Wei

Vi'reya

Just a little something until I write the next chapter hehe Ofc you can imagine our girl however you like, I won't describe her looks or mention her real name in my fanfic!

(that has no name I just realized....ups...)

Anyway, I was wondering, and please write in the comments your suggestions, I adore slow burn but I know not many are willing to stay for it haha...Wukula is a rather minor character in the whole Avatar franchise so I am thinking how to approach this fanfic as a whole.

I don't want to bore anyone🥲

Would you like a sort of a timeskip, like something that happened with Jake and Neytiri, where we see their relationship grow through flashbacks or a full on slowburn, where the change is seen as time goes by, step by step that is haha...

Again, I wouldn't want to bore anyone, I am just so happy people enjoy it for now!🫶

So, please feel free to give me feedback and suggestions in the comments!

Thank you all so much again!!!🩷🩷🩷

part 1 part 2 part 3 Author's Note

pairing: Wukula x female Na'vi Reader

Wukula didn’t slow.

The laughter followed them for a while, low and amused, satisfied in the way predators are when something weak stumbles in front of them. But as they moved deeper into the village, it thinned. Warriors stepped aside when they saw him coming. Some glanced at the figure over his shoulder, curiosity bright in their eyes. Others only looked at the markings carved into her back and whispered among themselves.

Even here, among Mangkwan, the symbols meant something.

The path twisted between rough structures made of dark wood, bone, and stretched hides. Smoke drifted through the air in slow threads. Somewhere metal struck flesh, and she could hear something scream briefly before going silent.

Wukula kept walking until the village opened into a wider clearing.

The ground here had been cleared down to hard earth, packed flat by many feet. Tall spears had been driven into the ground in a wide circle, their tips blackened by old fire. Bones hung from cords, clicking softly whenever the wind moved. She could feel her muscles going numb, her hands lightly touching the scarred skin of her captor. Her pride was dimmed but the sheer number of ash colored Na’vi that gathered around them, following, ready for her to run.

At the far side stood a larger structure than the others. It stood higher, heavier, marked by layers of old soot and thick beams darkened by years of smoke. The entrance was open, a heavy hide pushed aside. Two warriors stood outside it. They saw Wukula approach and straightened slightly. Neither spoke. He stopped a few paces away and shifted her weight once on his shoulder like she was nothing more than an inconvenient sack. She clenched her teeth when the movement jolted her aching ribs.

“Tell her,” he said simply.

One of the guards disappeared inside.

For a moment there was only the crackle of distant fire and the quiet creak of bone ornaments swaying above them.

Then a voice drifted from within. “Bring him in.” Wukula shifted her off his shoulder and set her on her feet with a roughness that made it clear he wasn’t a gentle man by nature. Her legs wobbled for half a second before she forced them straight. She wouldn’t break now, not in their village.

He tugged the rope once, sharp.

“Stand,” he muttered.

Her ears flattened back despite herself. Anger, humiliation and exhaustion swam in her eyes, and this time she didn’t hide it. She simply refused to act on it.

Wukula looked at her, annoyed.

Then, quiet enough to be private: “Head up.”

The guard stepped aside.

Varang did not look at them right away. Beside her stood a warrior. Scarred and tall, blind in one eye. They discussed about timing, losses, supplies. Her voice was calm, unhurried.

 As the warrior finished speaking, Varang nodded once.

“Leave.”

He obeyed immediately, retreating without question.

Only then did Varang turn, gaze heavy and she felt it like a hand closing around her throat. But she didn’t look away from the Tsa’hik.  Varang’s eyes traveled slowly, face, throat, shoulders, stance, the rope. They drifted lower, looking at her injuries with interest, like she was reading a map.

Then her gaze returned to the captive’s eyes.

Varang’s mouth curved.

Amused.

“So,” Varang said. “This is what you dragged out of the forest.”

“She is strong.” Wukula lowered his head slightly. “She killed four of my men.”

Varang only hummed. Her attention returning to the captive.

Her shoulders straightened despite the pull on her wrists. Her chin lifted. If she was going to be looked at, she would not be looked down on. Varang watched the entire movement without interrupting. Silence stretched. The fires cracked softly. At last Varang’s gaze drifted slowly over her, from her face, to the rope around her wrists, to the wrappings across her back where the scars beneath had begun to show through again.

Her head tilted slightly. “Turn.”

The word wasn’t loud. But it carried weight. She didn’t move as her jaw tightened. Varang’s eyes lifted back to her face.

Still calm.

Still waiting.

Beside her, Wukula exhaled slowly through his nose.

 “She said turn,” he muttered.

She didn’t look at him. Varang’s gaze cooled slightly. Wukula stepped forward, grabbed the rope, and yanked hard. The sudden force twisted her body sideways and forced her to turn. Pain shot through her shoulders as the rope pulled tight. She hissed under her breath.

 “Careful,” Wukula said flatly. “Or I’ll make you bow too.”

Her eyes flashed toward him. Then she forced herself still. Varang’s gaze settled on the scars across her back. The room went quiet again.

“You,” Varang said, stepping closer. “What is your name?”

She could hear a soft growl coming from her left. It almost made her laugh knowing that his reputation is also on the line and she was the one ruining it.

Varang’s smile sharpened.

“Ah,” she said softly. “So she is mute.”

She circled once, slow, deliberate. Her presence pressed in. Like a blade drawn halfway and held there, making everyone in the room remember how easily she could strike.

She stopped behind them.

The air changed. Even Wukula’s posture tightened subtly, as if he too, recognized the shift.

Varang’s hand lightly caught the girl’s kuru. Her hold gentle but affirming. As her instinct kicked in, she turned around suddenly, fully looking at the Tsahik. Wukula moved a little, already knowing what will follow. He saw it too many times after successful raids.

Varang laughed quietly at the tension alone.

“Easy,” she murmured. “If I wanted you screaming, little warrior, you would already be screaming.”

The nickname landed like a hook.

Little warrior.

It wasn’t affectionate, it felt more like a claim.

 “You will answer me.” She said, holding her kuru firmly now. She looked at her captive, how her breathing quickened, her eyes darting towards Wukula and then the exit behind her. But as if struck, she lowered her gaze, her ears pinned, and voice quiet. “I have no name. Not anymore.”

Then Varang made a soft sound. “Oh,” she said. “This is better.” Their eyes met again, Varang traced one carved symbol lightly with the pad of her finger, not enough pressure to hurt, just enough to remind that her body was being read like a map.

“These are exile marks,” Varang said, voice thoughtful, amused.

The girl stared forward, jaw rigid.

“Your clan wanted you remembered,” Varang continued.

“They wanted me dead.” She said evenly.

Varang laughed.

A real laugh, brief but genuine, like she’d just been given a gift.

“And yet here you are,” Varang said. “Still standing.”

Varang moved around to face her again, eyes bright with interest now, like the scars had flipped something inside her from curiosity to delight.

“What did you do to earn this?” 

“I killed a member of my clan,” she said.

Wukula’s gaze sharpened slightly.

Varang’s eyebrows lifted.

“Ah,” she said. “And you survived long enough for them to punish you.”

Her eyes narrowed, hungry for the story.

“Why?”

She could have lied. Lies were sometimes useful.

But Varang didn’t look like someone fooled by words. She looked like someone who enjoyed pulling truth out by the roots. She met her gaze. The light of the fire illuminated her eyes, quiet fury danced in those black irises. As if the thought of what happened brought a new wave of rage, swallowing the fear she felt moments ago.

“He harmed my sister.”

Varang’s smile widened, slow and delighted, like a predator enjoying the moment prey reveals it’s teeth.

“Little warrior,” she said again, voice warmer now, amused in a way that felt dangerous. Her hand moving towards her cheek. “You are not broken.”

Varang’s gaze slid to the rope binding her wrists.

“Yet,” Varang added.

She reached out and tapped the rope lightly with one finger.

“You could snap this,” Varang said. “I can see it in your arms. In your shoulders.”

She leaned in just slightly, studying her expression like she was trying to decide what kind of creature she’d been handed.

“So tell me,” Varang murmured. “Why haven’t you?”

The girl’s eyes flicked once, briefly, to Wukula, then back to Varang.

“Because I’m not stupid,” she said.

Varang’s laughter returned, soft and pleased.

“Good,” she said. “Stupid warriors die quickly. You saw the ones you killed.”

Wukula exhaled through his nose, annoyed. Varang glanced at him, amused by his impatience.

“And you,” Varang said looking at him, “brought her all this way.”

Wukula’s jaw clenched. “She was… interesting.”

Varang’s eyes lit up.

“Interesting,” she echoed. “That is not a word you waste.”

She stepped closer again, invading her space, but she didn’t back away.  Varang hummed thoughtfully, then turned away as if bored, only to pivot back immediately, eyes sharp with a new wave of interest.

“Do you believe Eywa abandoned you?” Varang asked lightly, like she was asking about weather.

The room seemed to tighten around the question.

Even Wukula watched now. She lowered her gaze, tail now moving in a slow, calm motion. Varang watched the girl, every move and every breath. She knew her captive was thinking of her next words, that might even be her last. “No.” Varang’s ears perked. Wukula gripped his knives, knowing that soon enough he would hear a clear order. Part of him felt disappointed. “ She was never there for me. “ She continued, her gaze far away, like she was living through a memory.

“I watched as my sister lay beneath him, and She did nothing to stop it.” She said through teeth, her fists clenching. Varang looked at her, a sort of admiration sparked in her eyes. “So I had to finish what She refused to.”

She turned towards the Tsahik, her eyes cold, lips tight. Varang stared at her for a long beat. Then she laughed, soft, delighted, genuinely entertained.

“Yes,” Varang said. “yes, I like you.” Varang turned back to Wukula, eyes still bright. “You chose well.”

 Wukula inclined his head.

 “She will either harden… or break.”

Varang’s gaze returned to her, warm with amusement.

“And if you break?” Varang asked lightly.

 “Then you kill me.” Her voice didn’t shake.

Varang hummed as if pleased by the simplicity.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I would.”

She stepped even closer to her captive, until she could smell smoke on her, could feel heat from the fire pit at their side, could see every small scar on Varang’s face.

“You will stay,” Varang said. “Not because you asked. Because I am curious.”

Her jaw tightened and Tsahik noticed immediately.

“Oh, don’t look offended,” she said, amused. “You didn’t come here for choice.”

She reached out and, with two fingers, lifted the her chin gently, almost tender.

“Little warrior,” Varang murmured, “you have one job.”

She didn’t blink.

“What.”

“Survive,” Varang said simply. “Long enough to become useful.”

She released her chin and turned away as if the matter was already decided. Then she paused and looked back over her shoulder, smile returning. “Since this is a start of your new life, you will need a name.” She turned to look at the girl fully. “Vi’reya” she murmured as she bent down and held her captives chin, forcing her to look at her new Tsahik.

“And since you arrived under his watch,” Varang added, gesturing lazily toward Wukula, “you will learn under his hand.”

Wukula stiffened slightly. Varang’s smile widened at his reaction.

“You will teach her our ways,” she continued. “our rules.”

Her eyes drifted back to the captive again.

“And you,” she said softly, “will try very hard not to bore me.”

Vi’reya held her stare, ears still down, fury simmering in her eyes like a banked fire.

Varang looked delighted by it.

“Yes,” she murmured. “You’ll do nicely.”

She turned to Wukula.

“Take her,” Varang said. “Make her useful.”

Wukula stepped forward and tugged the rope sharply.

She stumbled a half-step, caught herself immediately, and glared at him so hard it felt like it should leave marks.

Her ears flattened completely, tail rigid with restrained aggression.

Wukula’s mouth tightened.

“Move,” he muttered.

As they left, Varang’s voice followed them, amused but with a hint of treat.

“Little warrior,” she called. “Try not to die too quickly. I’ve only just started enjoying you.”

She didn’t look back. And when Wukula pulled her along, she let her glare answer for her words.

Wukula grumbled under his breath, half to himself: “This is going to be irritating.”

She bared her teeth, silent.

part 1 part 2 part 3

pairing: Wukula x female Na'vi Reader

A single length of braided fiber circled her wrists, tight enough to hurt when she moved, loose enough to test her. Part of her wanted to end it all, end the humiliation and prolonged suffering. But deep down she knew they would not give her an easy death. Looking at the hungry, lustful eyes of some of the members, that much she understood.

The forest around them shifted as they moved - breathing, whispering, glowing faintly at the roots where tendrils of bioluminescent moss clung to stone. The air was thick with the smell of damp bark, but that smell was now mixed with the hint of ash and metal. She walked carefully, her eyes fixed on his scarred back. Bumps and piercings mixed with colors of ash and red painted a picture of a disciplined warrior. The rope rubbed against the sore skin of her wrists as she adjusted her balance, but she made herself move smoothly anyway.

He didn’t stride like the others, no eager bounce, no restless hunger.  He didn’t glance back often either. He didn’t need to. The warriors around her did that for him.

They flanked her in a loose line, four on each side at different distances, spears angled lazily, their attention sharp beneath the casual posture. One of them, closest to her right, let the tip of his spear drift toward her ribs.

Not a threat. A poke. Metal touched skin.

 She kept walking.

The spear pressed harder, enough to sting, just enough to make the message clear.

Dance for us.

Her shoulders tensed before she could stop it. Her tail flicked once, irritated, betraying a feeling her eyes tried to hide. The warrior made a soft, amused sound. The spear prodded again. Heat flashed behind her eyes. Not fear. Not even anger in the simple sense.  

Desperation

Her head turned slightly, just enough for him to see the edge of her teeth. A simple warning. He grinned wider and jabbed again, sharper this time. Her restraint snapped. She lunged sideways as far as the rope allowed, claws flashing, a snarl ripping out of her throat. She caught the shaft of the spear and yanked hard, trying to drag it away from him, trying to pull him off-balance. The rope went tight. The knot burned into her wrists. Behind her, the escorts reacted, spears lifting, bodies shifting, closing the circle in a heartbeat.

And then Wukula yanked the rope.

He didn’t turn to do it. He just reached back with one hand and pulled with the bored, practiced violence of someone used to controlling others. The force slammed her backward. Her feet slipped. Her breath punched out of her lungs in a sharp, humiliating sound. She stumbled, caught herself barely, wrists screaming as the rope snapped her arms higher, over her head. Her eyes watered with the sudden sting, but she swallowed it down. Wukula finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes cutting toward her, unimpressed.

“Enough,” he said.

It wasn’t a loud warning. His men avertet their gazes, their weapons now hung loosely at their sides. She lifted her chin and spat into the dirt, refusing to look shaken, she glared at him. Wukula’s gaze lingered on her for a beat longer.

“You keep reacting,” he said flatly, “and they keep learning where to press.”

She flexed her fingers against the rope until the fibers creaked.

“I will not be toyed with.” she hissed.

A few of the young ones laughed. One made an appreciative noise, like she was entertainment. Wukula’s mouth twitched, not quite amusement, not quite irritation.

“You’re not in your forest,” he said. “Not with your rules.”

Her eyes narrowed and her body went still, letting the fury retreat behind her face like a blade sliding back into a sheath. The spear-tipper on her right looked disappointed.

Wukula turned forward again, with one strong move hoisting her on her feet.

“Walk,” he said, and the column moved on.

Hours stretched.

Pandora did not offer mercy to the weak. Even surrounded, she felt it, how the forest watched. How the branches seemed to tilt subtly toward them as they passed. How the ground shifted where roots knotted thick beneath the soil. The bioluminescent plants brightened as dusk deepened, painting the undergrowth in blues and greens that felt like a prayer she no longer believed in. Her back burned under rough wrappings, every step tugging at the healing scars, skin pulling tight and raw. The symbols carved into her weren’t words, but they spoke anyway. They spoke with every movement. They told everyone who saw them what she was.

Forsaken.

“They would have killed me faster if I begged.”

She kept her face blank. She counted steps. She counted breaths. She listened.

The Mangkwan warriors spoke in short bursts, low talk of raids and rivalries, of who had killed what, who had taken more women as trophies. Her fist clenched at the thought that that kind of future awaits her.

Wukula rarely spoke at all. When he did, the others would shut up immediately.

At some point, they stopped at a shallow stream. The water ran over smooth stone, clear enough to show the glitter of tiny fish darting in the current. The escort drank in turns. No one offered her water.

As the last of them stood, she leaned down as far as the rope allowed and tried to lower her mouth to the stream. A foot pressed against her shoulder, hard enough to shove her forward, her face hitting the water.

“Thirsty?” a young warrior asked, grinning.

A few laughed.

Her tongue tasted like dust. Her throat hurt. She stared at him, expression empty, droplets of water gliding down her cheeks. Then she smiled.

Not friendly.

Not warm.

A small baring of teeth that made his grin falter for half a heartbeat.  Wukula watched the entire exchange without moving. Then he jerked his chin once, an order.

“Move,” he said.

They moved. Part of her wanted to protest, her throat still dry, but one strong pull told her otherwise.

 The hunger came in waves.

First as a dull ache that she could ignore. Then as a sharper twist, her stomach clawing at itself. Then as the slow, nauseating emptiness that made the world feel too slow and too far away. She’d been hungry before, alone in the forest. She’d hunted on shaking legs. She’d eaten raw meat crouched beneath wet leaves. She’d gone to sleep with her stomach screaming.

But this was different.

This was hunger with witnesses. Hunger with an audience waiting to see if it made her weak.

Her steps remained steady. Her face remained calm. Only her eyes betrayed it sometimes, flashing briefly when the scent of smoked meat drifted from one of the warriors’ packs. Her throat tightened involuntarily. She swallowed harder.

Wukula noticed.

Of course he did.

“Still walking,” he muttered, not quite to her, not quite to himself.

She said nothing.

They walked until the sky dimmed, the forest lighting itself from within. Glowing tendrils hung like beads from branches. Mushrooms pulsed softly in clusters near rotting logs. In another life, she would have found it beautiful.

They camped once, briefly, in a clearing where the air smelled faintly scorched. Mangkwan land, she realized.  They made a small fire. They ate, but offered her none. She watched them chew and swallow with the detached patience of someone watching a ritual she no longer belonged to. A female warrior tossed a bone into the dirt near her feet, like feeding an animal.

The others laughed.

Her claws flexed.

Her jaw tightened.

She forced herself to keep still.

Wukula’s voice cut through the amusement.

“Stop,” he said, tone sharp. “If you want her dead, stab her. Don’t waste time.”

The laughter died.

The young female scowled, embarrassed.

Wukula didn’t look at the young warrior anymore but at her.

“You will need strength,” he said, as if this was a practical observation rather than anything resembling care. “If you fall, you slow us.”

“I won’t fall,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the fire in front of her.

Wukula’s eyes flicked toward her then - brief, assessing.

“Good,” he said.

He pulled out a piece of dried meat and handed it to her. Carefull enough not to drop it, for her hands were still tied up. She stared at it and then, carefully, at him. “Irayo…”

They walked again before dawn.

The next day blurred into a long strip of motion and endurance, her body tightening, her mind retreating into cold calculation. Pain became background noise.  The spear-pokes returned now and then, less frequent, not because the warriors had grown kind, but because her stillness had become boring.

Still, one of them tried again.

A jab at her thigh. A laugh.

She didn’t lash.

She didn’t hiss.

She simply turned her head slowly and met his eyes, expression flat.

His smile faltered.

She held the gaze until he looked away.

Wukula glanced back once and saw it, the way she had silenced the young warrior without moving.

Something like approval flickered briefly across his face, but it vanished immediately.  

“Learn quickly,” he muttered.

She almost laughed.

The village announced itself before it appeared.

Not with sound, Mangkwan did not greet their own with songs, but with smell.

Smoke. Old fire. Charred wood. Fat cooking. Blood dried into earth.

The air changed as they crossed some invisible line. The forest grew sparser, the undergrowth trampled and broken, patches of blackened soil creeping between roots like disease. The bioluminescence dimmed, structures of dark wood and bone rose between scorched trees. Skulls and spines hung from cords. Tools, weapons, trophies, everything left exposed. As if saying, look at what we’ve taken.

 Eyes tracked her immediately.

Some faces turned away when they saw the rope. Others leaned in, interested. A few looked almost hungry.

She kept walking. Her vision wavered briefly. She blinked hard.

The ground tilted again, just slightly, like the world wasn’t fully attached to itself anymore. Her muscles trembled. Her knees threatened to soften. The fear she tried to contain finally started to bleed out.

Not now.

She forced her body forward with sheer will.

Then her foot caught on something - root, rock, she didn’t even know.

Her balance failed.

Her knees buckled.

She hit the ground hard enough to jar her teeth, breath leaving her in a sharp burst. Dirt filled her mouth. The rope jerked painfully as her arms tried to catch her fall and couldn’t.

For a moment, everything went quiet.

Then she heard a soft, almost pleased laughter.

A few warriors stopped and looked down at her like she’d proven what they’d been waiting to see. Wukula stopped too. He turned slowly, stared at her with open irritation, and exhaled through his nose like she’d personally inconvenienced him.

“You said you wouldn’t fall,”

She pushed up onto her elbows, jaw clenched, trying to force her legs under her again.

They shook. Her stomach twisted with nausea, empty and furious.

“I didn’t,” she rasped. “Trip—”

Wukula stepped closer. His shadow swallowed her. He looked down at her for a long beat, expression unreadable. Then he leaned in slightly, voice low enough that only she could hear.

“You fall here,” he said, “and they learn you can be broken.”

Her teeth ground together.

She tried again to rise.

Her body refused.

Something in Wukula’s expression tightened, annoyance sharpening into something colder.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

Then, without warning, he grabbed the rope binding her wrists and yanked her upward hard enough to drag her off the ground. She gasped, pain shooting through her shoulders. Before she could recover, he shoved a hand under her thigh, another at her side and hoisted her like she weighed nothing. Her eyes widened as she was thrown over his shoulder. Her face ended up pressed against the hard leather straps on his back. She tasted smoke, sweat and metal. The world swung with each step he took, her ribs bouncing painfully against his back.

Humiliation flared once again.

“Put me down,” she hissed, voice muffled by his shoulder.

“No,” Wukula said, flat as stone.

The warriors laughed louder now, delighted. One said something mocking. Another made a crude comment about how she looked.

“Like a trophy waiting to be claimed.”

Wukula didn’t respond to them. He adjusted his grip once, firm and kept walking. She twisted as far as she could, trying to bite him out of sheer spite. His hand tightened around her thigh, nails digging into her skin.

“Do that,” he said mildly, “and I’ll drop you.”

Her body went still. Not because she feared him but because she knew he would and she knew what would happen if she hit the ground in front of them again. She let herself hang over his shoulder, breathing slow, controlled, swallowing her fury down until it became something small and sharp inside her chest. Wukula grumbled as he carried her towards the village.

“You’re heavy,” he lied.

part 1 part 2 part 3

pairing: Wukula x female Na'vi Reader

She stood in the center of the clearing with her hands free at her sides, fingers trembling despite her best efforts to still them. She would not give them the pleasure of seeing her break. Her bow lay discarded, broken in the dirt. The bloodied knife already taken, removed like a dangerous thought. The forest pressed close, in a quiet judgement, leaves dancing around her though there was no wind. Even the animals had gone quiet, as if Eywa herself had drawn in a breath and was waiting to see what would happen next. Fire light up the bark of the surrounding trees, painting the gathered Na’vi in gold hues. All familiar faces, hunters she had run with, women who had braided her hair, children she had cared for, all stood in a loose circle, eyes averted. No one spoke her name.

The clan leader stepped forward.

His shadow stretched long and warped across the ground, swallowing her form. His queue was heavy with beads of bone and feather, each one earned, each one a testament to years of listening to Eywa’s voice. He did not look at her face. He looked past her, as if she were already gone.

“You have spilled Na’vi blood.”

She did not flinch.

“Yes,” she said looking at him. Her eyes masking any emotion she might have felt. The word rippled through the air, like a stone dropped into water. Murmurs spread like fire.  

“You struck first,” the leader said.

“Yes.”

“You killed one of your own.”

She met his gaze then, steady and unashamed.

“He harmed my sister.”

The crown around her grew silent, murmurs and judgmental looks shot her way.

“You chose violence,” the leader said, voice hardening. “Eywa offers many paths.”

“She offered none to me.”

That, more than the blood she spilled, sealed her fate.

The leader raised his hand, “You will not speak again.”

They forced her to her knees and she did not resist. The ground was cold beneath her palms, familiar as breath. Her eyes searched a pair of light amber, comforting and gentle. Her younger sister Tsi’u. She smiled then, seeing her well and alive. She was her only remaining family, the one person she would give up everything for. Her sister’s eyes welled up with tears, but she did not intervene. Tsi’u knew very well that this was final and that her sister already prepared for what’s to come.

The elder stepped behind her.

She felt the blade before it touched her skin - the shift of air, the pause.

She did not scream.

Pain shot across her back, hot and precise. Her jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Fire bloomed, spread, settled deep into her bones.

A reminder.

She breathed through it.

The blade carved ritual marks into her flesh, slow and deliberate. Symbols that would follow her wherever she went.

Kinslayer. Unclean. Forsaken.

Her hands trembled, but she did not cry out. When it was over, she sagged forward, breath heavy, blood warm against her skin.

 The clan leader spoke, voice hard and uncaring. “Your songcord will be forgotten, no spirit tree will hear your prayers.” And then he looked at her for the first time, eyes cold.

“Eywa has turned her back on you.”  She smiled.

Mist crawled low along the forest floor, cold and wet against her ankles. Her back burned beneath it’s bindings, every movement pulling raw skin open again, blood seeping slow and smearing her garments. She did not slow. Pain was just another rhythm now, like breath, like the beat of her heart.

She did not look back.

The forest closed behind her without ceremony. Eywa did not mourn her absence.

Good.

She walked until her legs shook, until the burn in her muscles dulled into something distant. When she finally stopped, it was not to rest, but because hunger demanded attention with a sharp, hollow ache. She hunted alone, her sister not by her side. The first attempt failed. Her aim thrown by pain and exhaustion, her grip weakened by blood loss. The arrow went wide causing the animal flee. She did not curse, she simply adjusted, waited, tracked again.

Patience was easier when there was no one left to disappoint.

When she finally brought something down, there was prayer, no gratitude for the Great Mother. Her hands shook as she worked, blood smearing her fingers. She ate, eyes up, senses sharp, ready to run or fight at the smallest sound.

The first clan ignored her.

She stepped into their clearing openly, unarmed, scars visible. Their eyes lingered on her back, then slid away as if she were something cursed. An elder lifted a hand.

“No,” Was the only word she needed to hear.  

The second clan watched her longer.

A hunter’s gaze caught on the scars crossing her back, recognition flaring sharp and immediate. Whispers followed her as she passed between the huts. Someone reached for a weapon, her ears perking up at the sound.

“You will bring misfortune,” their Tsahik said. “Go.”

She slept in the trees that night, stomach empty, listening to their fires crackle below. Laughter drifted up through the branches. The sound felt nostalgic. She shifted her gaze to the sky, tears threatened to cloud her vision at the thought of her sister. Will you forget about me, tsmuke?

By the third clan, she did not announce herself at all.

She circled their territory for two days, mapping paths, observing their warriors, memorizing their routines . When she crept close enough to steal dried meat from a basket, a voice spoke softly from behind her.

“We smell death on you.”

She froze as she felt the tip of a spear on her back. Her hand instinctively going for her blade.

“You are marked,” the voice continued. “Eywa has judged you.”

She straightened slowly then turned to fully look at the other Na’vi. The spear, leveled now at her chest, did not waver.

“Leave.”

She left without argument.

Hunger became a constant companion, so did pain. Her wounds festered, then hardened. Her hands blistered and split from climbing and killing. Sleep came in pieces, never long enough to dream.

Then she smelled smoke.

 The smell of ash and charred wood.

Mangkwan.

The forest around their territory felt wrong, trees scarred, undergrowth trampled, bones half buried. This was not a place Eywa lingered.

Yet, she did not turn away.

Movement exploded from the forest, dark paint mixed with ash and red, jagged blades, bodies moving fast and low. She rolled instinctively as something flew past her head, the arrow landing in a near by tree.

And then she lunged.

The first Mangkwan died quickly, throat opened in a clean, brutal motion.

The second caught her across the ribs. Pain flared hot and sharp. She snarled and drove the blade into his gut. The third knocked her hard to the ground. Breath left her lungs in a choking rush. She kicked, scrambled, bit down a scream as something stabbed her leg.

Blood soaked the earth.

She rose anyway, sloppy but determined. Another body fell. Her vision swam. Her grip slipped. Still, she did not retreat. Then the pressure changed. The group of warriors that screamed and shouted silenced down.

Something heavier stepped into the clearing.

He did not rush.

He looked at the dead, at the wounded and then his eyes found her, bloodied, shaking, still standing. His gaze traced the scars on her back.

 “You should be dead,” he said.

She only barred her teeth and hissed. They fought. He drove her back step by step, forcing her to react, to adapt. Every mistake earned pain and every success was answered immediately. Her muscles screamed. Her lungs burned. She struck him once, twice. She felt the impact, the satisfaction. It was not enough. He caught her wrist mid-swing and twisted hard lowering her. She went down under his weight, knee pressing into her spine.

“Kill me,” she said into the dirt. “Or get off.”

There was a pause.

Then he laughed. Low and amused.

“You survived alone,” he said. “Marked. Starved. Hunted.”

He hauled her upright, fingers firm, assessing.

“You chose us before we chose you.”

She wiped blood from her mouth, her eyes looking coldly at her captors.

The forest around them was silent, burned and empty.