaps she no longer cared about anything except the edge of her grief. Perhaps the grief had consumed her to the point where she only cared about acting, about doing what she could, regardless of the potential cost to herself or to those around her.

Quaritch could not fault her for it. He’d killed her boy.

He looked down at Spider again. The kid’s face was turned upwards, drinking in the sight of Neytiri, then Jake, then him, those human eyes, his eyes, full of fear and confusion and something else he couldn’t quite define.

It wasn’t funny. None of this was funny. But something inside of him just gave way anyway, something that might have developed into a laugh under different circumstances, in a different body, in a different world where he wasn’t kneeling on a rock with a bullet in his arm and a dead boy’s mother holding an arrow to his face.

Spider looked at him. Jake looked at him. Even the arrow seemed to pause in its flight, as if unsure of what to do next.

Quaritch looked back back at Neytiri. At the arrow. At the unshakeable knowledge of what would come next.

Maybe she would strike. Maybe she would strike the boy. Either way, someone would die. Either way, this family would keep bleeding. Either way, the cycle would keep turning—kill for kill, a son for a son—until there was nothing left but ash.

He thought about Varang. About the Mangkwan. About the alliance he'd built and the woman he'd—what? Loved? Used? Both? Neither? He didn't know anymore.

Everything was too tangled, too confusing, too much. He thought of the fire clan and their rituals and their hatred and their weird, beautiful brutality. He thought of the way Varang had looked at him as though he were something worthwhile, something worth holding onto.

He thought about Spider. About pulling him from that burning ship. About watching him grow up feral and blue and his in ways he couldn't explain. About the moment the kid shot him and he'd felt—what? Pride? Anger? Love? All of it? None of it?

He found his mind wandering, his thoughts turning to the idea of death.

Of what it would mean to really be dead. Of rising back from the edge of that, damaged, changed, and then spending every single day of his life since then trying to kill the same damn blue bastard who continued to evade him, time and time again.

He thought of the fire below him. Of the way the smoke rose up, the molten lava sparkling, and the endless void that awaited him at the bottom, patiently, inexorably, waiting for him.

Well.

Quaritch looked over at Spider one last time. The kid’s face, so young, so reckless, so his, contorted with something that could have been fear, or could have been hope. He couldn’t tell which. And honestly, he didn’t really care.

He turned his gaze to Jake. Their eyes met, and in the brief instant that they did, he saw something there that he could not quite place, recognition, perhaps.

A quiet understanding between two men who had fought too long, who had bled too much, and who had somehow managed to end up here, on this burning rock, both with the same boy.

And then his gaze turned to Neytiri. He met her gaze, and the point of the arrow between them, and what he saw there was a fire of hatred, a level of grief, a mother’s unyielding desire to see him dead.

He smiled, slow and easy, like he had just figured the punchline to the longest joke he had ever been told.

“Well,” Quaritch said loudly enough so that every single one of them could hear it, “ain’t this a bitch.”

He hovered there for a moment, maybe two, Spider’s wrist slipping from his grasp, Jake reaching out towards nothing at all, and then he let go, and Spider was being pulled up onto the rock higher by Jake’s frantic grasp, and Quaritch began to fall.

The wind tore at him, merciless and unforgiving. Below him, the fire blazed even more fiercely, leaping and popping as if it craved more fuel.

He saw the floating mountain recede into the distance, dwindling to nothingness as he watched, while the silhouettes of Neytiri and Jake and Spider grew larger and more indistinct as they merged with the suffocating smoke. And yet, he felt nothing. Not a thing.

He should have stayed dead the first time.

The thought rose to mind on a column of heat and smoke as the flames engulfed him.

Fuck it.

The flames engulfed him, whole and without quarter.

Pain came first.

Not the sharp kind—he knew sharp. Bullets were sharp. Knives were sharp. This was something else. This was deep, down in the bones, the kind of pain that lived in the marrow and breathed with him.

Every heartbeat pushed it through his veins like hot oil. Every breath pulled it tighter around his ribs until he wasn't sure if the next one would come at all.

His left hand.

There was something terribly, terribly wrong with his left hand.

He shifted to test it, to prod it into working, but nothing came of it. Instead, a hot, organizing pain coursed up through his arm, a sharp spear of fire that had nothing to do with the fall, but with something else entirely, something immediate. And then he made a noise.

A low noise. Almost animal in its breathlessness, not quite a groan, the kind of noise that would have made him believe, in a different life, that dying men in the field made, and he would have told himself, with a stubborn certainty, that that would never be him.

Well, some distant part of his mind said, shit.

Sound, somehow, came second.

And then there was a voice. Suddenly. Too suddenly. Too close. The kind of voice that bounced around inside his head like a stone rattling around in a tin can, as if someone had taken his head and stuffed it full of broken glass, then decided to yell through it anyway.

“—ke lu tawtute fpom. Nìtxanay skxawng. Pxan livu txo tspang ko.”

The words just kept repeating in his ears, insistently, as if someone was trying to force them out through the other side of his head.

It was all just too much, everything was just too loud. The sounds outside, the constant, unrelenting crash of the water, the slow, inexorable pull, the next crash, then the crackle of a fire somewhere in the distance, the constant drip of water somewhere else and then her voice.

Her voice, whoever she was, cut through all of that with a sharpness that felt like a nail being driven directly into his brain. Sharp, unrelenting, right there in his head.

His ears hurt. They hurt in a very real, very physical way. As if someone had taken a file to them, worn them down to raw edges, and then decided to carry on a conversation directly into that raw wound.

He wanted, needed, her to stop. He needed everything to stop.

He opened his eyes.

What a mistake.

Light pierced his skull with a blade of brightness, white, hot, unforgiving. The world around him lurched, swam, and refused to settle into a recognizable position.

The roof above him was a latticework of palm fronds, draped in a patchwork of light and shadow. Shells hung from strings, reflected the firelight, and flung it back at him in small, derisive suns that seemed to smile at his discomfort.

To his left, a warm glow of fire flickered and hissed. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and salt, combined with something green, herbs, possibly.

And then he saw her.

Blue. That was the only word for what he felt when his gaze fell upon her.

The Metkayina markings on her arms and chest were unfamiliar, in strange patterns of sweeping curves. Her shoulders were broad, her upper body honed by years spent beneath the surface of the water.

Shells were woven through her hair, white, gray, iridescent and catching the light and sending small sparks of it out in all directions. Her gold eyes regarded him from above, a look of curiosity and judgment combining on her features, as if he were something she’d scraped off the ocean bed and had yet to decide what to do with, whether to keep or discard.

Metkayina. His brain felt leaden, his thoughts moving through his mind in slow motion, as though the gears inside his head had been greased with sand. Reef people. Ocean clan. Jake's friends, yes, but not his.

How in the world—

And then his gaze fell, his intent being to get a look at himself, to get a feel for where he was, and what was happening.

And he attempted to look at his own body, but the effort of turning his head was met with stubborn resistance. His neck would not comply, as though held fast with an unseen force. Yet he managed to salvage just enough of his vision to get a feel for the reality of his situation.

The red Ash marks, the marks Varang had set, the paint that had symbolized his alliance, his connection, his pledge, were gone.

They’d been washed away, cleaned of all vestige of their former self, erased by the constant, patient pull of the ocean at some time between his fall and his landing.

What was left of his skin was blue, plain and scarred, a blue that was neither special nor notable, but was plain and obvious nonetheless, recombinant, a mix of colors blended into one single blue. The same blue as every other avatar. The same blue as Jake Sully, and his entire, dammned family.

Like he'd never been anything else. Like the last few months hadn't happened. Like Varang and the Mangkwan and the fire and the everything had just... washed away.

He didn't know why that bothered him. It just did.

She spoke again, and her words continued to flow in an unbroken run: "—tawtute oehu. Fì'u lu kxeyey." The sound went on and on, and he could tell she continued talking, continued moving forward with the same relentless pace.

Every syllable hit his ears with the force of a hammer, and a dull ache began to keep time with the unending rhythm of her words. Five syllables? Ten? A hundred? The number no longer mattered.

They all blended into one long, unbroken run of sound that evoked a wild desire to strike out, to shatter the world with his fist.

"Sweetheart," he managed to croak, though the sound issued from his lips rather more like a raw scrape than an actual word. His voice was ruined, shredded from the smoke, from the screaming that filled the air, from God knew what else. "I don't know what you're saying."

She continued talking.

"Lady." Again he tried to raise himself with his good arm, to struggle himself upright from the surface. He managed roughly three inches before his arm gave out and dropped back down with a dull thud. "I don't know what you're saying."

She paused, her gaze fixing on him with the same expressionless gaze that seemed never to change.

But now she spoke deliberately, as if he were slow—witted and not quick to grasp even the simplest thing. She stretched her words out, exaggerated them almost, almost as if she were talking to a child or an animal she was in the process of training or taming.

And still, not a single word did he grasp.

He shook his head slightly, just a small movement, but enough to say to anyone who was watching that something was wrong.

The movement hurt, a dull throb that seemed to press at the edges of his vision until spots began to dance before his eyes. “No. Nothing. Zero. Nada. I don’t—” He stopped again, the movement of his throat working in a harsh rasp as he swallowed.

He tried again, slower this time, as if the words needed to travel through a thickened air. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know anything.”

Her lip curled in response, not exactly a snarl, but close enough that it might have been taken for one. The edge of her mouth curled up in a sharp movement, a small but menacing gesture that indicated no patience with questions or excuses.

And then she said something. One word, but it cut through the room with the sharpness of a clear bell ring, “Skxawng.”

Quaritch blinked at the word, which seemed to have a peculiar weight. Idiot.

That one he knew. That one he'd heard plenty, usually right before someone tried to kill him. From Jake. From his own recoms when they thought he wasn't listening. From Spider, once, when the kid was feeling brave.

“Okay,” he croaked. “I know that one.”

She made a disbelieving snort at him, and then she moved.

Fast. Faster than he could follow in his current state. Her hands moved with a confident precision to his left arm, to his wrist, and then—

The ruin beneath him was suddenly laid bare to the light of the flames.

He looked down.

Oh.

The bullet wound wasn't great, a nasty hole in the bicep that looked like it had started to get infected, the edges inflamed and red and crusty with old blood.

But beneath that—

His hand looked wrong.

The fingers were bent, not broken, just bent, like someone had taken each one and twisted it until it gave way to the pressure.

The skin around them looked burned, not everywhere, but in places, deep places, like someone had taken a torch to it and just kept going. There were places where the skin looked like it had been flayed away to expose the stuff beneath.

He could see bone in two of them.

He could see something that looked like tendon in one of them.

He could see something that looked like muscle in one of them.

He could see more than bone in one of them.

Something that looked like it belonged inside a body, not outside it, not exposed like this.

The fire, the fall, he must have landed on something, burned something—

"Oh," he said, polite.

She did not give him a moment to grasp what was happening. Before he could fully grasp the thoughts racing through his mind, she pressed something into his hand.

It was a paste, dark and thick and gritty. It was the very substance of bone meeting air. It was a raw, unadulterated mess. And in that moment, Quaritch’s world was plunged into a sterile, blinding whiteness.

He screamed.

He was not proud of that. He had survived bullets, knives, explosions, burns that had consumed him whole, death itself once, and had never had his voice rise in such a fashion. But this...this was different.

This was pain with teeth. It was savage, unrelenting pain that dug in deep, gnawed at him, circled back on itself, twisting, clawing in further.

He could not draw a single breath. He could not think. He could not do anything at all save scream out in raw, unadulterated fashion and hope that somehow, someway, it would end.

His back arched hard back against the floor, bucking him upward as if gravity had decided to wrench him to a different plane. His good hand shot upward in a frantic, almost desperate fashion.

It was reaching to grasp her, to push her back, to stop her, to plead with her, to demand she stop whatever this was, or any of a dozen different possibilities. He did not know what to name it in that moment. He only knew he needed it to stop.

She did not strike him. She reached for him with intent and closed the distance between them by catching his wrist in a deliberate grasp. It wasn’t a slap, it was a steady, controlled grasp.

Her fingers closed around the strong, working arm with a surprising strength, wrapping securely around it, but only for a moment, long enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin against his.

Their gazes met and held.

Her eyes were gold, opaque and inscrutable in the light of the room. They drew him in, holding closer than he would have thought possible.

In the dim light, he could see the tiny specks of a darker brown color within the golden depths, watch the pupils dilate with the flicker of the firelight, and follow the smooth curve of her cheekbones, the slight parting of her lips with the quiet breath she drew.

She was beautiful.

This thought came from nowhere and hit him with the force of a blow to the chest, leaving him breathless.

Her gaze had held his for what seemed like a single heartbeat, and then another, and another, and at last she let go of his wrist.

The movement was tentative, almost hesitant, as if she were careful not to break the spell between them further than she had to. Then her gaze went back to his left hand, her work resuming without a word.

He lay there, his shoulders rising and falling with his difficult breathing, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

He was then starting to observe her at work, completely unable to tear his gaze from her. She was right there, within arm’s reach, so close that a mere breath could have disturbed the air between them.

Her hands were working on his damaged hand with a gentleness that was in sharp contrast to the efficiency and precision she’d used before.

The shells in her hair clicked softly with each measured movement, her breathing was calm, peaceful, and warm on his skin.

She was focused intently on a particularly bad spot, the finger that was damaged the most, her brow furrowed in concern. Her lower lip was tucked between her teeth, a dead giveaway of her determination and the gravity of her work.

A lock of hair had escaped her shells and was lying softly on her cheek, caressing her skin with each movement.

He wanted to reach out and move it back, to tuck it behind her ear, to do something small but intimate to acknowledge the proximity of their positions.

The idea struck him with startling force, like a sharp arrow of realization.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He wrenched his gaze away, struggling to tear his eyes up to the ceiling, to count the palm fronds there in a bid to calm himself. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The counting was a small but inadequate distraction.

And then her hand touched his chest, just a fleeting touch, but it was enough. The entire body was suddenly alive with the feel of her.

And looking back at her, he saw that she was looking back at him. Her hand was still resting on his chest, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or rather, she didn’t seem to mind.

Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, but they didn’t seem the sharp, hissing woman he’d seen before. There was a vulnerability in her, a moment of exposure that somehow tempered the edge of her previous passion.

Then she drew her hand back. Slowly. As though she didn’t want to and looked back at his wounded hand and began again.

But her cheeks were dark. Definitely dark. And she wasn’t speaking in Na’vi anymore. She was working in silence, not looking at him, not looking at anything but his hand.

He couldn’t look away.

Lo'ak and Tsireya were perched on their familiar docking limb, their legs dangling freely above the water that still reflected a faint, pearly sheen from the last light of the day.

They had been working on Lo'ak's efforts to learn to hold his breath even longer.

"You are improving," Tsireya said, her voice tinged with a note of warmth and encouragement. "Your spirit was calm today. You did not struggle against the water."

"Thanks to you," Lo'ak said, nudging her gently with his own. He cherished these moments that followed when it was just the two of them.

Lo'ak let his gaze drift out to the horizon, where the first star of evening was just beginning to twinkle through the violet haze. It sparkled like a star one might imagine from the Hallelujah Mountains.

“Hey,” he said, and the words came out of him without plan or purpose,"You know what my dad told me about stars once?”

Tsireya turned to him, and her eyes were full of interest. "What did he tell you?" she asked, leaning a little closer to hear him more clearly.

“He said that back in the sky people world, there was a day. Just one day out of the whole year when everyone was supposed to take a moment to glance out at the people around them, and then, uh..” Lo'ak struggled to translate Jake’s old stories for Tsireya. "To tell what you sometimes keep locked inside. To really see them. To care for them. More than you do on most days."

Tsireya leaned her head to the side, completely enthralled by the concept. "A whole day for that? What is it called?"

"Valentine's Day," Lo'ak said, the unfamiliar words stumbling awkwardly on his tongue. Yet he continued, resolute in his determination to give her a more detailed picture. "There should be gift—giving. maybe time spent doing something significant. The idea was that the other person would know how you felt. So nothing was left unsaid or assumed."

"Oh” Tsireya breathed, the holy word conveying great understanding. "But only on one special day."

"Yeah. I suppose so." Lo'ak observed her as she digested his proposal, letting the idea take hold of her mind like a small seed, small but potentially life—changing.

Her face took on a look of pure, unadulterated wonder, and this gave Lo'ak a boost of courage he hadn’t known he needed.

Lo'ak swallowed hard, his heart beginning to beat a bit faster, a bit louder, a bit more noticeable as a thump against his ribs.

"You know, Reya," he said, his voice changing to a softer, more tentative tone. "Maybe we could—"

"It is a beautiful tradition!" she said suddenly, interrupting him with a quick and enthusiastic movement as she clapped her hands together. "We will have one! Here!

Lo'ak blinked, his unfinished sentence: ‘Maybe we could just... spend that day together?’ dissolved on his tongue. "Wait, what? For the whole clan?"

"Of course!" she said, and her voice took on a new, infectious energy as she stood up. "It is about connection, you said. Strengthening bonds! We will begin small. A gentle nudge for those who might need it..." Her eyes roamed over the village.

They landed on a figure weaving a net around a nearby marui. "Miral! She is always working so hard, and she is so kind. She would be perfect."

"Tsireya, hold on—"

But she was already moving past him, her mind racing forward a thousand lengths beyond where they stood in that instant. She touched him lightly on the head with a quick, distracted gesture and smoothed his hair as if he were a child she could hold and comfort easily. "Thank you, Lo'ak! This is the best idea!"

And she was gone, rushing forward with her customary effortless beauty as she hurried down the walkway. Her voice came back to him, cheerful and buoyant: "Miral! I have the most wonderful thought!"

Lo'ak stood on the dock alone, watching her disappear into the distance. He looked down at the water and his own pale, disappointed face looked back at him out of the ripples.

He took a slow breath, a long sigh that was both warm and frustrated, a mixture of affection and growing exasperation.

He was almost glad Neteyam wasn't here to see this.

"Skxawng," Lo'ak muttered to himself, the word a soft insult that was not really meant to be taken seriously. He shrugged his shoulders and a small smile played around the edges of his mouth.

Only Tsireya could take a small, personal spark of an idea and somehow distort it into a clan—wide endeavor before he could even get out a single word.

Meanwhile, Miral glared down at the complex mess of fibre in her lap, her fingers stubbornly and insistently trying to shape a loop into place that, despite all her efforts, just wasn’t working.

Then, as suddenly as a cloud passed across the sun, a shadow fell across the fibre in her lap, darkening the fibres in a broader area. Miral didn’t bother looking up, she already knew who it was and just what the interruption would portend.

“If you’re here to tell me I’m doing it wrong, save your breath. I already know,” she muttered, not looking up from the mess of fibre under her fingers as she tried to tease the knot into place.

“I came to save you from your own stubbornness,” Tsireya said as she dropped down onto the woven mat that lay beside Miral on the sun—bleached wooden walkway that served as the surface.

She gazed down for a moment at Miral’s fingers as they worked with the fibre with a slow, methodical repetition. “Your tension is all wrong.”

Miral didn’t look up from the fibre as she worked on the stubborn knot. Her concentration was total. “My tension is just fine. The fibre is cheap.”

“That is Ta’unui clan fibre. It is the very best there is. You’re pulling against the twist.”

Miral didn’t look up as she worked on the fibre, but Tsireya took the fibre from Miral’s fingers with a gentle touch as she settled down beside her on the wooden walkway. With a flick of her wrist, she had the tangle sorted out and began again from the top.

Miral stood and watched, a faint scowl tugging at the corners of her mouth. She hated being wrong, yes, but she hated a botched net even more. “Fine. Whatever. Show me.”

As Tsireya’s skilled fingers moved with ease, she spoke in a casual, unhurried tone. “Lo’ak was talking about the strangest Sky People thing earlier.”

“Which one?” Miral asked, her interest piqued. “The one where they trap themselves in tiny, bright caves just to stare at walls? Or the one where they feed themselves through a tube?”

"Different. A social one. A day. Called... Vahlentynes Day? Something like that. His pronunciation was all in his nose."

Miral retrieved the knot with the corrected tension, turning it over in her hands to study the structure more closely. “Vallen-tines. What’s it for? A ritual to mourn their inability to swim, perhaps?”

Tsireya let out a soft, approving chuckle. “Not quite. He said it’s a day when they’re supposed to declare admiration. For mates, or potential mates.”

Miral paused, knife hovering just above a frayed strand, considering. “They have one single, specific day, out of hundreds, when they’re allowed to say ‘I see you’? What do they do the rest of the time?”

“I think it’s more that the day itself prompts them. The day gets things into motion, so they don’t forget.”

“Forget.” Miral deadpanned, and then cut the fibre with a sharp snick. “They can build metal birds that scream across the sky, but they’ll forget to pursue a mate unless a day on a calendar tells them to. That tracks.”

“It’s about the gifts, too,” Tsireya pressed, her eyes alight with the spark of an idea. “A clear offering. A statement of intent. It cuts through the… what did Lo’ak call it… ‘guesswork’.”

Miral let out a long, slow breath, the sound of supreme skepticism. “Right. Because nothing says ‘I see you’ like a coordinated societal obligation. Very romantic.” She shook her head, tying off her repair. “So, you’re inspired. Are you going to give Lo’ak a dead fish with a ribbon on it?”

“Not me,” Tsireya said, “You.”

Miral stopped completely. She turned to look at her friend. “Explain. Now.”

“It's quite simple! you're always at work, always present here. You observe everything. However, people don’t necessarily understand how to observe you in return. The idea of “Valentine” is just perfect to follow. I’ll make sure that you’re open to receiving signs: gifts, talks, and communication. It's quite efficient. One can easily evaluate potential mates without wasting years in ambiguous and indirect “hovering.”

Miral gazed blankly ahead of her, her mind normally always working, was now frozen by the weight of the concept before her.

“I forbid you from seeing Lo’ak again. You have officially lost your mind. I'm sure Aonung will vote on that too.”

Tsireya gently tapped her friend on the lap, her eyes begging for understanding.

“Let me get this straight,” Miral said, her voice measured and unnervingly calm. “You want to use a Sky People ritual, a ritual that is a product of their very social dysfunction, a ritual that is not even part of my cultural repertoire, and use it to control... what, exactly? A mate selection trial? On me? Am I just another fishing spot you’re trying out for your system you’re proposing?”

“It’s not a trial!” came the rushed, defensive response. “It's an... facilitated introduction period."

“Facilitated introduction period,” Miral repeated, tasting the words on her tongue with a mixture of incredulity and disbelief. “That is the single most horrifying phrase I have ever heard.”

She set her knife down with deliberate care, “Who is involved? How does this even work?

"I have a few worthy individuals in mind," Tsireya said. "It should start tomorrow. Just be yourself. They will approach. You will be polite. We’ll see what happens."

Miral followed the line of Tsireya’s sincere, optimistic face with her gaze, then shifted her eyes to the mended net in her hands, a task she had just completed, and then to the vast ocean beyond.

Miral could feel the bricks of her simple, comprehensible world crumbling, brick by brick, as if some renovation was quietly underway in the room.

"So tomorrow," she summarized, her words flat. "I become a cultural experiment. Because the Sky People can't manage their own social lives."

"See? You understand perfectly!" Tsireya said, standing up with a bright, optimistic smile. "Wear your hair down. It’s a good look for receiving gifts." Tsireya gave Miral’s shoulder a cheerful pat, then stepped back, leaving Miral alone.

Miral remained still for a full minute, listening to nothing but the waves crashing in the distance. Then, gradually, she picked up her knife once more.

"Facilitated introduction period," Miral muttered to the empty room, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I’m going to be given so many poorly carved shell animals."

Lo’ak sat on the rim of the platform, his fingers fiddling with the tangled section of his saddle as he tried to re—braid it.

The task took his mind enough off his thoughts for Tsireya to come up beside him. She had the same purposeful energy as always, the energy Lo’ak had grown accustomed to over the course of their time together.

She sat down beside him, her tone low and measured. “I have spoken with Miral,” she said

“And?” Lo’ak asked, though his eyes never left the tangled leather. He couldn’t bring himself to look up just yet.

“In principle, she has agreed to take part in my plans for her,” Tsireya said, her tone low and measured.

Lo’ak stiffened at the words, his shoulders squaring. Finally, he looked up. “What does that mean?”

Tsireya leaned forward, her eyes narrowing slightly. “It means that she believes it’s all Sky People foolishness, but she trusts me.” She leaned forward a little closer. “Now, I need your help. You need to go talk to Ronawl. And perhaps Ayom. Casually. Tell them that Miral appreciates thoughtful gestures. That the cove is a nice place to talk tomorrow.”

Lo’ak groaned. He felt his face heat up with embarrassment. He finally managed to look at her. “Reya, no. I’m not going to be your herald for this.”

Tsireya’s eyes sharpened. She leaned forward a little closer. “You have to! You started this!”

“You started this. You told her the story. I didn’t tell you to send a hunting party for her!”

“Draft a hunting party for who?”

They both looked up simultaneously. Aonung had entered in silence and taken a position a few steps away. He folded his arms over his chest, keeping his gaze intently on his sister.

Tsireya adjusted her position,“Don’t worry about anything, brother. It’s just a little social gathering.”

But Aonung’s gaze never wavered. It actually seemed to narrow. She hadn’t fooled him for an instant. “You’re scheming something. With him. This is never good. Who is the hunting party for?”

Lo’ak opened his mouth to speak, but Tsireya beat him to it. “Miral! It’s not a hunting party. It’s a gathering of compatible people. For a special day. It was Lo’ak’s idea.”

As soon as Tsireya finished talking, Aonung’s expression changed in an instant. The look of disinterest vanished completely. It was replaced by an intensity that was almost frightening. His head swung between Tsireya and Lo’ak, his blue eyes burning like ice.

“His idea,” Aonung said, tasting the words in his mouth as if he were trying to determine their flavor. And then he focused on Lo’ak.

It was unappealing, yes. It was dangerous in a very particular way. It was a forest boy’s idea about things that pertained to Aonung’s people. And then he turned that gaze on Tsireya. His voice dropped to a tone that was absolute, deadpan certainty.

“You are forbidden from talking to him. It’s obvious that he’s been spinning tales in your head. You’re mad. You’ve gone completely insane.”

Tsireya rolled her eyes and sighed, attempting to dismiss the subject with a flippant motion of her hand. “Do not be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Aonung shifted his position a bit closer to her, seemingly far from finished with the subject and deliberately ignoring Lo’ak’s attempt to interrupt.

“You are taking a confusion from the Sky People and making it our problem. And you are using Miral to do it.” As he said her name, his jaw clenched.

“They are good choices!” Tsireya said, her head held high with defiance. “Ronawl is strong. Ayom is kind.”

“They are children playing with spears they can barely lift,” Aonung said with a snap of his voic, “And this a stupid idea. It will cause trouble, and I will have to listen to the constant complaints.”

Tsireya pressed her lips together into a thin line. Her patience was wearing very thin as she snapped back, “Why do you care so much? It does not affect your duties.”

Aonung’s eyes narrowed. His answer came with a stubborn insistence. “It affects the clan’s focus.” His tail twitched hard, once, for emphasis. “You want to send Ronawl, who only talks about his last catch, and Ayom, who can’t even utter a sentence. To do what? To bore her?”

Tsireya’s voice rose with a mixture of frustration and loyalty. “They are good, loyal warriors!”

“They are boys,” Aonung corrected her flatly. His tone was cold and brutal. “And you would send them before someone who has never settled for ‘good enough.’ Before someone who actually finishes her net—mending without complaint and notices a tide pattern shifting before anyone else does. Would you think that a poorly carved shell would impress a person who sees everything?”

The words lingered in the room, lingering a little longer than he had intended for them to linger. He hadn’t intended to go into such detail about her qualities, not really.

But the detail had been too precise, too revealing. Tsireya’s eyes had widened a fraction of an inch, a fraction of an inch that spoke of surprise.

“You watch her closely.”

“Yes. I watch everyone. It is my responsibility to determine who is capable and who is a liability.”

The words came a fraction of a second too quickly. The heat of the argument was pushing the conversation to a dangerous, vulnerable place. “This plan is a liability. You’re treating it like a game for children.”

“And you’re treating her as if she’s made of glass!” Tsireya challenged, moving a little closer so that the space between them diminished and her voice could have more impact. “She is strong. She can handle a bit of attention. Which, besides, she so clearly deserves.”

“It isn’t attention!” Aonung replied, a hint of frustration finally rising to the surface as he struggled to define the tight, proprietary anger.

“It’s..misplaced obligation.” He paused, trying to define it further as he glared at her, but it felt like trying to paint on a spear that was already perfectly crafted.“Forget this. Do not involve her in your Sky People nonsense.”

With a final, searing glance that seemed to encompass Lo’ak as a source of infection, Aonung turned on his heel and strode away, every line of his body tense with unspent irritation.

Lo’ak waited until he was well out of earshot before he commented, “Well. He’s thrilled.”

Tsireya watched her older brother disappear into the trees, a thoughtful frown on her face as she tried to analyze what had just occurred. There was more to Aonung’s outburst than just his usual irritability. It felt personal.

“He is just trying to protect the clan’s peace,” she said, though even to her own ears, her words were more a defense that she was trying to convince herself to believe.

Lo’ak snorted. “Yeah. The clan’s peace. That’s what that was really about.”

The light that entered the room in the morning was pale gray and seemed hesitant, as if the sun itself hadn’t quite decided to show up yet. It hid behind a bank of clouds far away and left the world in a hushed, half—dark condition.

Aonung lay on his sleeping mat with his eyes open, listening to the familiar noises of the marui.

He should be up by now. Nets needed to be checked, hunters needed to be supervised, and the future leader of the village needed to be seen and heard.

But Aonung didn’t move. He looked at the ceiling and thought of his sister.

She wouldn’t do this. Even Tsireya, with her need to choreograph happiness into every moment, would have to realize how foolish this was.

It sounded like the Sky People, who would take something simple and smother it with ritual and ceremony until it was no longer recognizable. Surely she would have awakened this morning and seen the foolishness of this.

Right?

He breathed out slowly and stood up. The pouch on his hip bumped his thigh with a soft, barely audible rustling sound. He did not glance down.

The village came awake in the familiar way, and the signs all whispered of the day to come. The women moved toward the eastern reef with baskets that swung with an ease born of practice, children ran past him in a flurry of shouts and laughter chasing after something quick and small.

He moved through the morning bustle with his measured gait, nodding once to an elder and giving the merest glance to Rotxo’s wave from the water. His eyes scanned the platforms before him with a lazy, interested gaze.

And then, as the morning light settled more firmly over the scene, he saw Miral. Miral.

She stood by the water station, leaning over the side of the communal water barrel to run her hands through her hair to get the salt out.

She did it slowly, unhurriedly. She pulled the dark strands out between her fingers, and they separated and fell like the warp and weft of a loom. A droplet of water trailed down the back of her neck, down the spine and under the edge of the top she wore.

She straightened up, shook her hands dry on the hem of the top, and turned.

And saw him then too, and there was a subtle change in the way she looked at him. It was not the bright, performing smile and the adjustment of the posture that some girls used on him.

It was not that. It was a subtle change. A mouth that was soft and relaxed, the corners curving up slightly.

“Aonung.” The way it sounded on her lips was natural, effortless, almost casual. "You're up early."

He nodded slightly in greeting. "Could say the same to you."

"Could, yes." A hint of irony danced on her lips, but never reached her eyes. "You'd be wrong." She raised her basket with a resolute air and fell into step beside him as if they walked side by side on a familiar path. "I haven't slept yet."

A quick glance from him, assessing. A hint of shadows under her eyes, a tired look so obvious now, but not quite visible unless one looked closely. "Why not."

"Somebody's ilu got spooked last night. Tangled its line." She waved it off as if it didn't matter. "Took me a while to calm it down."

Somebody's ilu. Not hers. No need to lift a hand to fix it, and yet she had. She went because that was what she did. She saw problems in front of her, and she fixed them. And she didn't wait for thanks or reward or any sort of acknowledgment. She simply went to fix what needed fixing.

They walked along in comfortable silence for a few steps, her shoulder brushed against his, and he could feel the warmth of her skin, the steady, living heat that lingered on his skin even when she moved away.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, her voice quite but perfectly clear.

“Not yet.”

“There’s leftover fish from last night. Keto caught it. He always brings too much.” She glanced at him, “I have it in my basket.”

He looked at the basket she was carrying. Then, without a word, he reached over and took the handle from her grip.

Her fingers slipped from the woven fiber. His closed around it. The movement was brief, a transfer of weight from her hand to his. The basket swung once, then settled against his hip.

She blinked at him. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment, confused, before dropping back to her side.

“I’m not hungry,” he said

“Liar,” she said, her voice holding no heat, merely statement. “Your mother would be upset. You forget to eat when you’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You’re brooding right now.”

His face gave her a flat, unamused look. She met it with an absolute, unapologetic calm, a quiet steadiness in her face, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly, knowledgeably.

She was not afraid of him. She never had been. The other hunters avoided his gaze, shifted uncomfortably, stammered over their words. She merely looked at him, steady, assured, and called him a liar to his face.

His fingers remained curled at his side, not out of anger, but for another reason altogether. It was not anger that kept his fingers curled at his side, but the sudden, undeniable urge to raise his hand and run his thumb over the gentle shape of her cheekbone.

It was as though the urge was physical, a low—born pressure rising up from somewhere deep inside his chest, through his arm, and down through his fingers.

It was almost as though he could feel it, the warmth of her skin, the softness he had imagined countless times in the dark while lying on his sleeping mat.

His thumb, specifically, ached with the need to drag across her cheek, to feel the give of her skin beneath his. But still, he did not move.

She was still fixed on him, waiting for the retort she was expecting, completely oblivious to the fact that his entire body was telling him to close the space between them.

He could feel it in every inch of his body. His breathing was shallow, and he could feel a dull, heavy rhythm in his throat as if his pulse was trying to force its way through his skin.

She blinked, then tilted her head slightly. "What?"

He was giving her nothing in return. His face was neutral, calm, but even as his face remained completely serene, his tail betrayed him as he flicked it swiftly behind him.

"Nothing," he repeated his words, his voice steady.

She seemed to take it at face value without a second thought, turning her eyes back to the distance ahead. The moment was gone, and his hand remained where it was at his side, untouched and is if waiting for something.

What sound would she make?

The question came to mind uninvited, unwelcome, but it nestled deep into his chest as if it had found a home there and wouldn’t leave.

If he reached out to touch her face, his thumb running along the curve of her jaw, his fingers intertwining in the silkiness of her hair—what sound would emerge from her lips?

Not words, ever. Something softer, something that wouldn’t be expressed in words. Maybe a sharp breath drawn in, a quick indrawn gasp of air into her throat?

The space between them was suddenly too close and too far all at once. His chest felt constricted, pressed in by all the unspoken possibilities. He drew a breath into his lungs slowly and deliberately, as if counting the seconds to calm himself against the growing ache.

“The weave on this is terrible” she suddenly said, holding her wrist up to get a better look. “Look at this,” she said, rotating her bracelet gently as she examined it. “Do you see how unevenly knotted it is? It’s going to come unraveled in no time—maybe as soon as next week.”

He looked at it. A thin rope of braided leather rested against her pale skin, delicate and pale in comparison to her. A small shell hung from it, threaded through by a simple pink spiral design that had been clumsily carved into place.

The edge was chipped, and the hole through which the rope passed was slightly off—center, causing the shell to hang at an odd angle.

The weave was uneven, loose in some spots, tighter in others. It was clear it was a work of someone who had enthusiasm, but no patience.

In his eyes, it was the worst gift he had ever seen.

And she was wearing it.

The leather rested against the delicate bones of her wrist, and the crooked shell sat just above her pulse point. Every time she moved her hand, it moved slightly. Every time she turned her wrist to catch the light, it caught a faint pink glow.

He wanted to take it off her.

His fingers touching the cord, the knot, and freeing it. His palm cradling the shell. The shell falling into the water. And then his hand, now empty, reaching out to hers—

“Tsireya’s experiment,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection. “Apparently, it began at an early hour. He came to my marui before dawn. Very nervous. Almost threw it at me and ran off.”

Before dawn. Those two words weighed heavily in Aonung’s chest, like stones sinking into the water. He wanted to find that boy who made such an awful gift and drown him.

“He seemed nice”, she said, with a hint of reservation in her voice. “A little young, but he's nice”

Nice. The word lingered in her thoughts as she pondered the boy. She wore the gift, defended the boy's effort and said he was nice to Aonung's face

"What do you think?" she asked him, her body angling closer "Should I tell him it's structurally unsound? Would that be unfair?"

He maintained his even tone. "It's fine."

"Fine?" she asked, her eyebrow arching up. Her inflection implied she did not believe the boy. "You hate it."

He did not answer. The space between them remained empty. She smiled more widely. Her lips curled with amusement.

“You're a terrible liar," she said. Almost affectionate. Almost. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the bracelet floating back to her as if she were dismissing the entire conversation along with the object.

The shell rested against her wrist. Pale. Crooked. Wrong.

His tail flicked again, more obvious and irritated.

"I found a baby ilu this morning," she said. Her focus changed. Her subject changed. A trick that never failed to make his head buzz with confusion. "By the eastern jetty. A tiny thing. Not more than a few days old."

He blinked, slow and unsure of himself, as the shift came out of nowhere. It was so abrupt that he took a fraction of a moment to gather himself enough to respond. "Alone?"

"Separated, I think," she corrected. "The mother was circling nearby but couldn't quite figure out how to get under the jetty. The poor thing was stuck between two posts, making these little distressed chirps." Her face softened as she recalled the memory. "It took forever to coax her out."

"Did you?”

"Obviously," she said with a smile. "It swam right to its mother." She glanced over at him with a satisfied smile. "You should have seen it. The mother makes this sound—this low rumbling purr, and the baby just vibrates with happiness. Like it couldn't contain itself."

To illustrate her point, she makes the sound herself, a soft humming noise that slips out of her throat, she laughed at her own attempt, but it catches his breath in his chest.

The laugh was full of warmth, her whole face lights up with the memory of the sound.

He wants to hear her laugh again. More than that, he wants to be the reason she makes that sound.

"You would have liked it," she said, her voice low and soft with a kind of fond certainty. "It was incredibly efficient at solving problems."

"Efficient."

"Mhm. In, out, no wasted moments, no unnecessary complaints." She tilted her head slightly, studying him intently. "Unlike some people I know."

He looked at her flatly, unamused. "I'm efficient."

"You're dramatic. There’s a difference."

"There isn’t."

"There absolutely is." She smiled readily, lightly, playfully. "Efficient means that you solve the problem and then you're done. Complaining means that you sigh loudly every single time someone makes you wait for something."

"I don’t sigh."

"You do. You have this big, long exhale through your nose like the world is just conspiring against you." She made the noise, the sound exaggerated and slightly insulting. "Like that."

He clenched his jaw from the struggle not to laugh. "I don’t sound like that."

"You sound exactly like that."

"You're annoying, did you know that?”

"And yet here you are." She spoke lightly, flippantly, her gaze already drifting off to something else. "Walking with me. Eating my fish. Listening to me talk about baby ilus."

“Not by choice.” Aonung muttered, earning a light smack to his hand that held the basket.

She stopped, looking out over the water with a calm, almost placid expression on her face, the crooked shell dangling from her wrist sparkled in the light, its faint pink glow delicate and unremarkable all at once.

He looked at it, then looked away again, as if the simple fact of the bracelet’s existence was the reason he might drown himself.

“The fish is cold,” he said, breaking the silence with a blunt observation after he took the fish in his hands.

“You let it get cold. That’s your own fault,” she said, her voice steady.

“You gave it to me cold.”

“I gave it to you warm. You stood there brooding for five minutes before you touched it.” She looked over at him again, her expression laced with a cool note of sarcasm that seemed to say she was unimpressed by his sulky moodiness.

He didn’t have an argument for that one. He simply ate the cold fish. The flesh had a weighty texture, the edges curled slightly from the drying action of the air, creating small ridges on the perimeter.

Miral watched him from the corner of her eye, the small smile of amusement playing on the corners of her mouth. "It’s not going to taste better if you glare at it," she said.

"I’m not glaring," he said, though his posture and the action of his jaw spoke to the contrary.

"You’re eating it as if you never tasted fish" she said, a small edge to her voice.

He swallowed the food in his mouth before speaking. "It’s fine."

She made a soft laugh, a breathy sound that seemed to constrict his chest with a familiar pain. "I’m going to tell Keto that you hated his fish."

“Good. It’a actually awful.”

She smiled at the comment he just made, and then her hand extended towards the basket in a soft, almost hesitant motion. Aonung, however, did not let go.

Her palm lingered in the space between them for another second, and then her fingers finally made contact with the woven edge of the basket’s handle, a thin line of contact that landed on his fingers. She whispered almost inaudibly, “Aonung.”

“I have it,” he stated, his tone even, resolute.

“You had it for ten minutes already” she reminded him, the playfulness returning to her tone.

“And?”

“And it is my basket. Besides, It is not heavy,” she stated, as if that would somehow give her the upper hand.

“That is not the point,” he stated, his determination evident.

He did not budge. His fingers held on to the basket in a steadfast grip. Her hand lingered there for a moment, lingering close to his.

It was close enough for her to feel the warmth emanating from her own hand through the contact, close enough for her to realize that if he were to shift his thumb just a fraction of an inch, it would touch her knuckles in a gentle, almost flirtatious manner.

And yet, after a moment, she stepped back from the unspoken contest. Her hand retreated from his, releasing the tension slightly.

“…Alright,” she said, drawing out the word with careful thought and deliberation, as though weighing each individual syllable before giving her answer. “You can keep the basket.”

He did not alter his stance. He kept the basket precisely in the place where it was, his fingers wrapped around the woven sides. She shook her head, a faint, bemused look playing at the corners of her lips as she turned to step for—

“Aonung. Miral.”

The voice was behind them, bright and enthusiastic, cutting through the quiet morning air with the same cutting effect that a spear would have on quiet water. Aonung spun around, his instincts on high alert.

It was Kiran. Young. Barely out of his trial as a hunter. He was coming towards Miral with quick, unsteady legs, his hands clasped behind his back to steady himself.

His eyes never left Miral’s face, not even once. Aonung’s spine snapped into place in an instant. His grip on the handle of the basket was white—knuckled, the fibers creaking with the strain.

You have got to be kidding me. This is not happening.

“Kiran,” Miral said, and the way she said it was inviting and open and warm. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the boy replied, his voice too high and too fast and too nervous. His eyes darted between Miral’s face and the ground and back to Miral’s face again, as if he was trying to keep both in focus at the same time. “I wanted to—that is, I heard that you—that Tsireya told me tha—” he swallowed his own words. “I made you something.”

Then his hands came out from behind his back slowly, hesitantly, as if he was holding something precious and nervous to show Miral.

he was holding a hair pin.

A slender piece of carved bone, its surface sanded to a perfectly smooth texture and then polished to a soft, almost living sheen. The head of the piece bore a small stone, milky blue in color, the sort of pale, halfway—remembered blue one might see in shallow water over white sand, or in the first light of dawn touching softly upon a quiet lagoon.

It was a delicate piece, the edges rounded, the surface reflecting light in a careful, patient way. It was clear, from looking at it, that the person who made this piece of art had spent many, many hours upon it. Days, perhaps, of careful, meticulous work.

Aonung stared at it.

It was pretty to look at, the craftsmanship evident in clean, unambiguous lines. The bone was carved with evident skill, each bend and turn of it purposeful, each edge smoothed to a soft, almost tender sheen.

It was not some crude, misaligned shell thrust at her in the dark, but a thoughtful, deliberate gift, given in full view of all, so that all could see.

Given to her.

Right there in front of him.

Who did he think he was?

"This is beautiful, Kiran," Miral said, and her voice was like a knife inserted between Aonung’s ribs. "You made this yourself?"

"Yes," the boy nodded, his ears turning a deep, telling blue as he blushed. "I thought—the color, it’s like your eyes. When the light hits them." He stumbled over his own words, his face growing pinker and pinker. "I mean, I just thought you might like it."

like her eyes.

Aonung had noticed her eyes. He had noticed those from the beginning. He had studied those eyes, the various hues of blue and grey and gold that danced through them as the light changed, the colors seeming to breathe as he lingered over them.

He had spent more time than he wanted to admit trying to find a stone that would match those eyes: a warm, deep blue, like the water just before sunset, not this pale, washed—out version of the water of morning shallows.

This child had looked at Miral and seen the same thing Aonung saw.

The only difference was that Kiran had actually done something about it.

Miral took the pin. Her fingers closed over the carved bone, turning the object as she examined the stone. “The setting is quite secure,” she said. “Did you strengthen the backing?”

"Yes. I didn’t want it to fall out while you were swimming."

"Smart." She smiled at him warmly, genuine, that same soft curve she offered to anyone who brought her something made with care. "Thank you, Kiran. This is really lovely."

She raised her hand to her hair.

Aonung watched. His chest remained utterly still. His breath came in shallow, sparse bursts.

Her fingers found a segment of her braid, just above her left ear. She slid the pin in, twisting it once to set it securely. The milky blue stone settled against the dark strands, catching the light and glowing softly.

It looked wrong.

Not because the pin was poorly made—it wasn’t.

Not because the color was ugly—it was pretty, in a gentle, quiet way.

Not because the boy was unworthy—he was young and nervous and clearly trying very hard.

It was wrong because it wasn’t Aonung’s gift.

It was wrong because he had spent weeks carving a hook she actually needed, something practical that would make her life easier. And this child had spent days carving an ornament she would wear in her hair.

Something beautiful. Something visible. Something everyone would see and admire and comment on.

"How does it look?" Miral asked, turning her head slightly to one side. Again, the pin caught the light, and the stone glowed softly where it rested against Miral’s hair, like a tiny flame burning inside.

"Good," Kiran breathed, relief seeping back into his voice. "It looks really good. I mean, I thought it would, but I wasn’t sure if the color would work, and I thought the bone might be too thick, but it looks—" Kiran trailed off, his ears burning with a blush. "It looks good."

She moved slightly, turning to get another opinion, and her eyes fell on Aonung. "What do you think?"

Aonung looked at the pin on Miral’s hair, tracing the milky blue of the stone with his eyes. He looked at the way the pin rested against Miral’s dark hair.

Pretty, wrong, completely and utterly inadequate in a way that made him feel like crawling out of his own skin every time he looked at the thing.

He looked at Kiran’s hopeful face, the ears that burned with heat, the hands that quivered slightly with expectation and then back at the pin on Miral’s hair.

"The color is wrong," Aonung said flatly.

Miral’s eyebrows drew together slightly in a frown. "Wrong how?" she asked

"It's too cool. It washes you out." His voice remained flat and clipped, each word carefully enunciated. "The stone is pale. Your skin tone is warm. The combination makes you look tired."

Kiran slumped his ears and shoulders. "I—I thought the blue would go well with her eyes—"

"Her eyes aren't that blue." Aonung's gaze remained locked on the pin. "Not even close. They're a deeper color. A warmer color. This is the color of water in the morning. Her eyes are the color of water in the evening."

The words hung in the air. He hadn't meant to say that much. He hadn't meant to say that he'd paid that much attention to Miral's eyes. That he'd looked that carefully at them. That he'd known the exact shade of blue they were.

Miral blinked. She extended a hand to slowly touch the pin, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I—I didn't know you paid that much attention to my eyes."

He didn't say a word. His jaw was clenched. His heart thudded loudly in his ears.

Kiran shuffled his feet, his face falling in a soft sigh. "I could get a different stone. A warmer one. I saw some amber—colored ones near the eastern reef. I could get one of those if you really don't like this one that well—"

"It's fine," Miral interrupted hurriedly. "Kiran, really. It's a lovely gift. Aonung is just being—" She glanced over at Aonung, then immediately looked away. "—thorough."

Thorough. That was one word for it.

Kiran nodded, looking dejected even though he attempted a smile. "I just wanted to get you something nice.” He glanced over at Aonung, then immediately looked away. "I should get going. My mother needs help with the nets."

"Of course. Thank you again. It was very kind of you."

He nodded once, then again, and after that, there was nothing else of him to see as he walked away down the walkway. His shoulders were slumped, and his ears still wore that deep, embarrassed blue.

Miral watched him go, the distance between them growing with each passing step. She played with the pin she wore in her hair, running her fingers over it and turning it slightly.

She turned her eyes to Aonung at last. "That was unnecessarily harsh," she commented

He did not answer, and she went on, her voice still soft, still clear, still laced with annoyance and perhaps with hurt, too. "He was trying to do something kind. He was nervous, and he put a lot of effort into this."

"He asked my opinion."

"He asked how it looked, and you told him it made me look tired."

"I told him the color was wrong, and it is."

Her eyes locked on him, wide and unblinking, as if she could look right through to the depths of his soul, as if she were seeking something hidden beneath the surface of his skin. He met her gaze without flinching, though his heart pounded in his chest.

“…You really think it's the wrong color?"

"Yes."

"Or do you just not like that someone else gave it to me?"

His tail stiffened at the question, as if a switch had been flipped somewhere deep inside him.

The line of the inquiry itself didn’t carry blame, no accusation threaded through her voice. Only a plain, unvarnished curiosity. She wasn’t testing him, she was genuinely seeking an answer.

Her head tipped slightly to the side, her eyes widened with interest, and the small pin he wore caught the light, giving off a soft, almost teasing gleam against the strands of hair near her temple.

He found himself unable to move.

His chest felt constricted, a tight, cage—like pressure curling around his lungs. His fingers grew numb around the edge of the basket handle. Every muscle from his jaw down through his throat seemed to seize up, locking him in place as if he’d turned to stone.

his entire body had locked into stillness, the words rising in him like a wave. It was exactly it, he didn’t want anyone else to give you anything, he didn’t want anyone else to look at you, he didn't want anyone else to see what he sees and think they have the right to reach for it—

His lips parted—

“Aonung! Miral! There you are!”

Tsireya was hurrying towards Miral, her steps quick and her eyes shining with that spark she carries when she’s coordinating things. When she saw Miral, a look of visible relief crossed her face.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “You’re needed at the eastern platform. There are two more who want to present their gifts before the afternoon gathering, and I need you to—” She stopped, looking first at Aonung, then at the basket he was carrying, and finally at Miral. “—come with me. Now.”

“Now?”

“Now. They’re waiting.” Tsireya’s hand touched Miral’s arm, warm but firm. “This will be quick, I promise. And then you can go back to whatever you were doing.”

Miral’s eyes darted between Aonung and the basket he was carrying. “My basket—”

“I’ll take it.”

His voice was short, clipped, and he didn’t raise his eyes to either Miral or Tsireya.

Tsireya had already started tugging Miral away. “Perfect, thank you. That’s very helpful of you—come, Miral. I told them you would be gracious, and you will be gracious. They’re both very nervous—”

Miral took a step, then another, before finding her balance again. She turned to look back at Aonung, her eyes apologetic and confused. She touched the pin she wore in her hair.

“I’ll find you later,” she said. “Thank you for— for carrying the basket.”

He didn’t say anything, then she was gone.

The pin shone in Miral’s hair as she moved away from him, a small, steady light against the backdrop of the village’s weaving. He watched it until the walkway turned out of sight, until nothing of her was left in view except the faint gleam of the light.

Then he turned.

The path to her marui stretched out before him, comforting and familiar, lined with the light of the morning hours spilling across the ground.

He had never walked this path alone, never carried her things through the bright hours of the day without another person walking alongside him.

He had the chance to speak, to use his words, and he let his sister take them from his lips his mind accused, though his thoughts were not loud enough to be heard. The accusation was made, nonetheless, and it settled quietly around him like a stone

He finally reached her marui. The entrance loomed low, a doorway softened by a curtain of woven mats that sifted the light into a gentler glow.

He paused on the threshold for a breath, the basket cradled in his hands, and a surprising heaviness settled in his arms, as if the weight of it had suddenly grown too much to bear.

He stood there, hovering between the desire to lay the burden down and the need to fulfill a dozen duties that tugged at him from all directions. He should lay the basket down, step back, and go attend to the hundred obligations that waited on him.

But instead of stepping back, he stepped into the marui.

Her space was compact, but kept with a careful, almost reverent order. A sleeping mat lay rolled and neat against the wall, ready to be used or stowed away. A small collection of shells gathered on a low shelf.

A net, half—finished, hung over a drying rack, its tools arranged with the precision born of years and habit. Everything in the room had its place. Everything spoke of efficiency, purpose, and the patient, habitual care that defined her days.

He placed the basket near her work mat and, for a moment, extended his hand on the handle longer than he needed to. The pouch on his hip touched his thigh as he moved, reminding him of what he carried inside it. A small gift.

He could leave it there. He could place the hook on the ground, untie the string, and dig out what he carried with him to meetings, to talks, to long sleepless nights.

He could place the weight next to her basket and walk away, leaving it to her to find it when she returned. No need to talk about it. No need to confess. No need to say anything. Just leave it to her to find it.

He reached to place the weight next to her basket.

But he stopped.

he turned around, taking one final resigned breath before he walked out.

The morning light hit his face as he pushed aside the curtain, striking and unambiguous, and for a moment, he faltered under its brightness. He gave his eyes a slow blink, adjusting, even as his brain began quickly assembling the long to—do list that awaited him, the tasks and the responsibilities that would require his attention the moment he stepped fully into the day.

“—And I thought, maybe a woven bracelet? But mother said shells are more traditional, so I went with shells.”

“Yeah, but you used the pink ones. Everyone uses pink ones. I went with the blue—tipped spirals. More distinctive.”

“Blue—tipped spirals are hard to find. Where’d you get those?”

“Eastern reef. Took me half a day.”

Aonung’s feet came to a halt. The voices drifted from the walkway just a short distance ahead, casual and unhurried, as if unaware of his approach.

Two figures stood close together, their backs mostly turned to him, their heads bent over something in their hands. The familiar postures, the familiar cadence of their speech, the familiar rhythm of their words.

Ronawl. Ayom.

Aonung’s vision sharpened, and in that moment, the morning light was almost too bright, almost too revealing. His tail went very, very still.

“—do you think she’ll like it? I wrapped it in kelp to keep it polished.”

“She’ll like it. Miral’s nice. She likes everything.”

“Yeah, but I want her to really like it, you know? Not just be polite.”

“I know what you mean.”

Ronawl lifted his gaze, straightening the small bundle cradled in his hands. His eyes wandered past Ayom’s shoulder, then settled squarely on Aonung, who stood rigidly in the doorway of Miral’s marui.

His suddenly froze

“Ayom,” he spoke, his tone suddenly cautious. “Turn around.”

Ayom complied and turned.

The silence stretched out. Ronawl watched from Aonung’s face to the marui behind him and back again. His expression changed from confused to something more guarded.

“Aonung,” he said slowly. “You’re… here.”

Aonung remained still. His countenance was ice.

“At Miral’s marui,” Ronawl added, as if to clarify. “Early in the morning.”

Ayom’s ears tilted back. He clutched the bundle even tighter.

Silence.

“She asked me to return her basket,” Aonung said, his voice flat and even. Utterly unreadable. “What are you holding.”

Ronawl blinked, sensing the sudden jarring shift in the instant, and turned to Aonung with a look of unbelief. “What?” he managed to get out, his tone rising in shock.

“In your hands. What is it.”

Ronawl looked down upon the bundle of kelp, the seaweed strands brushing against his hands, before looking up to meet Aonung’s unyielding gaze.

A line formed between Ronawl’s eyebrows as he concentrated on the answer. “It’s a gift,” he finally said, his tone hesitant, “for Miral.”

“I know what it’s for,” Aonung’s tone didn't change. His words dripped with cool detachment, “What is it.”

Ronawl took a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. “...Shells. I collected them from the—” His words trailed off as he thought back to the task he had undertaken to find the shells.

“And yours,” Aonung said, his gaze cutting to Ayom, “What did you bring.”

Ayom swallowed hard, a small sound that was almost imperceptible, before he went on to answer in slow, deliberate words. “Blue—tipped spirals. I thought it might—she might like the color because it’s reminiscent of the deep water, and she always seems to be happy when she’s around the deep water—”

“Let me see.”

Ayom paused, and a moment of hesitation could be seen on his face. His hands clutched the bundle even tighter, the grip almost possessive in nature. Yet, with a measured and deliberate calm, he began to slowly extend it.

Aonung accepted the gifts and took the bundle from Ayom with a steady hand. He started to unwrap the bundle slowly, peeling the kelp layers to reveal what was inside.

A small pile of shells came into view, and they were each a piece of art in their own right. The shells had been polished to a glassy shine and had a surface that was smooth and velvety to the touch.

The shells were arranged in a precise and orderly spiral pattern, which seemed to have been calculated with quiet thought and deliberation.

The blue tips of the shells sparkled in the light, and the color transitioned from a deep midnight blue to a pale blue with a subtle movement. The shells were certainly beautiful and were a rare sight in their own right.

The thought and attention given to the collection and display of the shells was evident in every detail and every sparkle.

Aonung examined it thoughtfully, his eyes closed in a long, silent pause as he absorbed what he saw.

"They're uneven," he finally stated, his voice clear and precise.

Ayom's shoulders stiffened, and his face fell into an unhappy expression. "What?" he whispered, his voice tinged with incredulity.

"Three of them are chipped along the edge," Aonung stated, holding up one shell to reflect the light and show the faint, almost imperceptible chip along its edge. "And look at the spiral pattern. The largest shells are placed in the center, which is good, as it draws the eye. But the color progression isn’t consistent. And by color alone, you should have placed them in an arrangement so that the progression of color would naturally move from one to the next."

Ayom stared at his collection in dismay, his ears folding back. "I didn’t— I thought—"

"The pattern is wrong," Aonung stated softly, his voice final. He re—wrapped the kelp bundle with precise care and then handed it back to Ayom. "She’ll notice. She notices everything."

Ronawl adjusted his position, making a small, calculated movement as he positioned himself more firmly in his stance. "Mine aren't chipped. I've looked at each one."

Aonung turned his eyes slowly to Ronawl, making a pause in the space between them as he regarded his companion.

Ronawl did not back down, standing his ground as he met Aonung's eyes, his jaw clenched firmly as his tail betrayed his nervousness by a small twitch.

"Yours are pink." Aonung stated, his voice flat and even but laced with innuendo.

"...Yes," Ronawl replied, his single word heavy with implication and a touch of defensiveness.

"She received a pink shell this morning. From Kiran. She's wearing it on her wrist," Aonung said, his voice as flat as glass as he spoke. "A second pink shell, from a second hunter, will be unoriginal. Uncreative. Unable to be bothered to look for something she might like instead." The sharp tone he used to accuse Ronawl cut through the space like a knife.

Ronawl's jaw clenched at the accusation, his misgiving turning into resolve as he spoke. "I spent two days looking for those shells," he said, obviously exaggerating, his voice low and beseeching as he appealed to Aonung to understand what he was saying.

"And yet, another person managed to find the pink shells quicker." Aonung inclined his head, his movement measured and ritualistic, cold and calculated, which made the gesture seem all the bigger and more deliberate. "Which is it, then? Was it your inefficiency, your slowness, or your unoriginality?"

Ronawl's ears drooped back against his head, and he stood with his fingers white—knuckled and taut as he grasped the bundle, the fibers of the material squeaking softly under his pressure.

Ayom, who had been observing with a measured distance, had already taken a half—step back, his tail low and cautious.

Aonung observed them with interest, drinking in the details of their offerings, the shine of hopeful faces, their desperate, clumsy efforts to reach for something they had no right to. Something that was not theirs to take.

“Do you think you can give her shells? Do you think you can stand before her with your polished stones and your well—rehearsed words and somehow manage to conjure up a smile from her? Do you think you are worthy of that smile?”

His voice dropped to a low, cold pitch as he continued, “She is at the eastern platform. Tsireya is with her."

The boy’s eyes darted forward with interest.

"But you are not going to the east."

"What?" Ronawl’s voice was careful. “Why not?"

Aonung moved forward, not aggressively, but with the intent to bridge the space between himself and Ronawl. His presence dominated the walkway, his shoulders wide and his eyes unyielding. Ronawl and Ayom took an involuntary step or two back.

“Because you have nothing to offer her that she needs. Pink shells. Blue shells. Woven trinkets and ornaments and objects that will sit on a shelf and collect dust." His voice was low, steady, utterly devoid of warmth “She fixes nets. She calms frightened ilu. She recognizes a change in the tides before anyone else does. She figures out problems. She fixes things.”

His eyes moved steadily back and forth between them, "What have you ever fixed for her?"

Neither Ronawl nor Ayom had an answer to this.

"She does not need your presents. She does not need your admiration. She does not need you standing before her, stumbling over words about shells and colors and how pretty her eyes are. She needs nothing from you."

Another step forward, and they stepped back, retreating a little space between themselves and Aonung.

"So you will not go to the eastern platform. You will not present your presents. You will not waste her time with presents she will graciously accept and thoughtlessly discard."

His words sharpened, taking on an edge that was almost a threat but not quite. "And you will not look at her again."

Ronawl went white. Ayom's ears folded flat to his skull. The presents they carried seemed to shrink to absurdly small proportions.

"I don't—" Ronwal started, his voice rough from disbelief, “You can't—"

"I can." His eyes never left Ronawl's face. "I am the future Olo'eyktan. You will do as I say. You will do what I say. You will not ignore my orders and explain to my father why you chose to disobey the orders of his heir."

Silence stretched out between Ronawl and Ayom. Ronawl chewed his jaw but did not say anything.

Ayom had already turned away, his shoulders hunched in a familiar crouch, holding the blue—tipped shells close to his chest as if their weight could anchor him.

Ronawl stood there a further heartbeat, then, as if a burden had fallen upon him, his shoulders slumped once more.

Both of began to walk away.

Aonung stood there, watching them go. Their footsteps blended into the general noise of the village, the click of tools, the distant laughter, the low murmur of voices.

He stood alone on the weathered wooden walkway. The morning light was abnormally bright, almost uncomfortably so, as it painted the world with a crisp clarity.

had done the right thing.

Right?

The walk back to Miral’s own marui was quiet, softly so, and it wasn’t a quiet that pressed in on her chest and made her feel like screaming in frustration and disappointment.

No, it wasn’t that kind of quiet. Her feet padded softly along the woven pathways, and her tail hung a little lower back behind her, as if it were also relaxing into the quiet.

In the distance, the evening meal was being prepared. A stray scent of roasted fish and the sweetness of tubers wafted through the air, borne on a lazy and wandering breeze.

But she wasn't hungry.

The “special day” had come and gone, and Tsireya’s bold experiment had fizzled out into nothingness. Ronawl and Ayom had failed to show up, Kiran’s bracelet still rested on her wrist, a little askew, a little pink—tinged, and not quite right. And the eastern platform was bare and untouched, as if the events of the day had never occurred there at all.

After countless of resurgence to Tsireya that it was okay and she did not need to apologize, in a way, she ought to have been more disappointed.

Maybe it was just the weight of fatigue that had worn her hopes down to a dull resignation.

Her marui finally came into view, the familiar woven curtain of the entrance swaying gently in the evening breeze. She pushed it aside and entered, the familiar scent of rope and fiber and home enveloping her warmly.

The basket was there.

Sitting on her work mat, perfectly centered, the handle facing the door. The fish had vanished, the sign of a meal already eaten, cold and a little complaining in its absence, but the basket itself was there, clean and empty.q

She stood and simply looked at it.

Aonung had said he would carry it, taking it from her hands without asking. He had shouldered that burden for half the village, he had carried it all the way here and set it gently on her mat, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it belonged to him as much as it belonged to her.

She smiled.

It was such a small thing, almost unimportant. A simple basket. Not large, not heavy & anyone could have carried it, easy for a passerby or a neighbor to lift and move. Yet he had insisted, stubborn and silent, refusing to let go of the momentary concession of help.

His grip on the handle was unnaturally tight, as if the basket were a fragile thing that might shatter if he loosened his hold even a fraction. And every time she looked at him, his tail flicked, quick and involuntary, a small, almost nervous motion that betrayed a tension he wasn’t ready to name.

Aonung.

She found herself thinking again about his face this morning, about the little patterns that lingered there after the exchange. The way his jaw tightened when she mentioned Kiran's bracelet, a subtle clench that spoke louder than words.

The way his gaze kept straying to her wrist, to the crooked pink shell, an accessory that carried its own stubborn history and how it seemed to irritate him as if the object itself had taken up a personal stake in their conversation.

She pondered the way he’d said, “It’s the wrong color”—not with cruelty, not with mockery, but with a quiet certainty. It wasn’t a taunt, it wasn’t meant to wound or insult.

It was simply a statement of fact, as if he knew in a way that felt undeniable, even to her, that there was a color that would suit her better than any other, a hue that would settle over her in the most fitting, unspoken way.

She thought about his hands. The roughness of the calluses that lived on his palms. The way he’d carefully, precisely, picked up the basket from her, as though it were something delicate, something valuable, something he wanted to make sure didn’t wobble or spill.

Her fingers brushed against the handle, still somehow warm from his grasp, as though lingering there a fraction of a second longer than they should have.

She knew exactly what she should do. Put it away. Set it aside, hang it on its hook (although she desperately needed a new one), and pretend she could forget about it.

She leaned forward slightly, intending to pick it up again—

And then she froze, halfway through the motion.

Something underneath it. It wasn't hidden nor concealed. It was merely placed. Centered on her work mat, as carefully as though someone had set it there with an intention, with a purpose.

A hook.

Black obsidian, shiny with a deep, watery sheen. The curve was smooth, precise, with a cutting edge sharp enough to hold, rounded enough to feel comfortable. A length of braided cord, strong, even, with each loop deliberately woven, passed through a small hole drilled with precise, careful accuracy.

She did not immediately reach for it. She simply stood there, regarding it, her mouth slightly ajar as she took it all in.

Her mind was slow, almost as if it had a life of its own, taking in all the details with meticulous care. The smoothness of the polish, the precision of the curve, the braiding of the cord was tight, even, with equal tension from end to end.

The cord. Familiar.

She had seen it before. On a hunting knife Aonung had repaired for one of the elders. On a spear Aonung had returned to a novice, the shaft wrapped with new cord, Aonung’s work neat, precise, unmistakably Aonung’s.

Aonung.

Her hands seemed to move before her mind really grasped what she was doing. She picked up the hook.

It felt right. Not too heavy for what she used currently, yet not so heavy that it would be cumbersome. And it felt perfectly balanced.

It wasn’t something that had been thrown together. It wasn’t something that someone who had thrown it together that morning would use.

It was something that had taken time. Patient time. Deliberate time. From someone who knew exactly what she needed, and wasn’t willing to settle for anything less than perfect.

Her thumb ran over it again. Smooth, without any bumpy areas or irregularities. Someone had sanded and polished and inspected it, multiple times, until every aspect of it sparkled with perfection.

It seemed to radiate a warmth that wasn’t just from the afternoon sun coming through the curtain and falling on the obsidian. There was something more, as if someone had held it, or touched it, or considered it, or—offer it.

He had come here. He put the basket and—

He put that underneath. His gift. His work. His hands, leaving a sign of himself.

And then he left.

She looked at the entrance curtain. She looked at the hook in her hands. She looked at the empty space where he must have stood, alone, thinking.

He left.

Why did he leave?

Her jaw set. Her hands closed tight around the hook. She knew him. She knew the way his handsworked when he was focused. She knew the way he examined his work over and over until it was perfect. She knew the way he said nothing when what he said from his heart said everything.

She knew that he had worked on that for weeks. She knew that he had carried it with him, waiting for the right moment. She knew that he stood inside her marui, alone, and put that underneath her basket like he was afraid to let her see it.

He’s afraid.

The future Olo'eyktan shuddered at the thought of what she might say.

He was afraid of her.

Miral’s chest felt as though something was pressing against her lungs, a dull pain that would not go away.

Her eyes went back to the hook. She examined it again, the careful curve, the way the edge had been honed to an exact sharpness, the way the cord had been braided with a patience she hadn’t known he possessed, the kind of patience that had apparently elapsed in him, slowly and almost unnoticed, until it had become part of his very craft.

He saw her.

He saw the details she hadn’t told him about. He saw that her hook was too light, not heavy enough to do what she hoped to do. He saw that she needed a sturdier, more capable one. He saw all of this and, without being asked to do so, without expecting anything in return, he did what needed to be done and fixed it himself.

He saw her, and because of what he saw, he left something behind, this small act of kindness and care, because he did not know how to stay.

He did not know how to be in her presence, not with her in the same world, not with the same horizon between them.

She held the obsidian in her hand and felt its smooth surface respond to her touch.

The sun was sinking, casting a softer, dusty gold over the village as it settled into the evening. He would find a place to be alone, somewhere quiet and alone, a corner where he thought no one would look for him.

And he was mistaken.

She would find him.

The paths of the village were quiet, the evening stillness descending like a soft blanket over Awa’atlu. The shadows grew longer as the sun set, and a quiet stillness enveloped the community, with the familiar sound of the day winding down.

In the central area of the maruis, fires burned, sending warm, golden glows dancing across the surface of the water. The sound of carefree laughter carried by the children faded into quiet echoes as the villagers settled into the evening, exchanging quiet tales and rituals to mark the end of the day.

Miral walked purposefully, her feet moving lightly but quickly over the paths. The obsidian hook seemed to hover in her hand, clenched like a talisman to steady her heart. Her breathing was steady, calm, as she walked.

Her first destination was the training rings. The sand was smooth, raked flat and ready for the next day’s training, but empty now, waiting for the return of the warriors.

Next, she went to the pit of the day’s labor, where the fires had burned out. Tsireya and Lo’ak sat close together, their heads bent over a small piece of wood, but Ao’nung was not there.

She glided past the hunters’ platform, where spears stood at ready against the rails, lined up in their usual, orderly fashion. He wasn’t sharpening spears, as he sometimes did when seeking solitude.

The southern part of the village seemed to beckon her, its narrower path partially hidden by hanging vines that swayed gently in the evening breeze. This path led to a small platform on the village’s edge, where thick mangrove roots plunged downward into the sea, creating a natural, half—sheltered observation platform.

And that’s where she found him. Ao’nung sat at the far end, back to the village.

His tail remained stationary beside him, yet stationary in a way that suggested he was forcing it to stay that way, forcing it to remain immobile and silent, to betray him as little as possible.

He had been looking out over the water, which was darkening by the minute, and yet a smaller obsidian hook, probably a testing piece, had been balanced across his knuckles, rolling back and forth from finger to finger in a smooth, hypnotic motion.

The wooden platform rocked and creaked in protest as she put her foot down onto it, every inch of the wooden planks responding to her weight. He did not turn to look at her, he kept his eyes trained out over the horizon, out over the dark, turbulent mixture of water and sky.

But his shoulders had tensed, just a little, just enough to suggest it without actually moving. It was as if the tension had rolled across his skin like a wave about to crash, about to come to the surface.

She waited, standing her ground and letting the moment hang between them, letting the silence build and grow thick around them. And then, finally, his voice cut through it, low and rough

“You found It too soon.”

She took a step closer, allowing the space between them to close until it seemed closer than it had been before. “You left it under my basket. You wanted me to find it,” she said, speaking softly but surely.

He laughed, a short, bitter sound, but still did not look at her, his head still averted, still not meeting her gaze. “I wanted to leave it. Not explain it to you.”

Miral sat down beside him, close enough for their arms to touch, the warmth of his skin against hers contrasting with the cool, salt—tinged breeze blowing off the water.

She sat down on the mat, its yielding surface giving way beneath her, and set the hook between them, its black stone glowing softly in the fading light of day.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “You clearly spent weeks on it.”

His face still did not turn to hers, but his fingers continued to rotate the smaller hook, small, almost ritualistic motions.

“I spend weeks on a lot of things. It doesn’t mean anything,” he said, his voice flat, almost detached.

“It means something to me,” she said, and the words seemed to hang in the space between them.

His hand paused, the rolling motion stopping.

She watched the side of his face, the tight line of his jaw, the way the muscle flexed every time he swallowed, the tiny tremble at the corner of his mouth, a tremble that gave him away.

His ears pulled slightly backward, a reaction when he felt cornered, trapped, when he knew there was no way out, every second of it completely intolerable.

“Why didn’t you give it to me yourself?” she asked, her voice dropping, inviting him to speak without judgment.

He breathed out through his nose, the sharp exhale full of irritation and frustration, more so than words alone were capable of conveying. “Because I’m an skxawng.”

“That’s not an answer.” Though her voice was calm and unruffled, the raise of her eyebrows betrayed her skepticism.

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you looked at Kiran when he gave you that bracelet.” His words were laced with sarcasm and irritation, more so than he’d intended to let them be. “Oh, wonderful, another bauble. Thanks so much.”

Miral paused for a moment, her brow furrowed in concern as she processed his words. “I didn’t look at him any particular way.”

“You smiled. You thanked him. You wore the damn thing.” He still refused to turn to her, his voice dropping even lower as sarcasm and defensiveness built up as barriers. “Must have been the high point of your day, getting a crooked bracelet from someone who probably tripped over his own tail to deliver it to you.”

“I was being kind.”

“I don’t want kind.” He finally snapped, though his face stayed turned away, as if meeting her gaze would make things worse. ‘I don’t want polite. I don’t want you to accept it just because you’re nice. I want—’ He cut himself off, jaw clenched so hard she heard the teeth click, his ears flattening further.

She waited, the silence stretching between them, the water lapping softly below.

“I want you to want it. Because it’s from me. Not because Tsireya told you to go along with her ridiculous Sky Person holiday and collect pity gifts from losers who don’t know the first thing about you.’

Miral’s throat moved, and her grip on the hook tightened.

Then she reached out slowly and covered his hand with hers. The smaller hook was still between his fingers, now it rested between both of their palms.”

“you shouldve gave it to me sooner” she said. “If I had known, I would’ve used it. Not the bracelet. Not the pin. This.”

He stood stock still. Not a single breath escaped him for a moment that stretched long and quiet. She tightened her grip on his hand. “Why didn’t you just say something? You’ve had two whole years.”

“Because I’m a coward,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Future Olo’eyktan, afraid of a little rejection. Pitiful, isn’t it?”

“That’s not an answer either.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he snapped back, still not turning to face her, his voice carrying that sharp, bitter edge. “What, you want me to spell it out? Fine. Every time I tried to open my mouth, I imagined you laughing in my face. Or worse—being kind about it. ‘Oh, Ao’nung, that’s sweet, but no thanks.’ I’d rather eat raw akula guts.”

“I’m not laughing.”

He snorted, laced with sarcasm. “Lucky me. The great Miral deigns to sit with the idiot who can’t even give a gift right.”

That irritated her.

She dropped his hand, and then she touched her own to his chin, tilting his head up until their faces met. His eyes opened wide, as if shocked by the sudden closeness. A flush began to creep up his throat, changing the color of his turquoise skin to a pinkish hue, but still, he stood rigid, jaw set, ears flat, as if ready to fight.

And then she kissed him.

It was a fast, angry sort of kiss, as if she meant to overwhelm him, to stop any argument dead in its tracks by sheer force of will.

Ao’nung stood stock still, his breath caught in his chest, his tail bristling behind him. For a long time, he did not move, as if his mind had simply stopped functioning, as if he were frozen in place, the blush spreading over his cheeks until it glowed brightly, even in the poor light.

But then, suddenly, he seemed to come to life, turning into her kiss with a slow, tentative faith as his other hand came up to cup the back of her neck.

His fingers shook, not quite steady, but as he kissed her, his head tilting, his tongue slipping past her lips, as if worried that if he moved too fast, he would shatter something delicate.

Did he die and this was heaven?

His thumb caressed the soft skin behind her ear, while his other hand remained beneath hers. Miral smiled against his mouth.

Ao’nung exhaled, a long, relieved breath that seemed to vibrate between them, and pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist to pick her up onto his lap without breaking the kiss.

Miral moved once again in his lap, slow and deliberate, pressing her hips down in a lazy, unhurried circle that dragged her heat right along the thick ridge of him.

The friction brought a low groan from his throat before he could even catch it, a sound he barely managed to suppress. His hands tightened their grip on her waist, fingers digging in just enough to lock her in place for a heartbeat, a brief, necessary pause.

“Don’t,” he muttered, his voice a little rougher than usual, as if the syllables came with a rasp and a warning. “Don’t do that.”

She smiled against his mouth, sweetness and mischief mingling in her expression, and rolled again, slowly, letting him feel every inch of the deliberate pressure she applied.

Ao’nung’s breath hitched, stuttering in his chest. His tail lashed once behind him, then curled around her calf with a careful, almost desperate need for an anchor.

“Fuck—stop moving,” he said, the request a half—plea, half—order escaping in a ragged breath. He shifted beneath her, trying to find a position that wouldn’t leave him teetering on the edge of losing it right there.

His hips twitched upward involuntarily, chasing the contact, as if craving a steadier angle to hold him in place.

Miral emitted a soft, breathy laugh, and moments of sheer delight spilled from him, but in that, too, he felt a dangerous edge.

With a fluid motion, he lifted her, his muscular arms flexing as he began to shift their positions, and they did so smoothly that the change seemed almost seamless.

She settled back onto her back, and the mat yielded beneath her, its softness releasing a quiet sigh, and then his body began to descend over hers. He braced himself on his forearms so that he would not crush her.

He looked at her, her hair fanned out on the mat, her lips parting as if she were breathing more heavily than usual, her cheeks flushed that soft violet color that appeared only when she was worked up.

His eyes dropped to her wrist, to the crooked pink shell bracelet that Kiran had given her that morning, and something hot and possessive began to build in his chest, something that settled there with a heavy, intense awareness.

Without saying a word, he cupped her wrist in his hand, softly but firmly, and pulled the bracelet off of her skin

He held the bracelet up, raising it in a slow, almost ritualistic motion, studying it as if it had personally offended him by its very existence, and then released it, allowing it to fall from his fingers and splash into the shallow water below with a soft, metallic plink, a sound which seemed to echo for a moment before it faded into nothingness.

“See? You really hate that thing,” Miral said, a laugh escaping her lips, a sound full of light, surprise, and joy all mixed together.

“Yeah, I hate anything on you unless it’s mine,” he said, his voice flat and practiced, though a faint flush rose into his cheeks, and his ears flicked backward, betraying his unease at the sentiment.

He leaned into her, bending to kiss the inside of her wrist, slow and unhurried, his tongue tracing a path over the spot where the bracelet had rested.

He continued to ascend, placing lingering kisses on the sensitive skin of her inner arm, then tracing up to her shoulder before easing down the slope of her neck.

She tilted her head back to give him space, a soft "mmh" escaping her lips as his mouth found the delicate spot just beneath her ear.

He sucked gently, his tongue brushing over the skin, and she gasped softly small and needy, her fingers tightening in his braids.

“Like that?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

“Yes—” another kiss, open—mouthed and wet, right over the thudding pulse in her neck. “Ao’nung—”

His quiet groan at hearing his name spoken in her mouth sent a shiver through him as he shifted downward.

His lips traced a path across her collarbone, delivering slow, deliberate kisses, his tongue tracing the fragile ridge of bone. She arched slightly, her breasts pressing into his chest, and he seized the moment, kissing down the center of her sternum. His hands slid beneath her top, nudging it upward and off.

Miral’s breath hitched. “Ao’nung…”

“Mmm. So fucking pretty,” he muttered, almost to himself. He lowered his head to kiss the swell of one breast, soft and reverent, then enveloped the nipple with his mouth.

He applied a slow suction, his tongue circling the peak in lazy spirals before giving it a gentle flick, prompting her to arch and moan softly.

“Ah—Ao’nung—”

He hummed against her skin, the vibration traveling straight through her. “I love that sound. Keep making it.”

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same slow and meticulous attention as before, but now drawing harder on the nipple, his teeth scraping just enough to make her gasp, then soothing the sting with the warmth of his tongue.

One hand stayed resting on her waist, the thumb making slow, circular motions on the soft skin there, while the other hand moved down along her side, exploring the gentle curve of her hip.

Miral’s fingers snagged in his braids, pulling gently in a light, flirtatious manner. “You’re—mm—teasing.”

“Me?” He raised his head, a smirk dancing across his lips as he glanced at her, smug and flushed and hungry—eyed. “You’re the one who started rubbing up on me like that. I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

He explored further, moving lower, his mouth open and wet as he kissed along her ribs, then down to the soft expanse of her stomach.

His tongue darted into her navel, and she let out a shaky laugh that quickly turned into a sigh as he nipped the sensitive flesh just below it.

“Ao’nung—please—”

He looked up at her, the weight of his gaze settling on her as he regarded her with a slow, deliberate interest. His eyes were heavy—lidded, the familiar smug look still present, “Please what?” he asked, his voice low, as though he savored the tension of the moment.

Miral’s breathing was short, quick puffs, her chest rising and falling rapidly, a rhythm that spoke of repressed nerves and heightened senses.

The starlight danced across her skin, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, and causing the tiny glowing freckles on her cheeks to flicker, like reef lights twinkling in a quiet underwater current.

Her long, black hair had spilled out everywhere, half of it cascading across the mat, half of it tangled around her shoulders, and a few damp strands still clinging tenaciously to the curve of her neck.

She looked like a wreck, her lips swollen from the kiss, her eyes glassy and dark, her pupils blown wide enough to swallow almost all of the color that normally defined them.

“Please…” Her words were no more than a breathy whisper, soft and trembling, and had a quality to them that seemed almost to be a sigh on her lips. “Please touch me. I need you.”

The weight of it settled on Ao’nung’s chest with a sudden and startling clarity, as though Eywa herself had reached down and put a warm, comforting hand over his heart.

He had spent years waiting for a moment just like this one, for her to look at him with that look of need and longing, her words trembling just a little, asking for him.

He felt chosen. He felt blessed. He felt as though the Great Mother herself had decided that he was worthy to have her.

His throat worked, and he drew a breath, sitting up evenly though still towering over her, his knees bracketing her hips.

He inclined his head a little to look at her more closely, at the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, at the way the color rose on her cheeks, and at the way her lip went between her teeth as she tried to hold back another little whine of need.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice low and steady and full of reverence. “Ask me nicely.”

Her hands rose to his arms, and she curled them over his biceps. “Ao’nung, please. Touch me. I want your hands on me.”

He exhaled a soft, trembling breath, close to a laugh, a moan, and a combination of all three, before reaching down to deal with the knots at her hips.

His hands moved with quiet determination, steady, though careful, as he began to untie her with infuriating slowness. The rope loosened, sliding down her thighs, pooling around her ankles, as it came into contact with the night air.

The cool air caressed her newly exposed skin, and she shivered, her thighs coming together instinctively. Before she could even begin to make any sort of whine, though, his hand slipped into place between her legs.

His finger slipped inside her, moving with slow, languid ease, feeling her warmth, her moisture, as it slid in with no hesitation whatsoever.

She gasped, her hips rising up towards him, as her inner muscles fluttered around that single digit, as though they were attempting to draw him in further.

Ao’nung's smile was soft, smug, and perfectly content as he leaned forward, pressing a light, reassuring kiss to her forehead. “There you go,” he murmured against her forehead, his breath warm against her skin. “it's as though you've been waiting as long as I have.”

He added another finger, slowly curling them, tracing that soft, sensitive place inside her in slow, deliberate movements, while his thumb danced feather—light circles on her clit.

Miral emitted a moan, high and sweet, a sound that flew through the night air. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, her nails digging in enough to leave a sting that matched the level of the moment.

“Ao’nung, oh.. right there—”

He kissed her temple, then moved to the bridge of her nose, and finally, to the corner of her mouth, soft little kisses that stood in gentle contrast to the slow, deep motion of his fingers inside her. “That’s it. Let me hear you. I love the way you sound when you’re falling apart for me.”

Her hips lifted in a slow, exploratory motion to meet the touch of his hand, pressing forward as if to pursue some form of pressure building within her. A shiny layer formed on his hands, glistening and sliding down toward his wrists.

He felt everything within her, every flutter, every clench, every way in which her body grasped him as he found the exact position and pressure with his fingers.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he breathed, his voice heavy with an almost reverent awe. “So flushed and shaking. I’ve been dying to see you fall apart. I’ve been dying to be the one who makes you do it.”

Miral’s head went back further, her moan almost inaudible as he made slow, deliberate circles around her clit with his thumb, his other fingers working in and out of her in a smooth, measured motion. “Ao’nung, please, more—”

He kissed her jaw, lingering on the vulnerable skin just beneath her ear, breathing in the scent of salt and warmth and the floral tang of the oil she’d applied to her skin that morning. “More?” he asked, his voice soft and mocking. “Oh, you’re so greedy. Do you want my mouth too?”

Miral slowly opened her eyes, and the first thing that met her gaze was his face. A spark of amusement danced in her expression, and a tender look crossed her face as she began to slowly push herself up, moving up onto her knees with unhurried movements.

She moved slowly, each movement relaxed, her hands landing on his shoulders as she steadied herself. Her fingers pressing lightly into the firm muscle there,

the night air brushed against her thighs as she shifted to straddle him. The touch was cold at first, and then it began to have that faint, teasing tingling that danced across her skin.

her long black hair falling forward like a silken curtain, brushing his chest in soft, tickling strands that carried the faint scent of sea blooms.

“Why don’t you find a better use for that mouth of yours,” she teased, her voice kind and light, laced with humour as she leaned in to kiss him before he could respond.

Her lips met his, parting slowly to let her tongue flick against his, tasting the faint salt lingering from the day, the kiss turning deeper as she nipped his lower lip gently.

Ao’nung let out a breath that almost sounded like a groan, and his hands rose up, settling at her waist. His large hands spread wide over the curve of her hips, fingers inserting just enough to pull her closer, to hold her against him.

The heat of her core pressed to his abdomen through the thin fabric, sending a jolt through him. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against hers in a slow, wet tangle, saliva mingling as he sucked lightly on her lower lip, drawing a soft sigh from her.

Without breaking the kiss, he reached up with one hand, fingers finding the pale blue pin tucked in her hair.

He tugged it free slowly, the small ornament slipping from his grasp to clatter softly on the mat beside them. His hand moved to the back of her head immediately, fingers threading into her hair at the nape, holding her steady as he angled her just right, controlling the kiss with a gentle firmness that made her melt against him.

Miral’s free hand drifted lower, fingers brushing the tie of his loincloth with deliberate slowness, tugging the knot loose with agonizing patience. The fabric whispered against his skin as it fell open, the cool night breeze hitting his exposed length in a rush that made him twitch, the heat of him throbbing against her inner thigh now, slick with the first bead of pre—come.

She wrapped her palm around him, stroking once from base to tip, feeling every vein pulse under her touch.

She positioned herself over him, the slick heat of her core brushing the head of his cock, teasing without sinking down yet, the contact electric, hot and wet, making them both shiver.

she sank down slowly, taking him in with a soft, drawn—out moan. Her walls fluttering around his thickness as she adjusted, the heat of her enveloping him like velvet, slick and tight, every ridge of him dragging against her sensitive nerves.

The fullness made her tremble, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily, sending a jolt through both of them, the wet heat coating him completely, dripping down in warm trickles that made the slide even smoother.

Ao’nung broke the kiss with a catch of breath, his head falling back slightly, eyes squeezing shut as he groaned, “Miral—” He moaned, hips jerking up once instinctively, making Miral chuckle softly.

She started moving, slow rolls of her hips at first, rising up just enough to feel the drag, then sinking back down with a soft gasp.

Her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage, nails digging into the firm muscle, feeling his heartbeat thunder under her palms, the faint sweat blooming on his skin making her grip slip just a little.

“Ao’nung, mm..it feels so good—” she moaned, voice soft and breathless, picking up a steady rhythm, hips rolling in slow circles that made him curse under his breath.

He watched her, eyes fixed on her face, the way her lips parted on each moan. One hand slid up her side, cupping her breast, thumb brushing the nipple in time with her movements. “That’s it, keep going like that. You’re doing so good, taking me so deep.”

She whimpered, leaning down to kiss him, the taste of salt and heat mingling, tongues sliding together in the same slow rhythm as her hips.

“Ao’nung, faster? Please—” she gasped against his lips, her pace faltering as the pleasure coiled tighter.

He gripped her hips, lifting her slightly, then pulling her down harder. “Like this? You want it deeper?” his voice sounded mocking.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop—” Her moans grew louder, body trembling slightly before she started to tire, the burn in her thighs building, her rhythm slowing despite the desperate need coiling tighter in her belly. She whimpered softly, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his, breaths coming in quick pants. “Ao’nung, I can’t—”

He smirked up at her, smug, satisfied, but his eyes were soft, hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “Let me take over, yeah?”

In one smooth motion, he flipped them, her back hitting the mat again with a soft thud, him settling between her legs without pulling out. The shift drove him deeper, making her gasp, the fullness overwhelming all over again.

He braced on his forearms, caging her, and started moving, slow at first, then building, hips rolling in deep, powerful strokes that hit every spot inside her.

“Mm. You feel so good—” he groaned, burying his face in her neck, breathing her in as he picked up pace.

she moaned, nails raking down his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

His thrusts turned rougher, deeper, the mat creaking beneath them, “That’s it, let me hear how much you love it, fuck, you’re tight—”

She came first suddenly, walls clenching around him in hot pulses, slick flooding in warm waves, her cry soft and broken as pleasure crashed through her.

He followed seconds later, slamming deep one last time, spilling inside her with a low groan, hips jerking as he filled her completely, the warmth spreading through both of them in thick, hot pulses.

Aonung laid down forward, forearms giving out like they’d been holding up the whole reef and flopped fully on top of her, his weight pinning her to the mat with a soft oof that escaped her lips.

His face rested against the curve of her neck, pressed in and lingering there. His breathing came warm and uneven against her skin, tracing soft, irregular rhythms that drifted with each shallow inhalation.

His hands, which had been so confident and driven just moments before, now lay slack at his sides, his fingers loosely curled into the fabric of the mat beneath them. His entire body felt like a dead weight, completely relaxed.

A small smile curved her lips, and her fingers found his hair with a light touch.

It proved softer than she had anticipated. The strands slid through her fingers like water. She combed through it slowly and gently, working out the small tangles with patient, careful strokes. The texture coarser at the roots, smooth and silky toward the ends, the kind of hair that would probably be nearly impossible to manage if he ever allowed it to grow any longer.

He emitted a sound, a tiny, involuntary hum of contentment that vibrated against her skin and seemed to convey his ease without words.

She directed a smile toward the stars. “You like that.”

“No.” The reply came muffled, barely above a whisper, and it lacked conviction.

“You just made a noise,” she pointed out, almost teasingly.

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

The fifth time Jake Sully landed in the soft, damp mud of the forest floor, he had a sudden realization: this was even worse than the drill instructors in the Marine Corps.

At least they’d yelled in English.

A voice boomed down through the thick, buzzing noise of the Pandoran insects, full of unadulterated frustration. “Ke’u! Again!, you stumble as if you’re a child relearning its legs! The branch is not a toy for you! It is a path! Feel it!”

He pulled himself up, brushing away a streak of glowing cyan moss that smeared across his chest, and tilted his gaze up to see the scene above.

His teacher, Ney’ite, sat on a thick, twisting branch two body lengths up from him, with her arms crossed firmly across her chest.

Her label, he had been told, was in some sense equivalent to the words “Daughter of the Forest,” but his human tongue struggled with the sounds. Instead, he thought of it in the sequence of delicate clicks and hums he got wrong every day of his life.

She was the very essence of the beauty and danger of the world she represented: statuesque, powerful, with an eye that seemed to see everything and a patience with him that seemed thinner than a spider's silk but was nonetheless there whenever he needed it.

“‘I’m feelin’ it, believe me,” Jake grunted, his tail witching with irritation. “I’m feelin’ it right in my spine.”

Ney’ite, who was also happened to be a close friend of Neytiri, was judged ‘less likely to shoot the dreamwalker on sight’ by Mo’at, just snorted. “Your spine is weak because your mind is loud. Silence it. Listen to the forest. Listen to the branch.”

This was her answer to everything. Listen.

he had been a soldier, a warrior trained to react, to move, to respond without hesitation. But in this body, in this form that felt like a miracle of running again and leaping and feeling every movement and every sense heightened, the rules were different.

Neytiri had given him the absolute basics of how to be in that form before life forced him into more complex roles, sending him off to Ney’ite with a glance that felt like a great deal of pity, though which of them felt that more keenly, he wasn’t certain.

He took a breath, counted to three in his head, and launched himself forward with a running start. His avatar body launched upward with a powerful movement.

He felt his hands grasp the branch he had aimed for, felt it as if it might pull out of his grasp if he relaxed his grip even a little bit.

For a glorious second of time, he simply hung there, a wide grin spreading across his face as the world seemed to stop with him.

Then, world spun suddenly around him.

He hadn’t prepared himself for the way the living wood would yield, or for the slick, moss—covered underside that made the grip suddenly unsure. His fingers slipped, and instead of making a clean, graceful swing onto the top surface, he peeled away from the trunk, his body arching through the mottled sunlight in a clumsy, flailing descent toward the ground below.

Thud.

This time, the fall did not end in mud. Instead, he landed squarely on his back, sinking into a bed of giant, velvet—soft ferns, the wind knocked clean out of him in a rush.

In his blurred, stunned vision, the stars shone brightly overhead, stars, shining in the real world, while the floating, glowing seeds of Pandora drifted and danced around them.

A shadow fell across him. Ney’ite bent down, her silhouette blocking the twin suns overhead. Her expression had changed from frustration to something close to concern, but only visible for an instant. She leaned in closer, her braids brushing across his chest as she hovered over him.

Jake blinked at her, drinking in her worried expression, the way the sun danced around her face, and the beauty of it all after his thunderous fall. The marine within him faded out, and Jake returned, a man consumed by raw and unadulterated awe.

“Have I gone to heaven…?” he whispered, his voice hoarse from his fall, a wry smile spreading across his face.

Ney'ite's expression changed from worried to wide—eyed shock and then to a smoldering anger at his words. “Tewti! You are not dead! You are bad!” she spat out, though a hint of a blush colored her cheeks. “You talk nonsense!”

“Just admirin' the view,” Jake coughed out, his boldness returning with his breathing as he sat up on his elbows. He was fine, nothing was broken. And the look on her face was priceless.

Ney'ite straightened her back and said, “The view consists of a skxawng that cannot climb a simple tree. Up. Now.”

He was able to stand up, a new ache running through his shoulder, but his spirit was unbroken. “You know, where I’m from, when someone takes a fall like that, the teacher usually asks, ‘You okay?’”