#uturu

The dream of flying the skies with the same heartbeat as the mighty animal had come true. Except, the yearning for the freedom to fly to the edge of the forest–to see the ocean– had become a distant fantasy. There was nothing freeing about fleeing for your life or flying into battle, hoping–praying to Ewya, that you might live long enough to fight the next battle. Praying that you might live long enough to hug your family one last time. 

In another life, you would be embarrassed and full of shame at how good you had become at running for your life. A warrior should stand their ground and fight. But you had seen enough death to know when to give up. When to leave. You had developed an advoident style of surviving.

Together, you and your ikran, Leya, had become very good at retreting. Fast and proficient. Flying quickly and smoothly above trees, through the crevices of the flying mountains, above the clouds.

Someitmes you could almost taste the freedom, just there, on the tip of your tongue. Like a word about to be spoken. In the moments of stillness that came from flying above the clouds. Leya’s strong wing beats would level out and a loud, windy silence would settle over the two of you. There was nothing in moements like this. No commands. No explosions. No war. Just the fleeting presence of peace. 

Those moments had become rare: far and few between.

By the age of fifteen, you had become the main source of protection for your two younger siblings. The job had once been split between you and your older brother, but when he died in battle against the sky-people, the weight of his loss fell heavily on your shoulders. 

That was the first time you had painted the white kxetuve line of mourning down the center of your body. 

A body that had become a killing machine. 

You weren’t skinny and frail anymore. The years had begun hardening you. Muscles had grown where they previously hadn’t been. Your legs now taut with stamina to carry your body nimbly through the forest. Your arms and shoulders tense with lethal precision; always ready to aim for the kill. 

Killing the sky demons got easier the more you did it. Poison-coated arrow tips did most of the work; even if the hit wasn’t clean, they would eventually die. Even so, no matter how many humans you killed, they seemed to come back faster, and with their metal abominations were killing off your clan faster than you would comprehend. 

The longer the war went on, the more devastating the losses were. Death had become a friend to your clan.

Bones rattled against themselves, hung in patterns on new garments. Some even had them braided into their kuru’s. The warriors around you wore the human bones with pride. It was an honor to wear so many; to have killed so many. You might have participated in the trend; however, your mother demanded you never adorn the alien ones. 

And you obayed her wishes for a while.

By the next year, you had lost your father and youngest sibling. You didn’t even have time to truly mourn them. No, wave after wave of the aliens came, bringing death and destruction with them. The RDA had begun burning the forest around your clan in an effort to force your clan from their home. From your home. 

The white paint had become as familiar as the yellow and purple war paint. In fact, the white paint had become a second skin. A layer of emotional armor to coincide with your physical armor. 

Just like your paint your armor also hardly left your body.

A traditional necklace of muted teal and bone-toned river stones—once belonging to your older brother—rested heavy against your slender neck. A leather chest band, crafted by your mother after your iknimaya, crossed your torso, doubling as a sheath and resting atop a green, beaded chest covering that echoed the earthy tones of the leather loincloth at your hips. Soft purple riding leggings clung to your legs, their surface marked by wear. Your younger sister had made you an armband as well, adorned with two feathers—one deep violet and one pale yellow—to mirror the colors of your war paint and ikran. You treasured every gift they had given you, but your favorite piece of armor was the sheath you kept after your father’s death.

You took great pride in replacing his knife with a bone balde you had spent weeks crafting out of the remains of the human who had killed him. That had been the first time you had dragged the killing out for your own pleasure. 

If your mother had been displeased at the alien bone you wore daily, she never mentioned it.

By the age of sixteen, the size of your clan had been cut in half in just two years time. 

Traditional celebrations were slipping through the cracks. Effort and time could no longer be wasted on pretty weaving and dancing. Everyone was making sacrifices in hopes that the aliens would give up or die out.

Your presentation was not a clan-wide celebration, like it once should have been, but a quaint meal with your two surviving family members in your family’s hut. 

You hadn’t even been excited when you had presented as an omega. 

At one point, the clan would have called you a gift from Eywa. Your second gender was considered a sacred honor; Eywa’s promise of the next generation secured in your body.

Now survival meant lasting the day, not the procreation of the next generation. 

During war being an omega was less than ideal. 

Your first heat was a war in itself. The pain was unbearable. Heat and sweat coated your body. Your senses shifted. The smell of the people around you shifted; their pheromones appeared louder, sharper than before. The change was an assault to your nose. Shifts in vocal tone had made your body have a physical reaction that only the angry tone of your deceased father could have elicited. Obedience. 

Maybe in some other life, you could have lived out the delicate tradition of going through your first heat with a potential mate. Spent days alone together, feeling out the new changes in your body with soft embraces. But that was not reality. 

No, reality was sudden and rough and all consuming. War waited for no one; granted no reprieve from its constant drumbeat. You fought your way through bodies of pink skins while your biology fought its way through you. 

The years following your presentation were harder. Stress had caused your body to stop going into heat. Which you were glad about; in war, there was no time to be incapacitated with throbbing pain and aching need. There was no need for your body to bring you more pain when the pink skins flourished in their afflicting torment.

By your twentieth year, there were almost as many scars on your body as stripes. Some small injuries, from training too hard or scraping your body against the rough bark of the forest trees when bolting from unwinnable battles. Others, like the one on your left side just above your hip bone, were bigger and deeper. You had been nicked by a bullet and had almost lost your life from the blood loss. The wound had resulted in a raised scar that you preferred to keep hidden under the ties of your green, leather tewng. 

You had developed a true hatred for the metal machines they used to slaughter your people. If it weren’t for the seemingly endless bullet rounds the pink skins had and their metal flying birds, you were sure they wouldn’t have even lasted this long. If they fought like real warriors, with skill and knives instead of cowering in their metal skins and their skin walker suits, they wouldn’t last very long on Pandora. That much you were sure of. 

Humans fight dirty and kill dirty too. They never went for a clean kill. Never spoke to Eywa for guidance. No, they killed for no reason and cared little about how their actions affected the forest. How they had they affected you. 

The kxetuve mourning line hadn’t left your body in all that time. Every time it faded, there seemed to be a new reason to repaint it on your body. Loss was felt each time you had to apply fresh paint…it was hard to keep track of when one friend's death was repainted over by the loss of a fellow warrior. 

And now you had another reason to freshen up the pigment.

A fresh wave of tears was seemingly never-ending despite the wind’s effort to instantly dry them. 

You had been crying for days now. The most recent attack from the sky-people had been devastating. They had attacked while your camp was sleeping. There had been no time to prepare or to defend. 

The cries of your mother echoed loudly in your head. 

You had awoken to her screams.

To your little sister's last breath. 

To the sounds of skin walkers raiding and killing off the last of your people. 

You had begged, pleaded, and implored your mother to flee with you. But she was more than broken; she was lost. After so much grief–the death of her first son, then her husband, then her most recent child, and now her youngest daughter lay dead in her arms–she could take no more. Her eyes, once bright and golden, had been turned dull. Between her screams, she whispered for you to go–to flee; to leave her to die and finally be with the rest of her family. 

You had felt like a child. Not the warrior you were. You were a coward and left sprinting–and soon flying– as fast as you could instead of fighting like you should have. 

That had been nearly two days ago. Leya was begging for rest through the bond; she was tired from the endless flying. You were sore from sitting for so long and wanted to stop just like her, but you were scared to stop. 

You needed to find toruk makto.

You need revenge. 

The thought was the only thing keeping you going. The thirst for blood–for justice–was all-consuming. It outweighed the hunger in your belly and the pain from the windburn on your face. You craved senseless, brutal, savage violence. 

The younger, softer version of you would be terrified of the monster you were willing to become. 

You would have to kill off the last little pieces of her that still lived in you. And if you had lost that soft, innocent version of you for the justice of your younger siblings who would never reach the age of sixteen; for your older brother who you had aged past; for your father who died protecting your clan; for your mother who had given her children to a senseless war; then you would kill off every soft and weak verson of yourself. You would become harsh, rigid, and lethal to avenge their lives. 

You lost count of the different types of terrain you had flown over.

You couldn’t remember when the forest had turned to water, but now the shoreline before you had shifted into another woodland jungle without much time to register the abrupt change in landscape.

Your body ached, protesting every shift in position as Leya descended lower.

The blue ocean that had stretched endlessly before you, its waters darker than you had imagined in all your childhood fantasies, was now a green sea of trees taller and brighter than you had expected. 

Just a little further, you told yourself, though exhaustion made your vision blur at the edges. Just a little more.

The Ometicaya clan came into view gradually—first the massive Hometree rising like an ancient sentinel, then the movement of Na'vi below. So many Na'vi. The sheer number of them made your chest tighten. You hadn't seen this many people alive in one place in years.

Their lives continued. Training. Laughing. Living. Like the war was something distant. Manageable.

The sight of it twisted something violent in your gut.

Leya's landing was far from graceful. Her legs nearly buckled as her feet touched the ground, and you dismounted more like falling than descending. Your own legs shook, muscles screaming from days of sitting astride her back.

The moment your feet hit earth, the noise hit you like a physical force.

Voices—so many voices—shouting, laughing, calling to one another. The clash of weapons from sparring warriors. The thud of bodies hitting dirt. Somewhere, someone was singing a war chant, deep and rhythmic, and others joined in with aggressive harmonies that made your skin prickle.

The Na'vi around you didn't just stop their tasks to stare. They turned. Warriors mid-spar froze with weapons raised. Hunters with fresh kills slung over their shoulders pivoted to track your movement. Even the children stopped their games, wide eyes fixed on you.

You must have looked feral to them. War paint faded and smeared. Mourning line stark against your blue skin. Eyes red-rimmed and wild. Covered in days of grime and dried sweat and blood that wasn't all yours.

Your hand instinctively went to the knife at your hip—the bone blade made from your father's killer was more comforting than you might care to admit—fingers wrapping around the handle.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. You caught fragments of words. Omega. Alone. Look at her war paint. Is she one of ours? 

The weight of their stares made your shoulders hunch. Made you want to bare your teeth. These people were whole. Their clan was thriving. Their warriors were strong and unbroken and looked at you like you were something strange. Something other.

Everything about them screamed what you weren't. What you'd failed to be.

Your clan was dead. Your family was dead. And you had run.

Survivor. Failure. Coward.

"I need to speak to Toruk Makto." The words came out harsher than intended, your voice hoarse from disuse and crying. Your accent was different from theirs, shaped by a different forest, a different way of speaking. "Now."

An older woman approached, her movements slow and deliberate. She carried herself with the kind of authority that didn't need to be announced—power that radiated from her very bones.

This clan’s Tsahìk you assumed. The title fit her like a second skin. Behind her, a younger woman followed as if she were the older woman's shadow. 

But it was the crowd pressing closer that made your pulse spike. Too many bodies. Too much noise. The scent of so many Na'vi—alphas, betas, omegas, all mixing together in a cacophony that assaulted your nose after days of nothing but wind and Leya's familiar musk.

Your fingers tightened on your knife.

"I am Mo'at, Tsahìk of the Ometicaya," the elder woman said, her eyes sharp as they cataloged every detail of your appearance. Every scar. Every weapon. The mourning paint. Her gaze seemed to pass right through you. Like she was looking into your soul. "This is Kiri, my granddaughter. Toruk Makto is not here.” 

Of course he wasn't here.

Of course.

You had flown for days. Days. Pushed Leya past exhaustion. Fled your mother's corpse and your sister's cooling body and the ashes of your home. And he wasn't even here.

The laugh that escaped your throat was sharp and broken. Several warriors shifted, hands moving toward weapons. You couldn’t care.

"When will he return? Who leads in his absence?" The desperation in your voice made you sound young. Weak. You hated it.

"When Eywa wills it," Mo'at replied, her tone giving nothing away. "What is it you seek, child? His son speaks for him in his absence.”

“I must speak with him then.” You can’t help but growl out in frustration. Child. The word scraped against your pride like a blade. You hadn’t felt or been innocent like a child in many, many years.

“He and his brother fight the sky-people as we speak." Her voice never wavers in tone as she answers your questions.

"And when will they return?” You demand.

The Tsahìk doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head and, with a hum, begins to circle around you like a predator. 

You straightened your spine despite the trembling in your limbs. Despite the way your vision swam. Despite the crowd pressing closer with their whispers and their stares and their wholeness.

She was assessing you. Decided if you were even worth giving any information to. Only once she's completed a full circle around your weak, shaky form does she speak.

“They will be home by tomorrow evening.” She holds eye contact with you for what feels like a lifetime before you realise she wants an exchange of information. 

The disappointment and frustration of the situation tasted bitter on your tongue. You had flown for days with the singular focus of finding him. Toruk Makto. Jake Sully. The warrior who had done the impossible—tamed Toruk, the great leonopteryx that hadn't been ridden in four generations. The alien who had traded his life to become Na'vi rather than stay with the sky-people he had arrived to pandora with.

Stories of him had reached your clan even in the darkest days of the war. Whispered around fires. Passed between warriors. Legends that felt too grand to be real, and yet the evidence of his existence was undeniable.

He had united the clans. United them. Something no one had accomplished in living memory. Rode a beast of pure fury and death itself into battle against the sky-people and won. Drove them from Pandora with nothing but the will of Eywa and the strength of the people behind him.

Your older brother had spoken of him with reverence before he died. Had said that if anyone could save the Na'vi, it would be Toruk Makto. That he was a lethal legend—a warrior unmatched, tactical and brutal in equal measure. He didn't just fight; he destroyed those who threatened his people.

You had clung to that hope. Through every loss. Every death. Every moment you thought you might break. The thought that somewhere, Toruk Makto was still fighting—still winning—had kept you going.

And now you were here, and he was gone. Off fighting while you stood hollow and broken before his Tsahìk, surrounded by his strong, living, thriving people.

People who looked at you like you were a ghost.

Maybe you were.

"I seek Uturu." Your voice came out flat. Empty. "My clan is gone. I am all that remains."

The murmuring around you grew louder. You caught more fragments now. She seeks uturu? Sole survivor? Her whole clan? 

The girl Tsahìk called Kiri shifted beside her. Her expression shifted to something soft. Sympathetic. It made your skin crawl. You didn't want sympathy. You wanted revenge. You wanted the sky-people to burn the way your home had burned. You wanted them to scream the way your mother had screamed.

Mo'at's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—narrowed slightly. You watched as she scented the air, and her gaze sharpened further.

"You are omega."

Not a question. A statement. Another assessment.

Around you, the whispers exploded. Alphas in the crowd shifted, their postures changing. Some leaned forward, seemingly interested in the Tsahìk's observation. Others stepped back, wary. You could feel their attention like insects crawling across your skin.

"Yes." You lifted your chin, defensive, aggressive. Daring any of them to make it a problem.

Mo'at exchanged a look with Kiri that you couldn't decipher. The silence stretched long enough to make your teeth grind.

Was there something you didn’t understand? Why was your second gender so important?

"And unmated," Mo'at said, and somehow it sounded like an accusation. 

The crowd's reaction was immediate. Shock rippled through the gathered Na'vi like wind through leaves.  Clearly and unmated omega was wrong to them.  Apparently shameful, even. Given the number of people who stepped further away from you. 

Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "There was a war," you bit out. "Mating was not a priority when survival—"

"I understand," Mo'at interrupted, though her expression remained severe. "But you must understand our customs. An unmated omega of your age...it is unusual. It will draw attention. Challenges for you."

Challenges. Of course. You hadn't even considered—

Alphas here probably had rights. Claiming rights. The Ometicaya were thriving, which meant their traditions were intact. Their social structures were unbroken by war. Which meant unmated omegas were probably claimed young, properly courted, and bonded according to ancient customs you'd never had the luxury of following.

Which meant you walking in here unmated, unclaimed, smelling of no alpha, was probably the equivalent of ringing a dinner bell.

Fuck.

"I can fight," you said quickly, and your hand was still on your knife. Still ready. "I have killed more sky-people than I can count. I have survived unimaginable battles. I am not some delicate—"

Mo'at silences you with a raised hand. 

Your mouth snaps shut. It takes the rest of your willpower to keep a frustrated growl inside your throat. This was not a battle of strengths but a test of submission. Obedience. Willingness to obey their clan's hierarchy of leadership. 

You hated it. Hated how your biology was seen first and your skill second. Hated how you were willingly subjecting yourself to be reduced to a weak version of yourself that was helpless, all for the sake of claiming uturu. Claiming uturu for the chance, Toruk Makto will help avenge your clan–your family. 

Mo'at's expression softens, just slightly. "I will grant you temporary uturu. The law is sacred, and you have asked. But you will follow our rules while you are here. Until the Olo'eyktan returns and decides rather to grant you permanent uturu, you will respect our ways."

Relief should have flooded through you. Should have made your knees weak. But all you felt was hollow. You were going to have to play a role to fit in here. Another sacrifice of your character you were willing to make for vengeance.

"Thank you, Tsahìk," you managed. The words tasted like ash.

"Kiri will show you where you will stay." Mo'at turned to her granddaughter, and something passed between them. A look you couldn't read. "The large tent near the edge of the gathering space. It has not been used in some time."

Kiri's eyes widened. "Grandmother, that's—"

"It is available," Mo'at said firmly. "And it is far enough from the main camp to give our guest some... peace."

Mo’at turned to dismiss the gathered crowd. She mumbles a few words to a girl much younger than you. The girl nods and starts to make her way past you and towards Leya. You go to stop her, but a hand on your shoulder stops you.

"Go. Rest," Mo'at said, her tone slightly gentler now. "You look as though you might collapse where you stand. We will speak more when you have slept."

“My ikran…” You trail off, watching as the girl starts to untie your ikrans' saddle straps.

“Nita will take care of her. Now go.” Tsahik’s tone leave no room for argument. 

So you find yourself following Kiri through the clan's settlement, and it was wrong. All of it.

The Ometicaya didn't just survive—they thrived. Their tents were well-made, sturdy, decorated with trophies and weavings and signs of life. Warriors sparred with a viciousness that spoke of skill, not desperation. Their strikes were precise, practiced, and confident. Not the frantic fighting of people who expected to die.

You passed a group of young warriors—barely older than you—laughing as they wrestled, their bodies covered in scars that they wore like badges of honor. Scars from victory. From surviving battles they'd won.

Children ran through the paths, playing with toy ikrans, their laughter high and bright and so fucking innocent it made your chest ache.

Everywhere you looked, you saw what you should have been. What your clan should have been.

Strong. Whole. Alive.

The weight of eyes followed you. Whispers trailed in your wake like smoke.

Omega. Alone. Unmated. Survivor. Failure.

That last one you supplied yourself.

The tent Kiri led you to was far more spacious than you expected. Luxurious, even. Woven mats covered the floor, soft and carefully crafted. Weapons hung on the walls—a bow with arrows that looked like they could tear through metal, several knives with edges so sharp they caught the light, a spear that had seen use. All well-maintained. All belonged to a warrior who clearly knew their worth.

Furs were piled in one corner, creating a sleeping space that looked absurdly comfortable compared to the hard ground and cold stones you'd grown accustomed to.

Trophies lined the walls. RDA dog tags. Pieces of shattered equipment. And bones. Human bones, carefully cleaned and displayed.

This wasn't just any warrior's tent.

This belonged to someone important. Someone lethal.

"This is..." you started, uncertain.

"It's available," Kiri said quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes darted away from yours. "You can rest here. I'll bring you food later, okay? Just... just rest."

She left before you could ask questions. Before you could protest. The tent flap fell closed behind her, and you were alone.

Finally and blessedly alone.

The silence pressed down on you like a physical weight.

You stood frozen in the center of the tent, surrounded by signs of a warrior's life. A successful warrior's life. Someone who fought and won and came home to comfort and safety and a clan that celebrated their victories.

Everything you weren't.

Everything you'd failed to be.

Your legs gave out just as you reached the edge of the furs and you collapsed onto the thick, padded bed, and the scent hit you immediately.

Alpha.

Strong and woodsy with undertones of leather and high-altitude winds and something sharper— something you couldn’t seem to name, maybe some type of oil. It was overwhelming after days of nothing but your own fear-sweat and Leya's musk.

This was an alpha's space, but the scent was faded, and with one last look around the room, you decided that whoever had lived here hadn't been home in a long time. The thought made you unreasonably sad. 

You should leave. Should demand different accommodations. Should drag yourself back to Mo'at and insist on being placed somewhere—anywhere—else. 

You couldn’t stay in the home of a deceased warrior. This hut belonged to someone’s dead son, to a dead brother. It was wrong to stay, but your body had other ideas.

The exhaustion was too much. The furs too soft. And despite the faint foreign scent—or perhaps because of it—something in your omega biology insisted this was safe. Protected. An alpha's den–even a dead one–meant security. 

Your eyes slipped closed against your will.

Just for a moment, you told yourself. Just long enough to catch my breath. To gather my strength.

But the moment you relaxed into the furs, your body made the decision for you. Sleep dragged you under like a riptide, swift and merciless and ruthless.

You didn't even remove your weapons.

The bone knife pressed against your hip, the bow across your back dug into your shoulder blades. Your armor stayed laced tight, a second skin you couldn't bear to shed.

You were safe for now, and that was enough.

Not a sound of pain or fear. A warning. Low and deep and resonating from the chest of the person beneath you with enough force that you felt it vibrate through your knees, up your thighs, into your very bones.

Alpha.

The sound hit your omega biology like a physical force. Your hand froze. Your body went rigid. Every instinct screamed contradictions—fight, submit, flee, obey.

The growl rumbled again, and this time you heard it. Not a threat. Not quite. Something else. Something that made your hindbrain pay attention in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

You finally looked—or tried to look—at who you had pinned. The light from earlier had shifted into darkness and save from some glowing lanterns in the tent, the room was covered in shadows.

Na'vi. Male. Warrior.

Even pinned beneath you, even with your blade at his throat, there was no mistaking what he was. This wasn't some scout or inexperienced fighter. This was a true warrior. The kind your clan elders used to speak of with reverence. The kind of warrior who had died in the first years of the war in your clan. 

He was big even in the dark you could tell that much. Broad shoulders that your knees just barely managed to pin. Muscled arms currently trapped under your legs, biceps seemingly thicker than your thighs. His chest rose and fell with steady, smooth breaths beneath your weight, and you could feel the coiled strength in him. Like a viper. Still, but only because he was choosing to be.

Scars decorated his body. Not the desperate, defensive scars of someone barely surviving; like the ones that littered your body. No. These were victory marks. Clean lines from blades. A puckered mark from a bullet on his chest that looked like it should have been fatal, but clearly hadn't killed him, only made him stronger.

You could just make out his war paint; purple and yellow in hick lines made their way across his chest and up his shoulders to his neck and face, covering some of his darker blue striped skin. The colors were smeared and faded on the tops of his cheeks and made the gold in his irises shimmer with life. 

And the scent. His scent. 

The same faded scent that had lulled you to sleep. Woodsy. Leather. High-altitude winds. Alpha. It was strong now. Almost burning your nose with every sharp inhale you make. 

You connect the dots too slowly for your liking. 

This was his tent. His bed. His territory.

And you'd just attacked him in it.

Your hand trembled slightly, the blade still pressed against his skin. You should move it. Should get off him. Should apologize or explain or—

But he hadn't moved.

That realization cut through the panic like ice water.

His arms stayed pinned beneath your legs. His body remained still. He could have thrown you off the moment you'd lunged for him—you could feel the strength in him, could see it in the way his muscles shifted subtly beneath blue skin. Could sense it in the way he held himself with the perfect stillness of a predator deciding whether to strike or not.

Your mind goes dark with possibilities.

He could have stopped you. Could have caught your wrist. Could have reversed your positions and pinned you instead, could have done whatever the fuck he wanted with the unmated omega who'd stumbled into his space.

And yet.

His arms stayed pinned. His body stayed still.

And a smug smile sat on his face.

Not fear. Not anger. Amusement.

Like this was funny.

Your eyes snapped to his face properly for the first time, and—

Fuck.

He was handsome and the shadows from the night only made his features stand out more. Stupidly, unfairly handsome. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. Amber eyes that tracked every micro-movement with an intelligence that made your skin prickle. His bioluminescent syuratan dot his face in a beautiful pattern, despite some being hidden by the paint on his face. Braids adorned with beads that caught the dim light coming from the seam of the tent flap. He was devastatingly attractive. The kind of face that probably had omegas tripping over themselves for his attention.

And he was smiling at you. Like you were entertaining. Like having a knife to his throat was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day.

Your grip tightened on the bone blade. You pulled it back from his skin—not sheathing it, but pointed at him, still straddling his chest and keeping his arms pinned. A clear threat. A promise that you could strike again if needed.

"You think this is funny?" Your voice came out rougher than intended. Sleep-hoarse and sharp with adrenaline.

His smile widened. Showing his very sharp fangs and pearly white teeth. "Little bit, yeah."

His voice was deep. Smooth. Accented differently than yours but not unpleasant. And completely, infuriatingly calm.

Your jaw clenches as you grit out your next words. "I could kill you."

"Could have tried." Still smiling. Still watching you with those too-intelligent, golden eyes. "Would've been interesting to see, pup."

The arrogance of it made your blood boil. You shifted your weight, pressing your knees harder against his arms. Reasserting your position. Your dominance in this moment, even though everything about him screamed that he was allowing this.

"I am not a pup," you bite out. 

"Alright." He actually laughed. The sound rumbled up from his chest, rich and genuine. "What would you like me to use then? Syulang?"

"I am a warrior—" You leaned forward slightly, blade angling toward his throat again. "A Syulang?" You can’t help but scoff in his face. Nothing about yourself had been soft or flower-like in years. “Would you like me to show you how soft and petal like my blade is, hmm?”

Your words matched your actions as you bring the tip of the blade back down to kiss the spot on his neck where his artery sat throbbing and thumping. 

His eyes flickered—just for a moment—down your body. As if he just now cared to observe your position over him. Your weapons. Your armor. Possibly even the mourning paint still visible on your skin. The scars.

When his gaze returned to yours, something in his expression had shifted. Still amused, but... considering. 

The man beneath you takes a deep inhale and his eyes flutter shut. The edges of his nose twitch, so softly if you hadn’t been so close to his face, you might have missed the movement in the dark lit room. His eyes stay closed for a second longer, however when they open again you can’t help but notice how his pupils are blown wider. 

Confusion sets in as you watch the smile come back to his face, only this time it's more of a smirk. A smirk that suggests he knows more about you now, than before. Heat burns in your chest once you realise what he’s done. 

He just scented you. 

Your walls were down, so whatever he smelt– even micro emotions– were now his to use against you. Disgust pools in your stomach.

You hated how their clan still operated, like the trueborn pack creatures of the forest were designed to, using their smell to keep clan bonds tight –like Viperwolves– to sense each member's emotions and henceforth their next bodily reaction. You hated how your sense of smell was used for surviving and not a social norm you had ever experienced. You were out of your league in the Ometicaya; you were weak and stupid when it came to using your senses in that way and this man was exploiting that advantage. 

A growl rumbles from deep in your throat. So Weak. So useless. Your own biology was giving you away and you didn’t know how to stop it. 

The man below you doesn’t react to your growl. Doesn’t even flinch. He just watches you–eyes glued to your face–as he observes you processing your emotions. 

"You're the one who asked for Uturu," he states. Frustration bubbles up again in your chest, clearly he does know more about you, than you do about him. 

"What's it to you?" You dislike the insecurity in your voice when you answer. 

"This is my tent." He says it simply. Factually. Like it explained everything.

Your stomach drops. "They put me in an occupied tent?"

"Technically it's not occupied. I've been on a raid." That fucking smile never leaves his face. "But yeah. This is mine. Has been for years."

Horror and rage war in your chest. Mo'at had known. Kiri had known. They'd put you here deliberately. You had trusted them so easily, so stupidly, and they had betrayed you. An unmated omega in an alpha warrior's personal space was begging for trouble. And now—

Now here he was –trouble– and you were straddling him, and you could feel every inch of his toned body beneath yours, and your omega biology was screaming that this was an alpha, a strong alpha, a good alpha, and you needed to—

No.

No.

You refuse to let your mind be distracted by his pheromones; his body. You needed space to think. To focus. You started to pull back, to get off him, to put distance between your body and his, before your instincts could betray you further.

His hands move fast and smooth, confirming he's every bit the predator he looks like. 

You'd released his arms from beneath your knees when you'd pulled the knife back to distance yourself from the alpha warrior, and he used the freedom to catch your hips. Grabbing but not restraining. Just... steadying. Keeping you from scrambling off him in a graceless panic.

The touch sent electricity up your spine. His hands were strong and warm against the skin of your hips. You could feel the calluses from years of fighting and training as his grip slid down a fraction to find a better grip on you. To keep you close to him. You pray that from his viewpoint he can’t see the twitching, wag in your tail.

"Easy," he speaks softly. His voice dropping lower to be more soothing. The kind of tone that you’ve used on spooked animals. "I’m just as confused as you are… Came home from three days of fighting the RDA to find my tent smelling like—"

"What—" You hiss, body going unwillingly rigid on top of him at the mention of the RDA. 

From the looks of it, the man below you must think you're concerned about the obvious power exchange happening at the mention of this being his tent. But you’ve got bigger worries in mind than this being his tent. How close were the air breathers? If he had been gone for days–

The terror that overtakes your body is all consuming; like a rock sinking into the depths of the sea, never to be seen again. Breathing is suddenly harder, you have to focus on something… anything else.

His grip tightens on you and makes you focus back on the warrior beneath you. The warmth in his palms is like biting into fresh Yovo fruit on a hot day, cooling and relaxing. You fall into the distraction.

You finetune your body–your thoughts– to him. If he thinks you're worried about his tent then play into it, you think to yourself.

“Why,” you question. “Why place me there then?”

"Because," he responds gently to your question, "your one of my many grandmother's attempts at procuring a mate for her grandson. And putting a new omega in the future Olo'eyktan's bed sends a certain signal to the whole clan." 

Oh, well that’s not what you were expecting him to say–

Wait. Future Olo'eyktan? The words seep into you slowly. 

Future Olo'eyktan.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes widened. Your brain scrambled to piece together information. Toruk Makto's clan. His sons were out fighting is what Mo’at has said. This tent—its luxuries, filled with trophies, positioned prominently in the camp. The way Kiri had reacted when Mo'at assigned it. The scent that had made your omega biology purr with safety.

"You're—"

"Neteyam," he offered, and the smugness is back in full force. "Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan. Eldest son of Toruk Makto."

He paused, and his smile turns absolutely wicked upon seeing the fear of recognition in your eyes.

"And you just pinned the heir to the Ometicaya to the floor and threatened to slit his throat with a knife."

His hands were heavy on your hips, now. Still steadying. Still touching you with a casualness that suggested he had no intention of moving them. And then his thumb started to brush up and down; up and over the ties of your tweng and the sensitive skin around it. Involuntary shivers crawl up your spine at the motion.

"So," he continued, eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker, something that made your pulse spike, "you gonna tell me your name? Or should I just keep calling you 'Syulang’?"

Your heart was hammering against your ribs. Too fast. Too hard. The kind of panic that came from being caught off-guard, from losing control of a situation, from being vulnerable.

And he knew it.

You watched his nostrils flare slightly. Scenting the air. Scenting you again. Your fear. Your anger. Your—

His thumbs shifted again. They were now doing small circles just above the top of your tweng. Gentle. Soothing. Except his touch shouldn’t be any of those things.

The tension in your shoulders eased fractionally before you could stop it.

What the fuck.

His expression shifted. Softened just slightly around the edges, though the amusement never quite left his eyes. "Breathe," he said quietly. Not a command. Not quite. But your lungs obeyed anyway, pulling in a deeper breath. "You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."

You mentally scoff at his words. There wasn’t much left in you to be hurt. Nevertheless, your body still obeys by taking in another breath. Deeper this time. And then three more, until your pulse slows enough for your brain to start working right.

You hated this. Hated that his touch was calming you. Hated that his voice was soothing something instinctive and pure animal in your omega hindbrain. Hated that you couldn't understand why it was working when you'd spent years learning to ignore your biology.

"Stop that," you snap, jerking back from his touch.

Except you were still straddling him. Still too close. Still drowning in his scent and the warmth of his body beneath yours.

His hands lifted from your hips immediately, palms up in a gesture of peace. But that knowing look never leaves his face. Like he understood exactly what was happening to you. Like he could read every shift in your scent, every micro-expression, every traitorous response your body was having before you could realise that your own body was betraying your thoughts, yet again. 

What was it with this man?

"Stop what?" The innocence in his tone was absolutely infuriating.

"Whatever—" You gestured sharply at him, at yourself, at the space between you. "—that is. Whatever you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything." Still that calm, reasonable tone. Still that slight smile. "You're just—"

"Don't." Your voice came out harder. Sharper. The blade in your hand angled toward him again. You couldn’t bear to hear him call you an omega. Not when you were so, so much more than that. "Don't treat me like some stupid girl who doesn't know when she's being manipulated."

Something flickered across his face. Respect, maybe. Or interest. "Fair enough."

You needed distance now. Needed to think. Needed to get off him and figure out what the fuck was happening and why Mo'at had put you in this specific tent. This needed to be handled fast, so you could focus on the reason you truly came. You had no time to be a toy this clan could play with.

You shifted your weight to stand, and he let you go. Didn't try to hold you. Didn't reach for you again. Just watched as you climbed off him and backed up several steps, knife still in hand.

He sat up slowly, deliberately. Non-threatening. His movements were fluid, controlled. Every inch the trained warrior he was seemingly bred to be. He stayed seated on the floor, making no move to stand. Keeping himself physically lower than you.

A calculated choice to appear less threatening.

Which somehow made you trust him less.

"Why?" The word came out harsh. Demanding. "Why did they put me here if this is your tent? If you live here?"

Neteyam's expression sobered slightly. He regarded you for a long moment, and you could practically see him choosing his words. Calculating how much to tell you.

"The Ometicaya have rules," he said finally. "Old rules. Traditions that have kept us strong."

"Your traditions mean shit to me. Answer the question honestly."

His jaw tightened fractionally. He didn’t seem to like the insinuation he was lying. The first sign of irritation you'd seen from him. Good. You preferred him annoyed over amused.

"Unmated omegas are fair game," he speaks bluntly. "Any alpha can attempt to claim them. Challenge for them. Take them."

The words hit you like a physical blow.

Take them.

Your fingers tightened on the bone knife, keeping it positioned in front of your body. "Willing or unwilling?"

"Historically?" His eyes never leave yours. "Both."

Ice flooded your veins. Horror and rage and a sick understanding crash over you in waves.

"The warriors I saw staring at me," you said slowly. "When I arrived. They weren't just curious."

"No. Most likely not."

"They were deciding—" You force your voice steady, but can’t help the crack in your tone. "They were deciding if I was worth the trouble of claiming."

"Some of them, yeah." He said it so calmly. Like it was normal. Like it was just another fact of life in the Ometicaya.

Your vision swims with red. "And you let this happen? You let your warriors just—just take omegas who don't—"

"I didn't say I agreed with it," Neteyam interrupted sharply. The first real edge in his voice. "I said it was tradition. The old way. My father has been working to change it, but change takes time. Especially with the elders."

"That's not good enough." You were shaking now. With a new rage. With a new fear. With the realization of just how much danger you'd willingly walked into. "I came here for sanctuary. For help. Not to be—"

"You're safe," he cut in, and his voice had dropped to that soothing tone again. But this time there was steel underneath. Certainty. "You're safe because you're here. In this tent."

You stared at him. "What does that mean?" The words come out coated in detestment.

"You asked why grandmother put you here." He gestured at the space around you. At his weapons. His trophies. His territory. "Traditionaly the most eligible alpha gets first claim to new ‘mega’s. Your here because of who and what I am to this clan. My rank. My title. My claim to..."

You could feel the words he was leaving unsaid. My official claim to you.

"I don't understand." And you truly didn’t. How could you asking for uturu possibly mean that you would have to willingly put up with this hierarchical bullshit. You wanted bloody, crimson revenge not to fall into rank with this clan. The Ometicaya were supposed to be your salvation and now it is starting to seem more like it’s own type of personal Hell to you. 

Neteyam shifted to a crouching position, his weight shifting to his toes. The new position did little to calm you. He looks even more massive in this new position, light casking onto his silhouette–highlighting his physique that now looked posed to strike–to chase.

"It means," he said carefully, "that by putting you here, grandmother made it very clear that you're under my protection. Any alpha who wants to challenge for you would have to go through me first."

The implication settled over you like a heavy cloak.

"And they won't," you said slowly. "Because you're the heir. Because you're—"

"Because I'm the most dangerous warrior in this clan after my father," he finished. Not bragging. Just stating a fact. His causal tone irked every bone in your body. "Because I've killed more sky-people than anyone except Toruk Makto himself. Because challenging me would be suicide, and everyone knows it."

He was protecting you. Mo'at had placed you in the one location where no other alpha would dare touch you.

But that meant—

"I slept in your bed," you said, and your voice sounded distant to your own ears. "I'm covered in your scent. The whole clan is going to think—"

"Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish. "That's... going to be a thing."

Horror and humiliation war in your chest. "They're going to think you're claiming me. That I'm yours."

"For the time being, yes."

"And you're just—okay with that?"

"I'm okay with you being alive," he said flatly. "I'm okay with you not being dragged off by some alpha twice your size who doesn't give a shit about consent. I'm okay with grandmother using my reputation to keep you safe." He pauses only for a second, as if the weight of his next words were just something else for him to carry. "I am the next Olo'eyktan, I care deeply about the protection of my people. That includes you now. So regardless if I have to kill the sky-people or protect you from egotistical alphas, then so be it. I’ll always get the job done."

You wanted to scream; wanted to rage. Wanted to reject all of this, the protection and the implications and the sheer arrogance of him deciding you needed saving.

"When you asked for Uturu," Neteyam continued, and his tone had gentled again but still cared an edge to it, "you agreed to follow our rules. Our laws. Grandmother took it upon herself to assign you to me, partly because of tradition, but also because she is insistent on me finding a mate. Until you find a mate you actually want, you're with me."

The words triggered something violent in your chest.

"I don't need a keeper," you snarled, and you were moving before you thought about it. Closing the distance between the two of you. Blade angled at his throat again. "I don't need you to protect me. I've been surviving just fine on my own."

He didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just looked up at you with those too-knowing golden eyes.

"I don't want a mate," you continued, and your voice was shaking with fury. "I don't want protection. I don't want any of this. I want revenge. I want the sky-people who killed my family to burn. I want to watch them bleed and scream and die, and I want to be the one holding the knife when it happens."

The silence in the tent was loud after you finished your rant. You could feel the weight in the room shift as Neteyam regarded you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled.

Not the smug smile from before. Something sharper. More feral. Understanding.

"Finally," he said softly. "Something we agree on."

Your blade wavered. "What?"

"You want revenge?" He tilted his head slightly, baring his throat to your knife in a gesture that should have been submissive but somehow wasn't. "Good. So do I. So does every warrior in this clan. That's what we do. We hunt the sky-people. We make them pay for every inch of our land they've tried to steal. For every Na'vi they've killed."

He leaned forward slightly, finger tips gently resting on the ground, and his eyes were blazing now–something familiar. Golden and intense and full of the same rage that burned in your chest.

"You want to watch them burn? I'll hand you the torch. You want to make them scream? I'll teach you exactly where to cut to make it last. You want revenge?"

His smile widened, showing sharp teeth.

"Welcome to the Ometicaya, sevin. We specialize in it."

The words sent a thrill down your spine that had nothing to do with fear.

Everything to do with something else entirely.

Your breath caught. Heat flooded through your body—sharp and sudden and wrong because this wasn't the time, wasn't the place, wasn't—

But the image his words painted was intoxicating. The promise of revenge. Of justice. Of finally, finally making the sky-people pay for every loss, every death, every moment of suffering they'd inflicted.

The thought of it made something deep in your core throb with anticipation.

With need.

Not the heat-need your omega biology sometimes whispered to you in the dead of night. This was different. Darker. The need to see blood spilled. To hear screams. To watch the light leave the eyes of those who'd destroyed everything you loved. To claim victory over the oppression and horrors that had been casted onto you.

And he was offering it to you.

Neteyam's nostrils flared.

His pupils dilated.

The change in his expression was instantaneous—that once lazy amusement sharpening into something exclusively predatory. Something dangerous. His eyes tracked over you with new intensity, and you watched his jaw clench. Watched the muscles in his shoulders tense.

He'd scented it. Your excitement. Your attraction to his offer.

Fuck.

"You—" His voice came out rougher. Lower. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again there was something raw underneath the words. "You really mean it. The revenge. It's not just anger talking."

"I told you—"

"No, I know." He crawled forward on his hands and feet like an animal stocking its prey, and the movement brought him closer. Too close. Close enough that you could see the way his pupils had blown wide again. Could smell the shift in his scent—something sharper, muskier, alpha responding to omega interest. "I can smell it on you. How much you want it. How much you need it."

Your hand tightened on the bone knife as he leaned into its sharp edge. "Stop scenting me."

"Can't help it." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Something more intense. "You're broadcasting loud enough that half the camp probably knows you're—"

He stops abruptly and pulls back. Dragged his eyes away from you with visible effort.

But the damage was done. His pheromones had already hit your nose—thick and heady and screaming alpha, strong, dangerous, capable. Everything your omega hindbrain insisted you should want. Should need.

The urge to drop to your knees was overwhelming.

To straddle him again. To press close and take what your biology was screaming you needed. To—

No.

NO.

You needed to keep those thoughts far, far away. Needed to find something to talk about; to lighten the wave of desire that had suddenly taken over your body. 

You take a step away from him, back brushing up against the walls of his tent. You hadn’t realised just how far he had moved to follow after you; the bed was now across the room. But there he was just a breath away, crouched like he might be worshiping the ground you had just been standing on.

“A bargain.” Your voice is a shaky whisper now, but this time it has nothing to do with fear. 

“What?” Neteyam leans in ears tilting to hear you better. Eyes focusing in on your mouth.

“A deal,” you have to clear your throat to speak. Choking down the desire that is clawing up your throat in an effort to sound more certain. “We should make a deal.” 

The smirk appears back on his lips. His tail waves behind him in excitement or anticipation, at your suggestion. “What kinda deal?”

You force your shoulders to square and your spine to straighten. Based off the look on his face, you must choose your next words carefully. 

“The kind of deal that gets us what we both want.” 

His head tilts when he speaks, “And what’s that, Syulang? Blood?” He assumes and scuffs, “I don’t need anything from you to spill blood.”

“Right, but you seem annoyed by your grandmother about this mate situation.” The words fall from your lips so fast you can’t help yourself as the next words follow. You just hope he will believe them, because you don’t. “I’ll play house with you, to get her off your back.”

“Play house?” He laughs out. “What an offer from such a brave little omega. Is that what you think I want?”

“Look,” you bit out. “Clearly, I need more from you than you do from me.” The truth of the situation hangs in the air and leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You can’t believe the game you're about to play with the prince of the Ometicaya. You were going to have to admit to both Neteyam and yourself, how much you actually needed him. You were about to show him just how weak you were.

“I don’t want a mate. I want blood,” you restate the obviouse. “You can give me blood and keep the alp–” the words die on your tongue. “You can keep the others away. I don’t have much to offer you but…” You leave the sentence hanging in the air. “I can play mate and get your grandmother off your back so you can be free of her nagging.”

What else could you even offer an alpha warrior who can have whatever and whomever he wants. This deal might not even be sweet enough for the warrior prince of the Ometicaya.

The tent is silent for a long minute as the man before you observes every little thing about you. It takes genuine effort to keep you back straight and not fall to the floor in a ball and sob at the intensity of Neteyam’s gaze upon you.

“Alright,” he stands to his full height as he begins to speak. “I’ll make a deal with you. My needs are different from yours though. So don’t agree to this lightly.” 

He closes the last little bit of distance between you again and you have to look up to maintain eye contact with him. Your back fully touches the wall of the tent, and you feel like a caged animal. No, you are a caged animal and Neteyam was the one holding the key.

What little space that exists between the pair of you is now laced with the dense air of desire.

“What do you want?” The words are barely a whisper in the wind but they carry the suggestion of surrender.

His voice hits your ears like nectar to the tongue of a Direhorse .

“If you want to play house with me,” he pauses, voice full of want as his eyes fall down your body. “That means being my rut partner. I have no time to waste in this war. Handling my rut by myself isn’t proficient and hooking up with random omegas is tireless. It takes days if not a full week to get through alone but with a partner it's gone in a day or two. Would you agree to that, ‘mega?”

A gasp leaves your mouth and Neteyam breathes it in. His growl echoes in the tent. There is no doubt in your mind he already knows–smells– how you feel about that. Scared and excited. The conflicting emotions cloud your brain. 

You had never had a heat partner before; it had been so long ago that you had even experienced a heat that you were too young to even have a partner and no male had ever asked you to help them through their rut. The thought provokes something foreign in you, that you struggle to name until it becomes clear: lust. 

Between the tension in the air and the heat you can feel coming off Neteyam, the thought occurs to you at how easy it would be to fall into the trap he was setting for you. How easy it could be to let him have his way with you.  If you were any weaker you might have caved right then and there, but fear pushed the idea deep and far away into the back of your mind.

You had to focus on the bigger picture, not on the throbbing in between your thighs. If you could play your cards right–if you could manipulate Neteyam just enough to get what you wanted then leave the clan– what could be so bad about being his rut partner. 

“If I agree,” You can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. This man is a stranger. “I–

Your stomach growls.

Loud and long. Completely destroying whatever moment had been building between you.

Neteyam's head snaps down to look at the source of the sound. His expression shifts immediately from a predatory intensity to something else. His eyes narrow, and he is backing away from you, creating the largest distance from him you’ve had since tackling him to the ground earlier.

"When did you last eat?" It’s not a question but a demand.

You blinked at the sudden change in conversation; in his actions. "I—what?"

"Food. When?" He was already moving, grabbing something from a pile near his sleeping furs. A woven bag. "When the fuck did you last eat?"

The anger in his voice catches you off-guard. This wasn't the amused, smug warrior from moments ago. This was something else. Something almost... concerned.

"I don't—" You tried to remember. The morning before the attack? Before your sister died? "Two days, maybe? Three?"

The sound he made was somewhere between a growl and a curse.

"Come on." He strode toward the tent entrance, then paused. Looked back at you with an expression that brooked no argument. "And stay close. Don't wander off."

It wasn't a suggestion.

You should have argued. Should have told him you didn't take orders. Should have reminded him you weren't some helpless omega who needed supervision or protection for that matter.

But something in his tone made you obey. And the previous conversation was leaving you full of doubt and confusion. Your body sure did feel like some helpless omega.

Maybe it was the alpha command. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that your stomach was currently trying to digest itself.

Yet you followed after him.

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