katsu

The plant’s sap is thick and bitter, staining your fingers dark green as you hold it in place. It’s supposed to cool the flesh. Draw the heat out. Help the skin close.

For a few seconds, it works.

Then a sudden gust whips through the trees, catching the leaf and ripping it clean from your hand.

It vanishes into the air like it never existed.

You stare after it, blinking once.

“…Great,” you mutter.

Kxelya clicks softly.

You reach for another leaf from your pouch, already half-crushed in your palm. The sap oozes through your grip as you press it back against your cheek, this time leaning closer to Kxelya’s neck to shield yourself from the wind.

The skin beneath your fingers feels wrong.

The cut stretches from the curve of your cheekbone up toward the outer corner of your eye, an angry, jagged line that burns whenever the air hits it just right. The edges have closed, but the flesh beneath feels tight and hot.

“Stay,” you tell it quietly, like that’ll make a difference.

For now, it does, it's cool sap seeping into your skin. The sting dulls slightly, but the tightness remains, a constant reminder of the thing you never quite saw.

Your scar will fade.

Eventually.

You guide Kxelya lower, letting the forest swallow the sound of her wings as the land stretches on beneath you.

You fly until the light softens. Land when the shadows grow long. Rest where the leaves are thick enough to hide both you and Kxelya’s silhouette from the sky.

Your cheek tightens less each morning. 

The sap does its work. The wound closes into something firm and pale, no longer raw. A quiet reminder etched into your skin.

You hunt small game when you need to, clean the meat with practiced hands, share scraps with Kxelya when she eyes you expectantly. You gather healing leaves when the forest offers them, tucking bundles into your satchel until the scent of crushed sap clings to your fingers.

The rhythm settles in.

The forest changes as you move deeper inland.

The air grows heavier, warmer, thick with the scent of damp bark and crushed moss. The canopy climbs higher overhead, the light filtering through in fractured beams that shift as the leaves sway. Vines hang in lazy spirals from ancient branches. Broad leaves brush your legs when you pass too close, slick with morning dew.

Your cheek no longer burns the way it did at first. The skin has sealed over, pale and tight, a faint line cutting through the curve of your face. But the area around it still feels strange.

You catch yourself rubbing at it sometimes without realizing.

You wake to the sounds of insects stitching the air together. To distant calls echoing through the trees. To Kxelya shifting beneath the leaves, wings rustling as she stretches. You eat when you’re hungry, sleep when your eyes grow heavy, move when you need to.

Once, you come across the remains of an old Na’vi outpost — nothing more than charred posts and collapsed platforms swallowed by creeping vines. The wood is blackened, the smell of old smoke still clinging faintly to the air.

Another time, you find a freshwater pool tucked between two massive roots. The water is clear, cold, reflecting the canopy above like a broken mirror. You wash the sap from your hands there, watching the red stain swirl away in thin clouds. Your reflection looks sharper than you remember — leaner, more angular, eyes a little too alert for someone who’s supposed to be resting.

You look like someone who hasn’t been home in a while.

You guide Kxelya higher when the trees close in, letting her skim the upper canopy where the air is clearer and the light stronger.

But you hear something in the distance.

A low, distant hum.

Of engines.

You lean forward, grip tightening on the reins as Kxelya angles downward without being told. The canopy rushes up to meet you, branches blurring past as you slip into the green maze below.

The sound grows louder for a moment, then steadies — a mechanical drone slicing through the natural hush of the forest.

You tuck closer to Kxelya’s neck as she folds her wings, dropping into the cover of thick leaves and hanging vines. The shadows swallow you almost immediately.

Above, something passes.

You look up through a break in the leaves, catching glimpses of metal sliding across the sky. Pale hull. Rotors cutting clean lines through the air. Sunlight flashing off hard edges that don’t belong in this place.

Your ears flick, tracking the sound.

Kxelya stays perfectly still beneath you. You feel the vibration of the engines through the air more than you hear it now, a distant, steady pulse that makes your skin prickle.

The hum lingers overhead, vibrating faintly through the air, a wrong note in the forest’s quiet rhythm. You hold still, breathing slow, listening to the way the sound moves — not searching, not sweeping. Just passing through.

A scout.

Not for you.

But it’s looking around.

When the noise finally fades, the forest exhales around you. Leaves rustle. Birds resume their calls. Somewhere in the distance, something small and unseen scurries through undergrowth.

Kxelya shifts beneath you, wings flexing.

“Easy,” you whisper, fingers brushing the base of her neck.

You stay hidden a few breaths longer than necessary.

Just in case.

When you rise back into the canopy, the sky looks exactly the same as it did before. Bright. Peaceful. Unbothered.

You move on.

The days keep slipping by like this. You skirt around known RDA routes, using the forest’s natural folds to stay unseen. You follow rivers when the terrain grows dense, letting the sound of moving water mask your presence.

High Camp drifts back into your thoughts more than once.

You catch yourself scanning the horizon for the familiar rise of stone spires, the jagged silhouettes of the Hallelujah Mountains cutting into the sky. The forest here is dense and layered, but the land subtly tilts upward. The air thins just a little. The wind shifts, cooler, carrying a different kind of scent.

You exhale through your nose, fingers loosening on the reins.

You imagine the climb through the crevasse, the rush of air as an ikran shoots upward into the mountains. The way the cave opens into that familiar web of platforms and woven bridges. The sound of voices echoing off stone walls. The scent of cooked food mixed with metal and machine oil.

Your grandmother’s voice, steady and sharp as ever.

You haven’t seen her since you left for the sea.

“Maybe we should stop by,” you murmur aloud, more to the air than to Kxelya.

Her ear twitches.

High Camp isn’t far from your current path. Not exactly on the way, but close enough that the thought lingers. A visit wouldn’t be reckless.

You weigh your options. You could. It’s a tempting thought.

“What do you say, girl?” You pat Kxelya’s neck, fingers brushing the warm scales just behind her crest. “Should we go?”

Kxelya clicks softly, then lets out a sharper, higher-pitched call that echoes faintly through the trees. Her wings give a small, eager flick, scattering leaves and sending a ripple through the nearby branches.

You snort. “That’s a yes?”

Another click. Louder this time. She shifts her weight beneath you, clearly energized by the idea of going somewhere instead of flying through more forest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, adjusting your grip on the reins. “I get it. You’re bored.”

Kxelya tilts her head, one eye swiveling toward you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you add. “You’re the one who hates sitting still.”

She huffs, a warm puff of air brushing your arm.

You smile despite yourself. “High Camp it is. At least we can say hello before we go back to being responsible.”

Kxelya chirps again, already angling her wings to catch a rising current.

The sun has started its slow descent by the time mountains begin to rise in the distance. Dark stone cuts through the sky, sharp and towering, their peaks crowned in drifting cloud.

You guide Kxelya lower, following the natural lines of the forest as the light softens into amber and shadow. The air cools further, carrying the faint scent of wet rock and moss.

“Let’s rest soon,” you tell her quietly. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Kxelya clicks in agreement, easing into a gentler glide.

The forest grows quieter as dusk settles in. No engines. No distant thunder of machinery. Just wind through leaves and the soft rhythm of wings.

Gold fades to amber. Amber softens into shadow. The canopy darkens in layers, the sky above breaking into deep blues and scattered stars.

You land when the light is nearly gone.

The branch you choose is thick and old, bark rough beneath your palms as you ease yourself back against the trunk. It creaks faintly under your weight, then settles, holding you without complaint. Leaves frame the open stretch of sky above, a dark lattice cut through with stars just beginning to show.

Kxelya settles on the branch beside yours with a low, contented rumble. She folds her wings carefully, talons curling into the bark for balance, then immediately starts grooming. She nips along the edges of her wing, tugging loose bits of leaf and dust, smoothing her hide with methodical care. Every so often, she pauses, gives a soft click, then resumes as if the day won’t truly be finished until everything is in its proper place.

You watch her for a while.

The rise and fall of her chest. The quiet certainty of her movements. The way she exists so completely in the moment that it’s almost contagious.

Eventually, you let your gaze drift upward.

Your thoughts wander. Not in one clear direction, but loosely, the way they always do when you finally stop and think.

The reefs come first.

Bioluminescent currents glowing beneath the surface. The sound of water lapping against woven platforms. Salt in the air. Laughter carrying farther than it should at night.

For the first time since you left, you let the feeling settle.

You miss it.

You miss them.

You miss her.

A quiet breath slips out through your nose. You lift your left arm, elbow bending easily as your hand rises into the open space above you. The shell bracelet slides down your wrist, the knot loose enough to move but tight enough to stay where it belongs.

Moonlight catches on it faintly.

You stare at the shell, turning your wrist slightly so it glints between shadow and light. Pale as foam, smooth beneath your thumb, marked by a soft spiral of yellow that looks like it was painted there on purpose. Your finger traces the curve without thinking.

You picture its twin.

Darker. Blue-green. Wrapped around Tsireya’s wrist, where it contrasts against her skin like it was always meant to be there. You think of the way her fingers fidget sometimes, how she twists her bracelet when she’s thinking too hard. Of the color of her eyes when the light hits them just right.

And her smile.

Your arm drops, draping over your eyes as a quiet, helpless grin pulls at your mouth.

You don’t fight it this time.

In the privacy of the dark, with only the forest and Kxelya as witnesses, you let the truth settle where it’s been trying to land for a while now.

Tonowari wasn’t wrong.

The thought doesn’t make you tense anymore. It makes something in your chest loosen instead.

A soft chirp sounds beside you.

You turn your head just in time to see Kxelya tilting hers, one eye fixed squarely on your face. She leans closer, the smooth side of her head bumping gently into your shoulder like she’s checking to see if you’re still there.

You laugh under your breath and push her face away with the back of your hand.

“Nosy,” you tell her fondly.

She answers by nudging you again, harder this time.

“Hey—” You reach into your pouch and toss a piece of fruit her way. She snaps it out of the air in one clean bite, crunching happily as juice drips down her chin.

“Happy?” you mutter, shaking your head.

She flicks her tail in what might be smug agreement.

You shift slightly, settling more comfortably against the trunk, muscles finally unclenching after a long day. The forest hums around you, alive but unthreatening. For now, nothing presses at the edges of your awareness. No countdown. No immediate danger. Just night, and breath, and the steady presence of your friend beside you.

“Alright,” you say quietly, voice barely louder than the insects. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Kxelya clicks softly, already tucking her head in closer to her body, wings folding in with practiced ease. Her tail curls around the branch, anchoring her as surely as any tether. The forest settles with you, the night sounds smoothing into a steady rhythm that pulls at your exhaustion.

You close your eyes.

Your hand rests near your wrist, fingers brushing the shell bracelet absently. It’s cool against your skin, a small, grounding weight. For a while, you lie there listening to the forest breathe. Leaves shift. Something small scurries along a lower branch. The stars wheel slowly overhead, unseen but felt, like the world turning without asking permission.

Sleep comes in shallow waves. You drift, surface, drift again.

By the time dawn arrives, Kxelya stirs before you do.

Her wings rustle, feathers brushing bark. A low, impatient chirp vibrates through the branch.

You crack one eye open. 

“I’m awake,” you mutter, though you clearly aren’t.

She nudges your shoulder with her snout anyway.

“Alright, alright.” You sit up, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders. Kxelya lifts her head at once. She gives a short chirp.

“Morning,” you murmur.

She snorts softly, as if unimpressed by your tardiness.

You pack quickly. The crushed leaves are discarded, the satchel checked, straps tightened. The cut on your cheek tugs when you yawn, the skin still tight and faintly sore, but it holds. Healed enough.

You swing into Kxelya’s saddle with practiced ease.

“Guess what,” you say, already grinning.

She gives a curious click.

“We’re gonna see sa'nokä sa'nok.”

Her wings flare in surprise.

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not excited,” you tease. “She’s basically your grandma too.”

Kxelya lets out a skeptical chirr, but her tail sways anyway.

Once you’re airborne, the forest opens beneath you in rolling layers of green. The light strengthens as you fly, shadows thinning, the air growing cooler as the land slowly begins to rise. The trees change first, trunks thickening, branches crowding closer together. Stone peeks through the roots. The wind shifts, sharper now, carrying the mineral scent of exposed rock.

High Camp shouldn’t be too far now.

Your excitement builds the closer you get.

“I should bring her something,” you ramble. “Like, from the reef. Maybe shells. Or dried fish. Or—okay, probably not fish. That would smell. Then again… I didn’t really bring anything.”

Kxelya trills.

“I’m serious. She’s gonna want to hear everything. About the Metkayina. About Payakan. About how Lo’ak almost got himself eaten—again.”

“And I should show her this,” you add, looking down at the sweeping tattoo along your shoulder and upper chest. “Bet she didn’t expect her granddaughter to come back looking like a reef warrior.”

Kxelya makes a sound suspiciously close to laughter.

“Oh, don’t start. I’m not ranting.”

She tilts her head, unimpressed.

“Okay, maybe a little,” you admit. “But you would too if you hadn’t seen your grandma in—what, a year? Two?”

The mountains dominate the horizon now, jagged and impossibly tall. Waterfalls thread down their sides like silver ribbons, disappearing into mist before they ever reach the forest below.

You lean forward in the saddle, eyes bright.

“I wonder if she still keeps the old story carvings,” you muse. “The ones about Toruk Makto.”

You say in dramatic flair.

“Dad’s gonna hate that I ask about them again.”

Kxelya chirps knowingly.

“And I should tell her about Tsireya,” you add without thinking. “Not, like, everything. Just—”

She cuts you off with a loud, pointed squawk.

“Oh, come on. You know she’d like her.”

Kxelya gives a dramatic wing beat that nearly jolts you sideways.

“Hey—watch it!”

You laugh, gripping the reins tighter as the wind rushes past your ears. The sky here feels wider. The clouds thinner. The world quieter in a way that makes your thoughts echo louder.

You’re still smiling when something moves.

A shadow cuts across the stone face to your right.

Fast.

Your laughter dies in your throat.

Your ears flick forward as you scan the cliffside. For a split second, you think it’s just an animal. Or falling debris. Or nothing at all.

Then it moves again.

Diving.

A dark shape drops from the mountainside, wings folding tight to its body as it plummets toward the forest below.

Your grip tightens.

“Kxelya,” you murmur, instincts snapping into place.

She feels it immediately. Her wings hitch mid-beat, then adjust, muscles bunching beneath you as her body angles slightly away from the open air. A warning click vibrates through her chest.

You track the falling shape, heart beginning to pound. As it levels out, sunlight catches the curve of its wings.

An ikran.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, tension easing just a fraction.

But it doesn’t veer off.

It keeps coming.

Straight at you.

Your brow furrows. The skin along the back of your neck prickles, every instinct you’ve ever trained sharpening all at once. The ikran’s silhouette grows larger, details resolving too quickly.

You squint.

There’s something on its back.

Someone.

Your breath catches.

The rider leans forward, posture aggressive, urging the ikran into a steeper descent. Leather straps flash in the light. A weapon glints briefly at their side.

Your stomach drops.

“Kxelya,” you hiss, louder now.

As if summoned by that realization, more shapes peel away from the mountainside. One. Then another. Then two more, fanning out with practiced ease. Their wings beat in staggered rhythm, cutting the air into sharp, tearing sounds that echo off the stone.

They’re coordinated.

Your chest tightens.

Those aren’t scouts.

Those are hunters.

You yank the reins hard to the left, pressing your body closer to her neck. She responds instantly, folding her wings and dropping like a stone toward the canopy below. Wind roars past your ears as the ground rushes up to meet you.

Branches explode around you.

Leaves whip against your arms, your face, stinging where they strike your already-healing cheek. You duck instinctively, pressing low as Kxelya weaves between trunks, her wings tucking and flaring in tight, powerful bursts.

Behind you, the forest erupts with sound.

Shrill ikran cries slice through the air. Branches crack. Leaves tear free as at least two of the riders follow you down, forcing their mounts through gaps barely wide enough to fit.

Too close.

You feel it in your bones.

“Kxelya, faster,” you urge, breath coming quick now.

She lets out a sharp, defiant screech and surges forward, skimming so low that the tips of her wings brush ferns and bark. Roots and fallen logs blur beneath you. Sunlight fractures through the canopy in blinding flashes, disorienting and sharp.

A shadow sweeps overhead.

Something whistles past your shoulder and thuds into a tree trunk ahead, burying itself deep enough to splinter the wood. You don’t need to look to know what it was.

They’re armed.

Your jaw clenches.

You angle Kxelya toward thicker growth, where the forest knits itself tight. Vines hang heavy here, dragging at her wings. Branches snag at your gear, tugging hard enough to throw you off balance.

Another projectile slams into the ground beneath you, kicking up dirt and leaves.

They’re herding you.

Your mind races, calculating angles, distance, cover. You know this terrain better than most, but not like them. Not if they’re from here. Not if they’ve been watching.

The thought chills you.

You twist in the saddle just enough to glance back.

You catch a glimpse of one rider slipping between the trees, body painted dark, braids bound tight against their neck. Their eyes are fixed on you, unblinking, predatory.

Not Omatikaya.

Not Recoms.

Your pulse spikes.

“Shit,” you murmur.

Kxelya drops again, nearly scraping the forest floor as you duck under a fallen trunk at the last possible second. Leaves tear from branches above you as one of the pursuing ikran clips it, screeching in frustration.

The forest closes in too fast, branches clawing at your shoulders, vines whipping across your arms as Kxelya twists through a narrow break in the canopy. Her wings fold tight, muscles bunching beneath you as she slips through the gap by instinct alone. The air rushes past in a violent roar, then suddenly opens again as her wings flare wide, catching balance just in time.

You steal a glance over your shoulder.

They’re there.

Not as close as before, but still hunting. Two of the riders are forced to veer off, circling wide for another angle through the trees. One drops lower, skimming the forest floor where the growth thins just enough to push forward.

You face ahead again, jaw clenched, every muscle in your body locked into survival.

“Kxelya, pull up—”

The warning barely leaves your mouth before she reacts.

You wrench the reins back, and she surges upward just as another ikran snaps its jaws where Kxelya’s head would have been. The rush of displaced air slams into your face, rattling your teeth.

You catch a flash of the rider.

Smoky, pale grey skin. Face streaked with thick lines of red and black, the paint cracked and smeared like old blood. Their eyes are sharp, feral. When they realize you’ve dodged the strike, their lips peel back in a hiss that echoes through the trees.

Your ears pin flat against your head.

You bare your teeth right back.

You lean forward, urging Kxelya into another sharp dive. Leaves explode around you as she cuts through the canopy, her wings clipping vines and tearing through hanging moss.

Behind you, the hostile rider shrieks something in their own tongue, the sound sharp and guttural.

Your fingers are already moving.

You reach for your bow in one smooth motion, nocking an arrow without breaking rhythm. The string pulls back against your grip, tension humming through your arm.

The ikran surges closer.

You release.

The arrow whistles through the air and slams into the rider’s shoulder, punching through paint and skin alike. They cry out, body jerking violently as their ikran veers off course, screeching in panic before vanishing into the undergrowth below.

Two more shapes burst through the trees ahead, trying to cut you off. Their wings beat in sharp, coordinated bursts, herding you toward thicker terrain.

Your pulse hammers.

“Fine,” you mutter. “We’ll do this my way.”

You bank Kxelya hard to the right, plunging into a stretch of dense, tangled growth. Thorned vines whip against your arms. Branches scrape your shoulders. One catches the edge of your gear and nearly tears you sideways off the saddle.

Kxelya shrieks, but doesn’t falter.

You guide her lower, just above the forest floor where massive roots snake through the earth like living traps. The terrain tightens, forcing the pursuing ikran to fly single file.

That’s what you need.

The first rider pushes through too fast.

You pivot in the saddle and loose an arrow straight into the ikran’s wing joint. It screams, spiraling downward in a violent crash that shakes the trees.

The rider doesn’t get up.

Another follows, trying to climb above you for a better angle.

You fire again.

This time, the arrow finds their chest.

They slump forward, body going limp as their ikran veers off into the canopy.

Your breathing is loud in your ears now, adrenaline surging through every vein.

More shadows move.

They’re still coming.

One dives low, launching a net that tangles around Kxelya’s left wing. She shrieks, struggling to keep her balance as the weighted mesh drags her downward.

Your stomach drops.

“No—no, no, no.”

You twist in the saddle, cutting through the netting with your knife in a single motion. The strands snap loose, falling away into the trees beneath you.

Kxelya stumbles in the air, wings flaring wide as she fights for control. Her body jerks upward in a powerful correction, muscles straining as she reorients herself and regains lift just in time.

Then another rider swoops in, aiming not at your head or heart, but your leg.

You feel the impact.

A sharp, burning slice across your thigh.

You hiss, teeth grinding as your body jerks with the impact. The shaft juts from your leg at an ugly angle, feathers trembling with every movement of Kxelya’s wings.

Your grip tightens instinctively, knuckles whitening.

“Shit,” you breathe.

The rider doesn’t follow through.

They pull away.

Your breath hitches in realization.

They don’t want you dead.

Your eyes narrow.

“Big mistake,” you whisper.

You don’t wait for the pain to catch up.

Bracing your teeth, you shove the arrow forward until the feathers press hard against your skin. The motion tears a sharp gasp from your chest, heat flaring white-hot through your thigh.

Then you snap the shaft.

The broken end falls away, leaving the feathery end buried deep and the wound sealed tight by pressure and muscle.

Your leg screams in protest.

You ignore it as you guide Kxelya straight toward a fallen log, then at the last second, wrench her upward. The pursuing ikran doesn’t adjust fast enough.

Its wings catch.

The rider is thrown violently forward, crashing headfirst into the trunk with a sickening crack.

Your breath is still uneven when Kxelya levels out, wings beating hard as she regains altitude. The forest drops away beneath you in a blur of green and shadow.

Your leg throbs. Your cheek pulses. Your grip tightens on the reins as you force your focus back into place. 

You scan the treetops.

Nothing.

No shapes diving. No wings cutting through the canopy.

Just the forest.

For a heartbeat, it almost feels like you’ve shaken them.

You ease your posture slightly, shifting your weight to steady Kxelya’s flight.

That’s when something comes screaming down from above. It’s not a war cry, but something closer to devotion.

A rider.

They’ve leapt from their mount.

Their body is a dark blur against the sky, limbs tucked tight, one arm raised overhead. Something glints in their grip, thick and misshapen.

Your instincts scream projectile.

You twist, lifting your forearm to shield your face just as the rider hurls the object straight at you.

It doesn’t shatter.

It splats.

A heavy, wet impact explodes against your hand and forearm, coating your skin in a slick, tar-like substance. It clings instantly, oozing between your fingers, dripping down Kxelya’s wing in slow, sticky trails.

You grimace, jerking your arm back.

“What—”

The word dies as the smell hits you.

The rider is still in freefall, laughing, calling for their ikran.

Snarling, you shove Kxelya into a sharp roll, her wings snapping wide as she twists through the air. At the same time, your hand draws your bow in one smooth motion.

The arrow flies before the thought finishes forming.

It punches clean through the rider’s skull.

Their body goes limp mid-air, tumbling past you and disappearing into the trees below.

You don’t watch them.

Your attention is on your arm.

The substance coats your skin in uneven streaks, clinging stubbornly no matter how hard you flick your wrist.

You shake your arm hard, grimacing.

“What the fuck, that’s disgusting.”

Your focus narrows to the sensation.

A shadow passes over you.

You look up, ready to retaliate—

An arrow whistles down from above, slicing through the air with a sharp, hungry sound.

It strikes your arm.

Right through the darkened smear.

Fire erupts across your skin.

Your scream rips out of you before you even realize your lungs are working. The world fractures into blinding white as the burning oil ignites, flames licking up your arm in wild, hungry tongues. The smell hits next. Thick. Acrid. Like scorched metal and rot.

Your grip shatters.

The reins slip from your fingers as your arm spasms violently, muscles locking in on themselves. The fire doesn’t fade. It clings. Crawls. Eats.

Every nerve lights up at once.

The pain isn’t sharp anymore. It’s everywhere. A roaring, consuming agony that drowns out thought, breath, even sound. Your chest jerks uselessly, lungs stuttering between gasps and screams that barely make it past your throat.

You can’t see.

Can’t think.

Your arm feels like it’s being torn open from the inside.

Flames race along your skin in living lines, burrowing deeper with every heartbeat. The heat is so intense it feels solid, like something heavy pressing into your bones.

Your fingers twitch wildly.

As if your body is trying to escape itself.

Your vision fractures into streaks of light and shadow, the canopy above smearing into meaningless color. The sky doesn’t look like sky anymore. It’s just brightness. Noise. Blurry movement.

Your stomach lurches.

You try to draw another breath.

It comes out as a choked, ragged sound instead.

Your whole body locks up, muscles seizing as the burn spikes again, hotter this time, deeper. Every nerve in your arm feels like it’s being torn open at once, and for a terrifying second, the only thing that exists is the fire.

A branch slams into you from the side.

Hard.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs in a sharp, silent burst. Wood scrapes across your shoulder and chest, snapping against Kxelya’s wing as the force wrenches you sideways.

The bond between you breaks.

For one horrible, weightless second, there is nothing beneath you.

Then gravity takes you.

Leaves and branches rip past in a blur of green and brown. Your body twists, slamming into bark, vines tearing at your skin, the world reduced to flashes of pain and sound. Your burned arm hits first, and you scream, the agony white and blinding.

Something cracks.

Your vision fractures.

Cold rushes up to meet you.

You hit the river in a violent splash, the cold swallowing you whole.

The shock steals the breath from your chest. The flames on your arm fizzling out in a violent hiss as cold water smothers them. What’s left behind is worse. A raw, screaming ache that feels deeper, sharper, like your nerves have been stripped bare and thrown into the current.

Water floods your ears, your mouth, your lungs.

The river drags you under.

You flail.

Your good arm claws at nothing but rushing current as your body spins, weightless and lost. Your burned hand doesn’t respond at all. It might as well not exist.

Panic claws up your throat.

Your chest convulses, desperate for air that isn’t there. The river roars around you, cold and crushing, pulling you deeper with every second you fail to fight back.

Then—

Something hooks into your shoulder.

Kxelya’s talons hook into the fabric of your gear, yanking you toward the surface. You break through the water with a choking gasp, coughing hard as air floods your lungs.

She hauls you toward the riverbank, wings dragging through the shallows as she scrambles for footing. Wet leaves and mud give way beneath her, but she doesn’t let go.

Your body goes limp the moment your knees hit the ground.

Or at least, one of them does.

The other collapses a heartbeat later, useless beneath you as pain flares hot and deep through your thigh. You pitch forward, palms sinking into the river’s edge as water streams from your braids, your gear, your skin.

Your chest heaves as you cough, retching up river water and air in equal measure.

You try to drag yourself farther from the water.

Your good arm moves.

Your injured leg does not.

A sharp, sickening jolt shoots through your thigh, stealing the breath from your lungs as the embedded arrow shifts. You grit your teeth and pull anyway, leaving a dark, wet trail in the soil behind you.

Every movement sends fresh spikes of pain through your burned skin and down your leg, jagged and relentless.

Your vision swims.

You press your forehead to the ground, breathing through clenched teeth.

The forest around you is suddenly too quiet. Just the river’s soft rush and the thudding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You lift your head slowly, scanning the treeline.

Kxelya nudges your shoulder urgently, clicking in short, frantic bursts. Her wings are torn, skin singed, and bent at unnatural angles, but she stays close, body curved around you like a living shield.

Her breath is fast. So is yours.

Your gaze drops to your arm.

The skin from your forearm down is ruined.

Blistered. Split. Darkened in places where the fire bit too deep. Pale flesh is exposed beneath torn layers of skin, glossy with river water and blood.

And it hurts.

Not the sharp, flaring kind of pain from before. This is deeper. Raw. A constant, screaming ache that pulses with every heartbeat, like your nerves are laid bare to the air. The river didn’t soothe it. It only stripped away the last of the protection.

Your fingers twitch when you tell them to.

But every tiny shift sends a fresh spike of agony up your arm, so intense it makes your vision blur.

A broken sound tears out of your throat.

“Fuck,” you whisper, more breath than word.

You don’t let yourself stare.

Your ears flick, catching the faintest disturbance in the forest. The rustle of leaves. The soft shift of weight against bark. The air doesn’t feel empty anymore.

They’re still here.

Your good hand moves fast, yanking leaves from the nearby plants. Broad, thick ones, still damp with river mist. You don’t think about which kind. You don’t have the luxury.

You press the first leaf against your ruined arm.

The pain explodes.

You bite down hard, a sharp, choked hiss forcing its way through your teeth as the rough surface scrapes across exposed flesh. Your arm jerks instinctively, but you force it back into place, breath shuddering.

You layer another leaf over it.

Another wave of fire.

Your vision swims. Your chest heaves as you fight the urge to pull away. Every nerve in your arm screams in protest, but you keep going, wrapping the leaves tighter, securing them with strips torn from your sash.

Your movements are hurried. Clumsy. Not from panic.

From the pain.

You can’t feel how tight you’re pulling. You only know it hurts. Everything hurts.

You glance up between every wrap, scanning the treeline.

Kxelya steps closer, wings partially spread, her body angled between you and the forest. She clicks low in her throat, a warning sound, her head turning in short, sharp movements as she tracks the unseen threat.

You secure the last strip with your teeth, jaw aching from how hard you’re clenching.

Your breath comes slow now.

The knife slides free with a soft metallic whisper.

You shift your weight, planting your feet in the wet soil, blade held low in your left hand. The river murmurs behind you. The forest breathes in front of you.

Two massive shapes descend through the canopy, wings beating hard as they land with heavy, earth-shaking thuds on the riverbank. Water splashes up around their talons, sending ripples across the surface.

Their ikran fold their wings slowly, heads lowering, eyes locked on Kxelya.

A low, guttural hiss rolls from their throats.

Kxelya answers immediately.

Her wings flare wide, body angling protectively in front of you as a sharp, furious screech tears from her chest. Her claws dig into the wet floor, tail lashing, ready to launch if needed.

The two riders slide down from their mounts with controlled, practiced movements.

Both of them are painted in the same dark ash-gray tones you saw before, red and black markings streaked across their faces and chests like war scars made of smoke and blood. Their eyes never leave you.

One rests a hand on a long spear, its tip darkened and wickedly sharp. The other rolls his shoulders once, then draws a curved blade, the metal catching a faint glint of light through the trees.

Their ikran hiss again, wings shifting, jaws parting to show rows of sharp teeth.

Kxelya answers with another screech, louder this time, stepping forward until her shoulder brushes yours.

They spread out slightly, feet crunching against gravel and fallen leaves, cutting off your path back into the trees.

Your grip tightens on the knife.

Your burned arm throbs with every heartbeat, a deep, screaming ache that radiates through your chest and down your spine. Even standing still hurts. Every breath pulls at the ruined flesh, reminding you how exposed you are.

You shift your weight anyway.

The one with the spear moves first.

You lunge before he can set his stance, forcing your body to obey through the pain. Your left hand drives the blade forward in a clean, sharp arc. He barely manages to twist aside, the edge of your knife slicing across his shoulder instead of his throat.

He hisses, staggering back.

The second rider closes in immediately, blade flashing.

You pivot, muscles screaming in protest. Your injured arm drags uselessly at your side, but your feet stay quick, instincts overriding pain. You duck under his swing and drive your knife into his thigh.

He collapses with a grunt, blood darkening the ground beneath him.

Your breath comes ragged now.

Your vision blurs at the edges.

Adrenaline is the only thing keeping you upright.

The spear wielder charges, faster this time.

You brace, twisting your body sideways just enough for the spear to skim past your ribs instead of piercing them. You slam your shoulder into his chest and bring the knife up in a brutal, desperate strike.

He falls.

Your chest heaves. Your knees threaten to give out. The pain in your arm is a living thing now, crawling up your shoulder, clawing into your neck.

You stagger back a step.

That’s when a rope snaps tight around your legs.

The bola hits low, wrapping around your ankles with crushing force. Your balance disappears instantly.

You hit the ground hard.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs, a sharp, helpless sound tearing from your throat. The world tilts violently as your cheek slams into the soil, your knife skidding from your grip.

You try to roll.

Your body won’t listen.

A shadow falls over you.

The remaining rider is on you in seconds, feet pounding the ground as he closes the distance. You swing blindly with your good arm, but he catches your wrist mid-motion and twists. He doesn’t break your wrist, but his grip is tight enough that the knife slips from your grip.

Your vision whites out.

A heavy blow crashes into the side of your head.

Kxelya is the last thing you hear.

Her scream tears through the air, raw and furious, a bellowing cry that shakes the trees and echoes through your fading consciousness.

The world dims to silence—

where her voice can’t reach you.

___

A/N pt.2: Only after finishing the chapter did I realize Tari and Jake now have matching thigh arrow wounds. Jake got it in the third movie. What the hell.

Your ikran cuts through the air with smooth, powerful strokes, wings catching the sunlight in flashes of copper and blue. She doesn’t fight the wind this time. She lets it carry her, riding the currents.

You lean forward slightly, resting your forearms on her neck. The familiar heat of her skin seeps into your palms, grounding you.

“Easy,” you murmur, more out of habit than necessity.

She answers with a low, steady click, the sound vibrating through your chest.

You exhale slowly.

This is what it feels like to move without anyone depending on you.

No one to watch.

No one to steady.

No one to carry.

The thought doesn’t bring relief like you expected it to.

The sky opens wide above you, too empty, too clean. Clouds drift lazily, their shadows sliding across the water like slow-moving thoughts. The sun sits high and bright, but it doesn’t feel warm the way it used to. Not comforting. Just observant.

You glance back once, instinctively.

There’s nothing there.

No familiar shapes in the distance. No formation to check. No one straying too far from the path. Just endless blue and the thin line where sky meets sea.

Your chest tightens, just a little.

You face forward again.

Back then, flying meant keeping everyone together. Making sure no one fell behind. Making sure Neteyam didn’t carry everything alone. Making sure Lo’ak didn’t break himself against the world. Making sure Kiri stayed tethered to something solid. Making sure Tuk slept through the hard parts.

You’d flown like that for so long that your body learned the shape of it.

Now there’s no shape to hold.

Kxelya dips lower, wings angling as the air shifts. The scent changes first, faint but unmistakable. Not just salt anymore. Something greener. Damp. Earthy.

Your ears twitch.

Ahead, the horizon darkens.

A line of green rises slowly from the water’s edge, thick and layered, the canopy uneven and wild. The closer you get, the more the colors deepen. Emerald, jade, shadowed teal. The forest doesn’t stretch upward like the one you left behind. It spreads. Dense. Tangled. Alive in a different way.

Your stomach knots, tight and quiet.

The air grows heavier as you approach, warm and damp, clinging to your skin. The wind shifts from sharp and salty to thick with the scent of leaves and wet earth. The ocean recedes behind you, replaced by rolling green and the distant echo of unseen creatures calling to one another.

Kxelya lets out a low sound, wings adjusting to the denser air.

You run a hand along her neck. “You remember this, don’t you?”

She flicks an ear, clicking softly.

The forest rises to meet you, branches weaving together in uneven patterns. Sunlight filters through in broken shards, catching on leaves and vines, turning the air into something golden and hazy. Shadows shift constantly, never staying still long enough to feel safe.

You guide Kxelya lower, scanning for a clear landing.

You circle once. Your eyes trace the terrain automatically, noting gaps in the canopy, fallen trunks, uneven ground. Old instincts sliding into place.

When Kxelya finally descends, her talons find purchase on a wide, moss-covered branch. The impact sends a soft tremor through the wood. Leaves rustle. Somewhere deeper in the forest, something clicks in response.

You stay mounted for a moment longer than necessary.

The air presses against your skin, thick with humidity and unfamiliar sounds. Insects hum in layered rhythms. Birds call from unseen perches. The forest breathes in a way the reef never did.

You inhale.

It smells like memory.

Not your forest. Not the one you grew up in. But close enough to stir something restless in your chest. The kind of closeness that makes absence more noticeable instead of less.

You swing your leg over Kxelya’s side and land lightly on the branch. The bark is rough beneath your palms as you steady yourself. She shifts her weight, wings folding with a soft, tired rustle.

You press your forehead briefly to the curve of her neck.

“Good girl.”

She nudges you once, warm and solid.

When you look out at the forest again, it feels bigger from here. Taller. More layered. Every direction crowded with green and shadow and the promise of things you don’t know.

Your tail sways slowly behind you, restless, then stills as you force your breathing to steady.

You’re not here to wander.

You’re here for a reason.

Even if the reason feels heavier now that you’re carrying it alone.

You glance once more toward the distant strip of ocean, barely visible through the trees.

Then you turn back to the forest.

The branch beneath your feet flexes as you step off it, feet sinking slightly into soft earth. Leaves brush your shoulders as you move. Vines hang low, some thin enough to push aside, others thick enough to make you detour. Sunlight filters through the canopy in uneven ribbons, painting your skin in warm, shifting gold.

You move carefully, eyes scanning for anything that looks stable enough to rest near. A fallen trunk. A cluster of thick roots. Somewhere elevated, dry, defensible without feeling like a trap.

You find a natural rise a short distance in, where the ground slopes upward, and a broad, hollowed tree trunk leans against a rock formation. Moss clings to its bark like a second skin. The inside is dry. Sheltered.

Good enough.

Kxelya lands nearby with a heavy, tired thump, wings flaring before settling. She shakes out the fatigue from her wings, sending droplets of moisture scattering into the air.

You smile faintly. “Yeah, I feel the same.”

She huffs, folding her wings tighter, and lowers her head as you unstrap the small pack from her harness.

The forest grows quieter as the sun dips lower.

The brighter calls fade, replaced by softer clicks, distant rustles, and the low, constant hum of life continuing where you can’t see it.

You work automatically.

Clear the space.

Check the ground.

Set your pack down.

Your fingers move with the same practiced ease they always have. The motions don’t require thought. They never really did.

It’s your mind that won’t stay still.

You sit against the trunk, knees drawn up slightly, and let the forest settle around you. The air is warm, but not heavy. It carries the scent of damp earth, sap, and something faintly sweet you can’t quite place.

Your gaze drifts upward, following the way the branches weave together overhead. The sky peeks through in fractured pieces, already shifting toward dusk.

Back home, the forest canopy felt like a ceiling.

Here, it feels like a veil.

You pull a strip of dried fish from your pack and tear into it without ceremony. The taste is salty, sharp, grounding. You chew slowly, eyes never fully resting on one place.

You don’t feel unsafe.

But you don’t feel alone, either.

Not in the way the open sky made you feel alone.

This is different. The forest holds its presence close. Everything is near. Everything is layered. You can’t see far, but you can feel depth in every direction.

Kxelya shifts behind you, talons scraping softly against bark. She settles with her head tucked in, one eye half-open.

“You can sleep,” you murmur. “I’ve got first watch.”

She clicks once, unconvinced, but doesn’t move.

Night comes slowly.

The light thins. Colors deepen. Shadows stretch and blur together until the forest becomes a tapestry of dark greens and soft blacks. The sounds change again, low calls rising where bright ones once were.

You light no fire.

Instead, you rest your bow across your knees, fingers loosely around the grip. Your breathing evens out.

For a while, nothing happens.

The forest does what forests do. Leaves rustle. Insects hum. Something small scurries across the ground and disappears into undergrowth.

Time passes.

Your thoughts wander.

You imagine the way the moonlight would look on the waves tonight. The way the lanterns would glow along the walkways. The quiet conversations. The routines resuming.

Your gaze drifts back to the trees.

Somewhere deeper in the forest, a branch snaps.

Your ears twitch.

You don’t move.

Another sound follows. A soft scrape. Then stillness.

Your fingers tighten around your bow, not because you’re afraid, but because attention is part of survival.

A moment passes.

Then two.

Nothing else breaks the quiet.

You release the tension in your shoulders slowly.

Probably an animal. The forest is full of them.

Still, you shift your weight slightly, angling yourself to see more of the slope ahead. Your tail gives a small, unconscious sway before settling again.

The night deepens.

Your eyelids grow heavier, but you fight the pull of sleep.

Kxelya stirs once, letting out a low, drowsy sound. You reach back without looking and rest your hand against her neck. Warm. Solid. Real.

“Still here,” you whisper.

She nudges your palm in response.

The forest answers with a distant, hollow call that echoes once, then fades.

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the layered rhythm of the world around you. The breathing of the trees. The pulse of unseen movement. The quiet certainty that life continues whether you’re watching it or not.

When you open them again, the dark has softened.

Not into morning, not yet. Just that gray in-between where the forest feels like it’s stretching after sleep. Mist curls low to the ground, thin and cool against your ankles. Somewhere above, something clicks. Somewhere deeper in, something moves.

Kxelya lifts her head, wings rustling.

“Yeah, I know,” you murmur.

Your camp disappears as quietly as it formed. No fire marks. No broken branches. Just disturbed moss and the faint imprint of feet and claws that the forest will swallow within the hour.

When you guide Kxelya upward, you don’t climb straight into open sky. You stay low at first, weaving through thinning canopy, using the trees to hide your ascent. The air cools as the ground falls away. The forest stretches beneath you in layered greens and shadowed valleys, sunlight cutting through in narrow, shifting bands.

This isn’t your forest.

But it’s close enough to feel familiar in your bones.

That familiarity settles into you, even as your eyes stay sharp. You scan the ground. The treetops. The open spaces between ridges. You don’t fly high unless you have to. You don’t silhouette yourself against the sky. You fly broken paths, uneven lines, the way you were taught when enemies still had eyes in the air.

You assume you’re being watched.

And fly like it.

___

The first settlement appears tucked into the roots of massive trees, structures reinforced with extra lashings and thicker beams. Platforms sit higher than usual, anchored with thicker rope. Nets hang beneath every major walkway, not for fishing, but to catch falling bodies. Spears and bows rest within arm’s reach instead of being stored away. Lookouts remain posted even in daylight, eyes tracking the canopy, the sky, the spaces between both.

Prepared.

You land outside their main platform, careful not to approach too quickly, careful not to look like a threat. Kxelya folds her wings close, lowering her profile as you dismount. The guards don’t raise their weapons, but they don’t relax either. Their attention sharpens.

You press your fingers lightly to your forehead and forward in greeting. They mirror it, slower, more reserved.

You speak, briefly, explaining why you’re here. Where you’ve been. What you’ve seen. Your words are measured. You don’t dramatize the attacks and you don’t soften them either. You describe burned structures, displaced families, the pattern of movement you’ve noticed in the Sky People’s raids.

Their leader listens without interrupting. His eyes flick occasionally toward the canopy, toward the distant sky, toward the places danger would come from. His jaw tightens when you mention villages that no longer exist.

Instead of answering you directly, he gestures for you to walk.

They lead you through the settlement.

You see the changes as you move. Reinforced walkways. Escape routes woven into the sides of platforms. Storage areas packed light, meant for quick evacuation rather than long-term living. Hunters moving in pairs, their eyes constantly scanning. No one lingers alone.

You speak again, softer this time. You tilt your chin westward, just enough to suggest direction without giving anything away. Your hand traces a subtle path in the air. Currents. Landmarks. A route that avoids open skies. To guide them if they chose to move. To fight.

The leader stops near the edge of a high platform. He looks out over his people, over the forest stretching endlessly in every direction. His hand rests on the haft of his spear, not in threat, but in thought.

When he nods, it isn’t quick.

It’s heavy with consideration.

You bow your head once in acknowledgment. No promises are exchanged. No alliances sealed. Just the understanding that the door is open, should they decide to walk through it.

You mount Kxelya and lift off through the canopy, keeping low until the trees swallow you again. When you glance back, you see the guards still watching the sky where you disappeared.

___

The next village feels different the moment you approach.

The canopy opens wide, letting in too much light. Platforms sit lower, closer to the forest floor, their supports thinner, their ropes older. No extra nets hang beneath the walkways. No reinforced beams. No lookout posts rising above the trees.

The air feels softer here. Less alert.

You circle once before landing, keeping Kxelya low and quiet. She folds her wings in tight as you touch down at the edge of the settlement, her body stilling in a way that mirrors your own caution.

No one rushes to meet you.

No weapons rise.

Instead, people pause.

Hands still on baskets. Tools half-lifted. Conversations taper off into murmurs. A few children stop running and drift closer to the nearest adults, their laughter cutting short when your shadow passes over the platforms.

They look at you with curiosity first. Then caution. Then something softer.

Hope, maybe. Or the need to believe the world is still kind.

You step forward slowly, letting your presence be seen without pressing into their space. Greeting them. After a moment, the gesture is returned.

You speak quietly.

Their leader listens with a calm expression, head tilted slightly, eyes focused on your face but drifting now and then to the open canopy above. His posture remains loose. Unbothered.

When you finish, he thanks you. Politely. Carefully.

Then he gestures around the settlement.

The trees are healthy.

The platforms are intact. No scorch marks. No broken beams. No smoke in the air.

The forest here still feels generous.

You walk their paths, guided more by observation than invitation. The structures are unchanged from what they’ve always been. Open gathering spaces. Wide platforms meant for song, not defense. Nets woven for fishing, not evacuation.

People move without tension in their shoulders. No one scans the sky unless something passes directly overhead. The children drift back to play once they decide you aren’t dangerous.

This village hasn’t been touched.

And because of that, it hasn’t changed.

When you finally gesture west, tracing the air with two fingers, your voice stays soft. 

The leader listens. Nods once.

But his eyes don’t sharpen, more dismissive than attentive.

They don’t weigh your words the way the first village’s did. There is no tension in his stance, no urgency in his silence.

You don’t push.

You leave the direction behind like something small and fragile. A suggestion, not a warning. A seed that may or may not take root.

As you prepare to leave, no one follows you to the edge of the platforms. No lookouts track your ascent. No eyes narrow with concern.

You lift off into the canopy, Kxelya’s wings beating steady and strong.

Weeks pass like this. A rhythm settles in.

Land. Speak. Observe. Leave.

Some clans welcome the warning in silence, their eyes sharpening, their warriors shifting closer to their weapons without being told. Others listen politely and return to their routines the moment you’re gone. A few barely hide their dismissal, their confidence rooted in untouched land and unbroken structures.

Your body adapts to the solitude faster than your mind does. Nights become quieter. The forest speaks, but it doesn’t answer. You eat what you hunt. Sleep where the canopy is thickest. Trust Kxelya’s instincts as much as your own.

Still, the sense of motion in the world never fades.

Trade paths feel emptier. Some skies feel watched. Certain routes that once buzzed with distant calls now lie strangely silent.

Something is shifting.

You feel it most in the wind.

On the twenty-third day, the forest opens into sky.

Just a slow thinning of branches, leaves giving way to air, shadows stretching into light. The horizon expands, blue and endless, clouds drifting like pale islands above the canopy.

Kxelya lets out a soft trill, wings flexing.

Then you see them.

At first, they’re just shapes. Pale, drifting silhouettes against the sky. Like massive petals caught in an invisible current. They move with the wind rather than against it, their forms swelling and folding as if breathing.

More appear as you fly closer.

Translucent canopies billow wide, catching sunlight and scattering it into shimmering hues of pearl and sky-blue. Long tendrils trail beneath them like flowing ribbons, glinting as they sway. Beneath each massive, medusoid body hangs a woven platform, suspended by thick, braided lines that creak softly with the movement of air.

Windrays glide in loose formation around them, sleek and watchful, their riders standing tall with spears and bows angled toward the horizon.

The Tlalim caravan moves like a living constellation.

“Wow…” your breath catches before you can stop it.

Kxelya tilts her head at the sight, wings steadying as you guide her into a slow, visible approach. 

The Wind Traders notice you almost immediately.

Windrays shift their positions, spreading slightly.

You raise your hand in greeting. 

The response isn’t immediate.

Then, one of the windrays adjusts its course, drifting closer on the current. The canopy above it ripples like a living sail. A figure stands at its edge, tall and broad-shouldered, braids bound back with pale beads that catch the light.

Peylak.

Kxelya clicks softly as you descend, landing on the woven surface with a gentle thud. The platform sways under her weight, ropes creaking in protest before settling.

You swing down from the saddle in one smooth motion.

“I see you,” you greet. “I’m Tari—”

“Daughter of Toruk Makto.”

The words cut in.

You pause mid-breath.

Peylak’s gaze moves over you with quiet scrutiny, from the markings on your arms to the set of your shoulders, to the ikran behind you shifting her wings like she owns the sky.

Your ears flick back despite yourself.

“Just Tari is fine,” you repeat, firmer this time.

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. More like amusement that knows better than to show itself.

“The sky carries names far,” he says. “Especially ones tied to storms.”

You exhale through your nose. “Figures.”

You glance back at Kxelya, who has already started preening like she’s been here her whole life.

“I’m not here to ask for favors,” you add quickly.

Peylak studies you for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes drift briefly to the horizon, to the slow movement of the caravan, to the distant line where sky meets nothing.

“Good,” he says. “Because we do not choose sides.”

There it is.

You roll your shoulders, letting the tension ease out of them. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Silence stretches between you.

Peylak finally gestures with two fingers toward the platform behind him. “Walk with me.”

You follow, feet thudding softly against the woven surface. The platform shifts beneath your weight. Around you, traders move with practiced ease, adjusting sails, securing lines, passing bundles of supplies hand to hand.

You pass baskets of dried fruit, coiled ropes, stacks of glider fabric, and neatly lashed crates marked with symbols you don’t recognize. Everything here is built for motion.

He leads you to a broader section of the platform where food is being laid out. Warm flatbread, smoked fish, sweet fruit wrapped in leaf bundles. The smell alone makes your stomach tighten.

“Eat,” Peylak says simply.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“You are a guest,” he cuts in. “Even storms deserve shelter.”

You take the food, offering a quiet nod in thanks. The first bite tastes like salt and warmth and something almost like comfort.

Nearby, a few traders have already approached Kxelya.

She watches them suspiciously at first, head tilted, wings half-furled. Then someone offers her a slab of fresh meat.

Her entire demeanor changes.

Kxelya clicks loudly, hops forward, and snatches the offering with enthusiasm that nearly knocks the trader off balance.

You wince. “Easy, girl.”

She ignores you completely.

Another trader laughs and brings more food.

Kxelya settles down right there on the platform, wings folding in as she stretches out like she’s found her new favorite resting spot. One eye stays open. Just in case.

You stare. “Traitor.”

Her ear flicks.

Peylak watches the scene with quiet amusement. “Your ikran adapts quickly.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Too quickly.”

The day passes in a strange, weightless rhythm.

You’re shown how the medusoid canopies shift to catch different currents. How the windrays rotate patrol positions without breaking formation. How the traders store everything in ways that can be dismantled in minutes.

Nothing here is permanent.

Everything is ready to move.

By the time the sun dips low and the sky blushes with pink and gold, you’re sitting near the edge of the platform with a second serving of food, watching the clouds drift past like slow, quiet waves.

Kxelya is still sprawled out, belly full, tail flicking lazily.

Peylak approaches again, stopping a respectful distance away. “You may stay for the night.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods.

You smile faintly, “Thanks.”

Night settles gently over the caravan. The sky deepens from pale blue to indigo, then to a rich, endless dark pricked with stars. Lanterns are lit one by one along the woven platforms, their warm glow rippling across the silvery skins of the medusoids drifting overhead. The great creatures move slower now, pulsing softly, like living moons tethered to the ships below.

On each platform, small fires are kindled in shallow stone bowls. Traders gather around them in loose circles, passing food, trading quiet stories, laughing in low, easy voices that don’t need to carry. There’s no single feast, no grand ceremony. Just many small ones, scattered across the sky.

You sit near the edge of your platform, legs folded, watching one group share a meal nearby. A child leans against an elder’s shoulder, half-asleep, clutching a piece of flatbread. Two riders argue softly over something trivial, their tones more fond than sharp. Someone plucks at a stringed instrument, the notes drifting thin and gentle into the open air.

Your chest loosens in a way you hadn’t realized it was tight.

You don’t belong here, not really, but for a moment, you’re allowed to witness it. The quiet resilience of people who live in motion, who don’t cling to land or walls, who carry their homes with them in rope and sail and memory.

You find yourself smiling without meaning to.

Kxelya lowers herself beside you with a soft huff, folding her wings in a way that blocks most of the wind. The heat from the nearby fire brushes against her scales, and she shifts just enough to angle her body between you and the open air.

You take the invitation.

You lie back, resting against the broad curve of her wing, the leathery membrane warm and solid beneath your fingers. Above you, the medusoids glow faintly, their bodies catching starlight as they drift.

“Soft,” you murmur, pressing your palm into the shelter she’s made for you. “Don’t get used to this.”

Her tail thumps once against the woven floor, slow and lazy.

Somewhere nearby, a trader laughs. The fire pops softly. The sky stretches on, endless and quiet.

For the first time since you left the reef, you let yourself rest without listening for danger in every shadow.

Just for the night.

___

When morning comes, the caravan is already stirring. Ropes tighten. Windrays circle. The medusoids lift higher, catching the early currents.

You stretch, arms lifting high over your head as a quiet groan slips out of you.

Your muscles protest. Your bones feel like they’ve been packed into the wrong places overnight. The woven platform is cool beneath your feet, still holding onto the last breath of night.

Kxelya, meanwhile, looks thrilled with herself.

She’s sprawled out on her side, one wing half-draped over a coil of rope, the other shielding her eyes from the rising sun. Her tail flicks lazily, completely unbothered by the fact that the caravan is already stirring to life around her.

“Alright, sky princess,” you say, patting her flank. “Up.”

Nothing.

“Kxelya.”

She twitches.

You sigh and plant your hands on your hips. “Do not test me.”

She makes a low, exaggerated huff. Actually sighs. Then rolls just enough to show you her back, tail swishing smugly as if she’s just proven a point.

Nearby, a pair of Wind Traders laugh quietly to themselves.

You glare at her. “You are not a spoiled Tlalim ikran. You are mine.”

Kxelya’s tail thumps once in lazy disagreement.

“Do not pretend you don’t understand me,” you mutter, stepping closer. 

Her ear flicks again. Still nothing.

“So, we’re playing it like this. Alright.”

You crouch beside her, lowering your voice like you’re sharing a secret.

“Hey. Big skies ahead. Strong winds. Maybe something worth chasing.”

One of her ears twitches.

You smirk. “And I did hear there are better hunting grounds past the treeline.”

Her tail flicks once.

You tap the saddle lightly. “Come on. Don’t tell me the great terror of the skies is afraid of a little adventure.”

That does it.

With a deeply put-upon groan, Kxelya finally pushes herself upright, wings unfolding in an unnecessarily dramatic stretch that nearly knocks over a nearby supply crate. She shakes herself out like she’s shaking off the injustice of the world.

“Thank you,” you say dryly. “Your sacrifice is noted.”

She clicks and bumps your shoulder with her snout.

You rub between her eyes despite yourself. “Yeah, yeah.”

Peylak approaches, hands folded calmly in front of him, watching the exchange with quiet amusement.

“May the winds carry you where you are needed, Daughter of Toruk Makto,” he says.

Your jaw tightens automatically.

“Tari,” you correct.

This time, his lips curve into a real smile.

You dip your head respectfully. “Thank you for the food. And the shelter. You didn’t have to.”

“Eywa provides,” he replies simply. “We only choose how to move through her will.”

You nod, accepting the words for what they are.

Kxelya shifts impatiently beneath you as you climb back into the saddle, wings already tensing like she’s eager to be back in the air.

“Alright,” you murmur to her. “Let’s go before you decide to steal their supplies too.”

Her tail swishes in innocent denial.

With a sharp kick, you launch upward, Kxelya surging into the sky with powerful, confident strokes. The woven platforms dip slightly beneath the force, ropes creaking before settling again.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, fingers tightening on the reins. “I give you one night of luxury and suddenly you forget who you’re bonded to.”

Kxelya clicks back, indignant, wings angling just a little wider than necessary like she’s showing off for an audience that isn’t there anymore.

You add. “You are an ikran with responsibilities.”

She banks slightly, just enough to throw you off balance.

“Oh, don’t start.”

Her tail flicks again, smug.

The forest rises to meet you, green layered thick and endless, canopy folding over itself in waves. The air changes as you descend. Cooler. Damp. Heavy with leaf rot and living things. You ease Kxelya lower, mindful of the shadows, eyes scanning out of habit.

She dips suddenly, chasing a thermal.

“Hey—easy,” you laugh, steadying yourself. “We’re not racing today.”

She answers with a loud, indignant screech and banks harder.

“Oh, you want to race?” you say. “Because last time—”

The world shifts.

A pressure in the air, wrong and sudden, like the sky itself flinched.

Your instincts scream before your eyes catch up.

You yank hard. “Kxelya—!”

Something moves beneath you.

A shadow surges upward from the canopy, vast and fast, blotting out the light for a split second. You don’t see its shape, not really.

Kxelya shrieks, wings jerking violently as she twists midair.

The strike misses her.

It doesn’t miss you.

Pain explodes across the left side of your face, hot and tearing, like fire dragged through skin. Your vision blurs as something rakes upward, catching you just beneath the eye. The impact carves a brutal line along your cheekbone, the force dragging the wound in a sharp, rising slash that climbs toward your temple. Flesh burns where it splits, the sting immediate and vicious, as if heat and steel struck at once.

You gasp, the sound ripped from your throat as blood sprays warm against the wind.

“Kxelya—MOVE!” you shout.

She doesn’t need the command.

Her wings beat hard, throwing you both sideways into open air. The forest spins beneath you, green blurring into shadow and light as she claws for altitude.

Your hand flies to your face.

Blood.

You press your palm harder, teeth gritting as pain pulses in sharp, sickening waves through your skull.

Kxelya screeches again, a raw, furious sound, and banks sharply upward, scanning the sky with wild, frantic movements.

“What was that,” you breathe, forcing your eyes open.

Nothing.

No shape. No wings. No movement.

Just sky.

Your heart slams against your ribs as you twist in the saddle, searching the canopy below. Leaves sway. Branches settle. Birds scatter in startled bursts.

But whatever came for you is gone.

Your breath comes fast, uneven. Your fingers tremble against your face as more blood slips through them, warm and sticky.

“Stupid,” you mutter through clenched teeth, “slotsyal.”

You squint down at the trees, trying to make sense of it.

A stormglider, maybe.

They were big. Fast. Territorial. Not exactly bright. You’ve heard of them mistaking riders for prey before. A bad angle. A bad moment. That’s all this was.

“Kxelya, you’re okay,” you murmur, stroking her neck despite the shaking in your hands. “We’re fine.”

She lets out a low, uneasy click, wings still tense as she glides forward. Her head keeps turning, eyes scanning the air like she doesn’t trust the sky anymore.

Neither do you.

The forest stretches on beneath you, vast and indifferent. Green folding into green, shadows slipping back into place as if nothing disturbed them at all. The canopy swallows sound. Swallows evidence. Swallows whatever just tried to take you out of the air.

You don’t speak again.

The wind roars in your ears, steady and relentless, drowning out the echo of your own heartbeat. Your grip on the reins tightens, knuckles pale against the leather. Every muscle in your body stays coiled, waiting for something that doesn’t come.

Kxelya flies lower now. Her wings beat in a measured rhythm, slower than before, like she’s trying to calm down.

You let your hand fall back to your side, letting the air dry the mess instead of wiping at it again. Your fingers curl slowly, flexing once to steady the tremor still buzzing through them.

The sky stays quiet.

Too quiet.

No shadow rises again. No shape breaks the clouds. No cry splits the air.

Just the sound of wings.

Just the rush of wind.

Just the forest watching from below.

You lean forward slightly, pressing your forehead against Kxelya’s neck for a heartbeat, grounding yourself in the warmth and strength of her.

“Let’s keep moving,” you murmur.

She answers with a low, determined call and pushes onward, carrying you deeper into the green.

You swallow, jaw tightening as the last of the adrenaline burns off, leaving only the ache beneath your eye and the unease settling in your chest.

“Eywa help me,” you whisper to the rushing air, not quite a prayer, not quite a joke.

“Because if that was your idea of a warning…”

“Maybe a little chill on the blood next time?”

___

A/N pt.2: If you know Reno from Final Fantasy, the wound kinda looks like that red streak on the side of his face.

Spider’s a step farther back, pretending to examine one of the woven beams like this isn’t exactly the conversation he came to listen to.

You straighten slowly, rolling your shoulders like you’re shaking off the weight of the straps.

“I’m not gone forever,” you say. “Just a bit.”

Lo’ak snorts. “That’s what people always say.”

Your ears flick back. “You’ve been hanging around Spider too much.”

“Hey,” Spider mutters. “Not my fault.”

Tuk’s tail swishes nervously. “How long is ‘a bit’?”

You glance at her, then at Kiri, then back to Lo’ak. You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t know. Because you don’t want to promise something you can’t control.

“Long enough for you to get into trouble,” you say lightly.

Lo’ak’s lips twitch despite himself. “So like… an hour?”

You step closer and knock your knuckles gently against his forehead. “Try weeks.”

That wipes the humor off his face.

Kiri’s fingers tighten slightly in her shawl. Tuk hugs her shells closer to her chest.

“Dad knows, right?” Lo’ak asks.

“Yes.”

“And Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Do they like it?”

You hesitate just long enough for him to notice.

“They understand it,” you say.

Lo’ak’s jaw tightens. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” you agree. “It isn’t.”

Silence settles between you, not heavy, but real. The kind that fills space when everyone knows something is changing but no one wants to say how much.

Tuk shifts closer to you. “Are you gonna miss us?”

You crouch so you’re eye-level with her. “Of course I am.”

She considers that, then nods solemnly like she’s filed it under.

Lo’ak drags a hand through his hair, restless. “So what, I’m just… here now?”

“Yes,” you say simply.

He stiffens. “With them?”

You nod. “With them.”

He looks toward the inner marui, where your parents are trying to hold things together. Where responsibility feels heavier than it should. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” he mutters.

You step closer and place a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Grounding.

“Neither did I,” you say. “But here we are.”

He looks up at you, eyes sharp, searching for the version of you that always had the answers.

“You’re the one who calms Mom down,” he says. “You’re the one Dad listens to. You’re the one who tells me when I’m being stupid.”

You smirk faintly. “You’re being stupid right now.”

“That’s not the point.”

You squeeze his shoulder once.

“Lo’ak,” you say, steady and low, “you don’t need me to tell you what to do. You already know.”

He exhales hard. “I mess things up.”

“So do I.”

He looks startled by that.

“I just don’t let people see it,” you add.

Tuk frowns. “You never mess up.”

You smile at her. “Oh, tsmuke. You have no idea.”

You turn back to Lo’ak.

“You’re the oldest here now,” you tell him. “That doesn’t mean you have to be perfect. It means you pay attention. You protect. You think before you leap.”

He groans. “That last part’s gonna be a problem.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But you’ll figure it out.”

Spider finally speaks. “So… no dramatic goodbye?”

You glance at him. “What, you want tears?”

He shrugs. “Kinda.”

You smirk. “Not happening.”

Tuk suddenly wraps her arms around your leg.

You freeze for half a second, then rest a hand on her head.

“So what,” you say, spreading your hands. “You all just decided it’s a farewell tour?”

Lo’ak scratches the back of his neck. “We’re just… preparing.”

“For what,” you ask. “My dramatic disappearance?”

“For you not being here,” he mutters.

The room goes a little quieter after that.

“I’m still here,” you say gently.

She tightens her grip. “For now.”

You gently pry Tuk loose. She lets go with exaggerated reluctance, shooting you a look like you’ve personally betrayed her.

Tuk stays planted in front of you, arms crossed now, chin lifted like she’s daring you to disappear anyway.

You crouch slightly so you’re closer to her eye level. “You know I don’t go anywhere without telling you.”

She squints. “You tell me after.”

“That’s because you ask after,” you say.

She considers this. “That’s fair.”

Lo’ak snorts from the corner.

For a few minutes, the room fills with low chatter. Tuk fiddles with Kiri’s hair. Spider starts building a tiny wall out of driftwood pieces. Kiri hums softly, a tune without words. Lo’ak taps his fingers against his knee like he’s got too much energy and nowhere to put it.

You stretch out on your side, propping your head on your hand.

This.

This is what you’d miss.

Lo’ak glances at you. “You’re staring.”

“Just checking if you’ve grown more responsible overnight,” you say.

He scoffs. “Keep dreaming.”

“But you will step up,” you add, casual but deliberate.

He stills for a second. “If I have to.”

You nod, satisfied. 

The quiet settles again.

Kiri leans her head against your shoulder without saying anything. Tuk follows, draping herself across your arm. Spider nudges your foot with his.

Lo’ak watches the whole thing, then sighs and scoots closer.

The energy stays easy after that. The kind that doesn’t need much talking. Just noise and movement and familiar faces.

Tuk eventually falls half-asleep against Kiri’s shoulder. Spider starts fiddling with a loose bead on his braid. Lo’ak lies back again, staring at the ceiling like it might reveal some great secret if he looks long enough.

You stay a little longer than you planned.

But not forever.

When you finally slip out of the marui, the reef is washed in late afternoon light. The water glows in soft blues and golds, and the air feels warm against your skin. Everything looks calm in the way that feels earned, like the village is holding its breath after a long exhale.

You head toward your resting space, mind already drifting to what you still need to pack. Gear. Rations. A spare blade. Your bowstring could use tightening. The familiar checklist runs on its own.

You’re halfway through adjusting the strap on your satchel when you sense someone behind you.

You don’t turn right away.

You don’t have to.

“You’re busy,” she says.

Her voice is soft, but not careful.

You glance over your shoulder, smirking slightly. “You stalking me?”

Tsireya crosses her arms, unimpressed. “Lo’ak talks too much.”

She steps closer, stopping just within your space. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of salt and sun.

“So,” she says, eyes flicking to your satchel. “You’re really not leaving yet.”

“Correct,” you reply. “Still stuck here with you.”

Her lips twitch. “Sad.”

You tighten one of the straps, then glance at her. “You say that like you don’t enjoy my company.”

She tilts her head. “I tolerate it.”

“Liar.”

She doesn’t argue.

The reef hums around you. Water laps gently against the platforms. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs.

You finish tightening the strap and straighten, rolling your shoulders once. Tsireya watches the movement, eyes lingering just a little too long.

“So what,” you say, casual, “did they send you to make sure I’m not secretly running away?”

“They didn’t have to,” she replies. “I wanted to check myself.”

There’s something in the way she says it. Not worried. Just… honest.

You shift your weight. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I am asking.”

You meet her gaze.

The air between you feels different. Not tense. Just charged in a quiet way.

“I’m not disappearing,” you say. “You know that, right?”

Her expression softens, just a fraction. “I know.”

She hesitates, then adds, “It just feels like you’re… preparing for something.”

You glance down at your satchel. “That’s because I am.”

“For what?”

You look back at her. “For things not staying the same.”

She exhales slowly through her nose, eyes flicking out toward the water. “I liked how they were.”

“Me too.”

You stand there for a moment, neither of you moving. The space between your shoulders is small, but neither of you closes it.

Tsireya breaks the quiet first. “Lo’ak said you told him to be responsible.”

You groan. “Why would he tell you that?”

“Because he’s bad at secrets.”

“That tracks.”

She smiles, but there’s something thoughtful behind it.

“You trust him,” she says.

“With my life,” you reply. “Just not with my plans.”

Her laughter is soft, brief.

Then she reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of your satchel. Not grabbing. Just touching.

“You always take on too much,” she says.

You shrug. “Someone has to.”

Her hand lingers. You can feel the warmth of it even through the fabric.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” she adds.

Your ears flick, betraying you. “I know, you’ve told me.”

Your gaze drifts to her eyes. They’re bright in the sunlight, steady and unreadable in that calm way she has.

You lean in slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to make the space between you feel intentional.

“Still,” you say quietly, “it’s nice knowing you’re here.”

Her breath catches. Just barely.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she replies.

You smile at that. “Good. I’d hate to come back and find you replaced me.”

“With who?”

You pretend to think. “Lo’ak.”

She scoffs. “Please.”

“Or Rotxo.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Absolutely not.”

You grin. “Then I guess I have nothing to worry about.”

The breeze lifts a few loose braids around her face. She tucks one back without breaking eye contact.

“You’re annoying,” she says.

Her tone is light, but her hand doesn’t pull away.

Instead, Tsireya lifts it.

Slow. Unhurried. Like she’s giving you time to stop her if you want to.

Her fingers brush your jaw first, knuckles grazing your skin in a way that makes your ears flick without permission. Then her palm settles against your cheek, warm and steady, thumb resting just beneath your eye.

You freeze.

Your breath slips out softer than you meant it to. Your shoulders ease, tension melting out of them like you’ve been holding yourself upright for too long. Without thinking, you lean into her touch, just a little. Enough for her to feel it.

Her eyes soften instantly.

There’s no rush in the way she looks at you. No teasing. No expectation. Just quiet attention, like she’s memorizing the way your face fits in her hand.

“Still,” she murmurs, thumb brushing a faint line along your cheekbone, “you make it hard to pretend I don’t care.”

Your heart stutters.

You swallow, ears warming. “You’re doing a terrible job pretending.”

She smiles at that. Not wide. Just soft.

The reef around you fades into background noise. The distant calls, the water, the movement of the village. None of it matters as much as the way her hand fits against your face, the way her thumb traces small, absentminded arcs like she’s grounding herself as much as you.

“You always run toward things,” she says quietly.

“Only the important ones,” you reply.

Her gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before lifting again.

“And this?” she asks.

You don’t answer with words.

You lean into her touch more fully, cheek pressing into her palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your eyes flutter shut for a brief moment before you realize you’ve done it.

Her breath catches.

Just a little.

She steps closer, close enough that your foreheads nearly touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she whispers.

Your voice comes out lower than you expect. “You’re the one touching my face.”

Her lips curve, just barely. “And you’re the one melting into it.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but you don’t move away.

Her thumb brushes beneath your eye again, slower this time, like she’s tracing something she doesn’t have a name for yet.

“Come back,” she says.

It’s not a command.

It’s not a plea.

Just a simple, honest want.

Your chest tightens.

“I will,” you promise.

She studies your face for a long moment, searching for cracks. Finding none. Just the same stubborn resolve she’s come to recognize.

Her hand lingers, then slowly drops away.

The absence of her warmth feels louder than the presence ever did.

“You’re still annoying,” she repeats.

You grin. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Instead, she bumps her forehead lightly against yours.

For a second after that, neither of you moves.

Tsireya is the one who closes the distance first.

She steps in, slow but certain, and your chest brushes hers. Her hands hover for the briefest moment like she’s checking herself, then one arm slides around your shoulders and the other around your back, pulling you in without hesitation.

She tucks her face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. 

You don’t think. You just go.

Your arms come up and around her waist, firm and instinctive, drawing her close until there’s no space left to negotiate. You exhale against her hair, a soft sound that feels like relief.

The hug tightens.

Not careful. Not polite. A full, grounding hold. The kind that says stay without asking. Your grip firms at her waist, fingers curling gently on her skin like you’re anchoring yourself. Her arms lock around you in response, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, the other threading briefly into your hair.

You melt into it.

All the tension you’ve been carrying since morning leaks out of you in a slow, quiet rush. Your shoulders drop. Your breath evens. For a moment, you don’t have to be the eldest, the warrior, the one who sees too much.

You’re just here.

Tsireya’s chin rests against your shoulder. You feel the gentle press of it, the steady rhythm of her breathing. She shifts slightly, fitting closer, like she’s memorizing how you feel in her arms.

“Stars,” she murmurs quietly, voice muffled against you, “you hug like you mean it.”

You huff a breathless laugh into her neck. “I do.”

Her hold tightens just a fraction more.

The reef keeps going around you. Footsteps pass. Water laps. Someone laughs somewhere nearby. None of it intrudes. You exist in this small pocket of closeness, suspended and stubborn and warm.

You don’t rush it.

You let yourself stay buried there, cheek against her hair, your tail curling loosely behind you like it’s finally unclenched something it’s been holding onto all day.

Eventually, she shifts again, just enough to pull back a little. Not breaking the hug. Just enough to look at you.

Her forehead presses briefly to the side of your head.

“This,” she says quietly, “is going to make waiting very annoying.”

You smile against her shoulder. “Good. Builds character.”

She snorts softly.

When she finally loosens her arms, it’s slow. Reluctant. Her hands linger on your shoulders even after the hug breaks, thumbs brushing lightly like she’s checking that you’re still there.

You keep one arm around her a moment longer than necessary.

Then you pull back just enough to meet her eyes.

The warmth of her still lingers in your arms, in your chest, in the way your shoulders haven’t quite remembered how to be tense again.

Tsireya’s hands are still resting at your shoulder.

Not letting go.

Her eyes search your face like she’s looking for something she doesn’t have a name for yet.

You meet her gaze, steady and unapologetic.

Then, slowly, a small smile curves onto your lips.

Not cocky. Not teasing. 

Just… yours.

You tilt your head a fraction, studying her like she’s the interesting one for once.

“What,” you murmur, “did I hug you too hard?”

Her breath hitches, just a little.

“No,” she says, but her voice isn’t as even as she wants it to be.

Your smile widens.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you add lightly. “You look like you forgot how to breathe for a second there.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s color warming her cheeks now. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” you say, leaning in just enough to make her ears flick. “Yet you still hugged me like you weren’t planning on letting go.”

Her fingers tighten briefly at your shoulders before she catches herself.

“That was strategic,” she says. “To keep you from doing something reckless.”

You lift a brow. “And did it work?”

She pauses.

Your eyes flick to her lips for half a second.

Then back to her eyes.

She exhales, defeated. “Not even a little.”

You grin.

The kind that says good.

The reef hums around you again, sounds drifting back into focus. Voices. Water. Life continuing the way it always does.

But for a moment longer, neither of you moves.

Tsireya’s hands finally slip away from your shoulders reluctantly. Yours brush against her fingers as they part, like neither of you quite wants to be the first to fully let go.

She watches you closely, eyes soft but steady.

“Just come back,” she says.

Your grin fades into something quieter.

“I always do,” you reply.

You tilt your head again, teasing light back in your eyes. “Try not to miss me too much.”

She scoffs. “You’re not that special.”

But her tail curls toward yours anyway. And you walk away with a smile that stays long after you’re out of reach

You take a step back, already halfway turned toward the path that leads away from the water.

That’s when Tsireya speaks again.

“Tari.”

You stop.

You glance over your shoulder, one brow lifting in quiet invitation.

She hesitates just a beat. Choosing her words.

“When you come back,” she says, eyes steady on yours, “I’m going to expect a full report.”

You pause. “On what?”

Her lips curve, slow and deliberate.

“Everything you didn’t tell me before.”

Your ears warm.

You pivot a little more toward her, arms folding loosely over your chest. “That sounds dangerously vague.”

“Good,” she replies. “I like dangerous.”

You straighten, flashing that unmistakable Sully smirk. Your head tilts just a fraction, confidence written in the angle of your stance.

“I look forward to that report,” you say.

She smiles.

“Oh, you better.”

And this time, when you walk away, she doesn’t stop you.

You walk a few steps before you realize your smile hasn’t faded.

The reef opens up in front of you, wide and bright, the water catching the light like it always does. People pass you with nods and quiet greetings. Everything looks normal. Feels normal.

And yet.

Your chest still hums from the way Tsireya’s hands felt on your shoulders. From the way her eyes lingered. From the unspoken promise tucked neatly between her words.

You shake your head once, more amused than anything. 

Focus.

You’re almost at the family marui when a familiar voice stops you.

“Tari.”

You turn.

Neytiri stands just outside the entrance, braid draped over one shoulder, eyes already scanning you the way she always does. Searching.

Jake is nearby, leaning against one of the posts, arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that tells you more than words ever could.

Neytiri’s eyes sweep over you in a slow, assessing glance. Your gear. Your posture. Your expression. She doesn’t say what she sees, but something in her gaze softens.

“Sit,” she says, patting the space in front of her.

You blink. “Why?”

Her tail flicks. “Do not question your mother.”

You obey.

You lower yourself onto the woven mat just inside the shade of the marui. The familiar scent of home settles around you, wood and woven fibers and something warm you don’t have a word for.

Neytiri steps behind you, fingers already working through your hair with practiced ease. Her touch is gentle but efficient, separating strands, smoothing them, tugging just enough to keep everything in place.

You relax into it without thinking.

Jake watches from where he stands, a faint, almost-smile tugging at his mouth.

Her fingers move with familiar precision, braiding your hair back the way she used to when you were smaller. 

Her fingers split your hair into sections, starting at your temples. She braids the thinner strands first, the ones that frame your face. Three tight, narrow plaits on each side, just like your dad used to wear. They fall neatly along your cheekbones, brushing your jaw and collarbone when you shift.

You feel the familiar pressure as she tightens them, not uncomfortable, just firm. Anchoring.

Then she gathers the rest of your hair back.

Her hands work lower now, collecting the thicker strands at the crown of your head. She braids them into a single, heavy plait that runs straight down your spine. Tighter than your usual style. More structured. More… intentional.

The braid grows heavier with every pass of her fingers.

It rests solidly against your back, the weight of it unfamiliar but grounding. The smaller side braids sway gently when you move your head, brushing against your shoulders and neck.

You sit still.

The sound of the reef fades into the background. All you really feel is the quiet rhythm of Neytiri’s hands and the pull of the braid taking shape.

Your ears flick. “..Mom?”

Your hair now mirrors Jake’s old style. The side braids framing your face, the thick central braid trailing down your back.

When she’s finished, she steps around to face you.

For a moment, she just looks at you.

Her expression softens. Then, she reaches into the small pouch at her hip and pulls out a single bead.

It’s dark, polished smooth by time, with faint streaks of lighter color running through it like threads of fire in stone.

She steps closer and lifts your songcord gently, fingers threading the bead into place with reverent care.

The cord settles against your waist, the new weight small but unmistakable.

“For your first path taken alone,” Neytiri says. “Toward yourself.”

Your chest tightens.

“You are still my child,” she says softly. “But you are also your own warrior now.”

You swallow.

Her hands come to rest on your shoulders, firm and warm.

“You carry our blood,” she continues. “But you carry your own future.”

The reef breathes around you.

Then Neytiri leans in, pressing her forehead to yours.

“I see you,” she whispers.

Your chest aches in the best way.

“I see you,” you reply.

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. Her eyes search yours. Not for doubt. For fire.

She finds it.

Her lips curve into a small, proud smile.

Before she can say anything else, you feel another presence behind you.

Jake stops just a step away, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, the familiar weight of his attention settling over your shoulders.

He takes in the braid first.

His jaw tightens in recognition.

He steps closer, close enough now that his hand brushes your shoulder. He doesn’t grip it. Doesn’t pull you back. Just rests there, grounding. He exhales slowly, long and heavy, like he’s letting go of a breath he’s been holding since you were small.

His hand shifts, gripping your shoulder more firmly now. Protective. Proud. Afraid.

“Don’t go looking for trouble,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Trouble usually finds me.”

A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. “Figures.”

Neytiri watches the two of you with soft eyes, arms folded loosely now. Her tail flicks once behind her, satisfied.

Jake’s grip loosens. His hand drops.

He steps back, giving you space.

Neytiri’s hands return to your shoulders, squeezing once, firm and steady.

“Go,” she says.

You turn toward the water, the weight of the braid shifting against your back, the side plaits brushing your cheeks with every step. The bead at your waist clicks softly with each step.

You don’t look back as you walk toward the water.

You lift two fingers to your mouth. The call comes out sharp and clear. A piercing whistle that slices through the air and echoes across the water.

A screech rolls in from above, wild and unmistakable. The sound vibrates through your chest before you even see her. A dark shape breaks through the clouds, wings catching the sunlight as they stretch wide.

Kxelya dives.

Wind whips your braids loose as she cuts downward in a powerful spiral, air snapping beneath her wings. The ocean churns where her shadow passes, spray kicking up as she swoops low over the water.

She pulls up at the last second, beating her wings hard as she swings toward the platform. Her claws scrape against the wood as she lands, muscles coiling beneath her skin, eyes bright and alert.

Her head snaps toward you.

Another sharp call. Impatient. Demanding.

You grin despite yourself.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, already moving. “I’m here.”

She lowers herself just enough for you to mount, tail flicking restlessly, wings half-spread like she’s barely holding still. You grab the harness and swing up in one smooth motion, settling into the saddle the way you’ve done a hundred times before.

The familiar weight of her beneath you steadies something in your chest.

Your fingers reach back without thinking.

The tendrils of your kuru brush against hers, warm and alive.

The bond clicks into place like it always does. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, powerful alignment. Your breathing syncs with hers. Your pulse matches the rhythm of her wings, even before they move.

You feel her excitement ripple through you.

Feel the tension she’s been holding in her muscles.

Feel the open sky calling to both of you.

Your forehead presses briefly against the base of her neck.

“Let’s go.”

Her wings snap fully open.

With a powerful leap, she launches off the platform.

The reef drops away in a rush of wind and salt and open air. Your stomach lifts as Awa’atlu shrinks beneath you, its glowing strands fading into scattered lights against the darkening water.

The wind presses against your face, tugging at your braids, loosening the careful order Neytiri wove into them. The bead at your waist taps softly against your hip, a quiet reminder of why you’re flying at all.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, other clans are watching the skies the same way you are. Measuring the quiet. Waiting for the next attack.

Kxelya lets out a sharp, eager call as she levels out, wings settling into a strong, efficient rhythm. The sky opens in front of you, not empty, but full of possibility.

You set your course.

And the reef stays right where it is.

Waiting for you to come back with answers. ___

A/N pt.2: did u think they were going to kiss earlier? nuh uh.

Another sunrise over water that feels too quiet. Another day measured by patrols and whispers and half-finished conversations. Another night waiting for something to happen — or for nothing to.

Your feet move without thinking.

Sand cool beneath your toes. Sunlight stretching shadows long and thin across the walkways. You pass people you know — warriors, healers, elders — but their faces blur together. Some offer nods. Some offer tired smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes.

You return them automatically.

It feels like moving through muddled water.

The village hums low around you, subdued. No singing. No playful shouts. Just murmurs and soft footsteps and the distant hush of waves against the reef. 

You follow the woven paths by memory alone.

Past the larger marui. Past the gathering spaces that used to echo with laughter. Toward the edge of the platforms where the light thins and the wind carries salt instead of conversation.

Toward him.

Tonowari stands near the water, tall and still, sunlight catching on the beads woven into his braids. He’s watching the reef the way leaders do — not just looking, but measuring. His posture is calm, but you can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way one hand rests near his spear even when he isn’t holding it.

As you approach, your steps slow.

You press your fingers to your forehead, then draw your hand forward in greeting. He mirrors it immediately.

“Tari,” he says. “Tonowari.” You hesitate, then add, softer, “Sir.”

He waves the formality away with a small flick of his hand. “No need.”

Your tail sways once behind you, betraying your nerves. You glance toward the bright water, where the reef disappears into shimmer.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The wind carries the smell of salt and warm wood. Somewhere behind you, someone laughs — too loud, like they’re trying to prove a point.

Tonowari follows a skimwing cutting through the water with his eyes.

“Long morning?” he asks.

You huff softly. “They’ve all been long.”

He nods like he understands exactly what you mean.

Your gaze drifts to the horizon. To where the water darkens, where the reef gives way to open ocean.

“I heard what happened to the outer settlement,” you say.

Tonowari’s jaw tightens. His whole posture tenses, as if he didn’t expect that.

“You heard,” he repeats.

You nod. “Some of it.”

He turns back toward the reef, squinting against the glare of the water.

“The people came back with nothing,” he says. “Not even enough to rebuild.”

“They ran,” Tonowari says. “Some into the water. Some into the trees. The ones who stayed behind tried to put the fires out.”

His jaw tightens.

“They couldn’t.”

A breeze lifts off the water, warm and salty. Somewhere nearby, children laugh. The sound feels wrong.

“They didn’t stay long,” he adds. “Just long enough to make sure nothing useful was left.”

You stare out at the horizon.

“They were looking for us,” you say.

He nods. “For your father.”

Your jaw tightens.

“They didn’t know where exactly,” he continues. “Just that the Sullys were somewhere, still in the reefs.”

“So they picked one, like before,” you murmur.

“They picked the one closest to the open currents,” Tonowari says. “Easy access. Easy exit.”

You picture it. The heat. The smoke. The panic. Your shoulders tense.

Your fingers curl against your palm.

You stand there for a while after that, neither of you speaking. The water sparkles like it always does, bright and harmless-looking. A pair of ilu surface nearby, clicking softly before diving again. Somewhere behind you, Kxelya calls out from the platforms, her soft cries against the hush that’s settled over the reef.

Life keeps going.

Like nothing’s wrong.

“They’ll try again,” Tonowari says. “Different place. Different people. Same goal.”

You think of Neteyam. Of Lo’ak. Of Tuk. Of Kiri. Of your parents, trying to hold everything together without knowing where the next fire will fall.

The silence stretches.

Then Tonowari shifts his weight, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“You know,” he starts.

“I had assumed you approached me for a different matter.”

You blink. “...I’m sorry?”

“My daughter.”

You freeze.

“Tsireya?”

He nods once. “You spend a great deal of time near her.”

Your jaw tightens. “We’re friends.”

“Mm.”

That’s all he says. Just a quiet sound, not agreeing, not disagreeing.

Then:

“I thought you might ask for her hand.” He pauses. “Though I can’t say I’m not disappointed.”

You choke on absolutely nothing.

“What? I—”

“There is no use denying it, warrior.”

Your ears flick back. “I’m not—”

“I see the way you look at my daughter,” he continues calmly, eyes still on the water. “I know that look, Tari.”

His voice softens just enough to throw you off balance.

You shift your stance, suddenly very aware of where your hands are, where your tail is, how warm your face feels. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Tonowari glances at you sideways, unimpressed.

“She probably doesn’t see me like that,” you add quickly, like that’ll fix it.

He gives you a look that could only be described as deeply unconvinced.

“I’m serious,” you insist, jaw tightening.

“And I am too,” he replies. “I know you do not believe yourself when you say she does not.”

Your ears twitch, betraying you.

“You cannot keep denying yourself this, Tari.”

You look back out at the water, suddenly fascinated by literally anything that isn’t this conversation.

“She deserves someone steady,” you mutter. “Someone who isn’t… pulled in ten directions.”

Tonowari huffs softly. “So do you.”

The words catch you off guard.

“She is strong,” he continues. “She chooses who stands beside her. And I trust her judgment.”

You don’t answer.

A breeze moves across the reef, lifting the edge of his braids. He watches the horizon again.

Tonowari finally turns fully toward you, expression gentler now. “The reef is uncertain. The future is uncertain. But some things are clear.”

You glance at him.

“When you are ready, you will stop pretending otherwise.”

A beat.

“And when that happens,” he adds a small - barely noticeable - smile is on his face, “I expect to be informed properly.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “This is not the time.”

He chuckles. “It is never the time.”

The water glints. The ilu click again. Somewhere, Tsireya laughs — a sound carried faintly across the reef.

Your chest tightens for an entirely different reason this time.

He gives you a brief, knowing look.

Then his gaze returns to the water.

___

You stand at the edge of the woven platforms, feet planted wide for balance, fingers pressed to your lips as you let out a sharp, familiar call.

Your skimwing answers almost immediately.

It bursts from the water in a spray of white and blue, wings flaring as it thrashes closer to the dock. The force of it sends a wave slapping against the posts, soaking your legs and splashing up your side.

“I know. I know,” you huff, shaking water from your arms. “Stars, you’re loud.”

The skimwing clicks insistently, circling in tight, excited loops like it might leap onto the platform if given the chance.

“You’re like a dog,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Always begging for walks—”

Another splash cuts you off, water smacking straight into your face..

You sputter, wiping your eyes. “Hey—!”

Soft laughter drifts in behind you.

You turn to find Tsireya a few steps back, one hand lifted to cover her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tries and fails to stay quiet.

“Funny, was it?” you ask, squinting at her.

She lowers her hand, still smiling. “A little.”

Your skimwing clicks again, as if proud of itself.

“You’re encouraging it,” you tell her.

“I think it already feels encouraged,” she says, eyes flicking toward the restless creature. “You did call it a dog.”

You glance back at the skimwing, then at her. “I stand by it.”

Tsireya steps closer, stopping just at your side. The breeze lifts a few loose braids around her face, and she tucks one back without looking away from you.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“Outer reef,” you reply. “Scouts found some of the damage from the last attack. We’re helping clear what’s left.”

Her smile softens. “You always go.”

You shrug, but your tail gives a small, telling sway. “Someone has to keep the wreckage from becoming permanent.”

She watches you for a moment, eyes tracing the way you adjust your gear, the way your hands move with quiet confidence.

“You’re going to get tired one day,” she says.

“Maybe,” you admit. “But not today.”

Your skimwing nudges the platform again, impatient.

Tsireya laughs softly. “It’s definitely not waiting.”

You grin. “Neither am I.”

You swing a leg over the saddle, settling into place. The skimwing stills instantly, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Before you can take off, Tsireya reaches out and taps two fingers lightly against your arm.

“Be careful,” she says.

Not dramatic. Not worried. Just… sincere.

You glance up at her, the sun catching in her eyes.

“Always,” you reply.

Your tail flicks toward hers without thinking. She doesn’t move away.

The skimwing gives a sharp click, wings tensing.

Tsireya steps back, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you go.”

You hesitate just a second longer than necessary.

“Try not to miss me,” you say.

Tsireya squints at you, unimpressed. “You say that like I don’t see you every single day.”

“Yeah,” you reply, lips tugging into a grin. “But today you get a whole Tari-free reef.”

She steps closer, close enough that you can see the faint salt still clinging to her skin. Her tail brushes yours on purpose this time.

“Tragic,” she deadpans. “How will I survive?”

You tilt your head. “You’ll manage. You’re strong. Brave. Independent.”

She hums. “And here I thought you were just unbearable.”

“Only to people who care,” you shoot back.

Her eyes flick to your mouth for half a second too long before she looks away again. The memory of your earlier conversation with Tonowari rises uninvited, and your ears warm despite yourself.

“I hate you.” She shakes her head, but her smile gives her away. 

You laugh under your breath. “Yeah. I hate you too.”

Her expression flickers, something warm slipping through the teasing.

“Go,” she says, nodding toward the water. “Before I change my mind.”

You hesitate just long enough for your skimwing to click impatiently beneath you.

Your gaze drops to hers. “That sounded like a threat.”

Her lips twitch. “It was.”

You grin. 

Her eyes soften, just a fraction.

“Go,” she repeats, quieter now.

With a sharp kick, you launch off, water exploding beneath you as your skimwing surges forward.

The wind tears past your ears, salt spray clinging to your lashes as the reef blurs beneath you in streaks of turquoise and coral gold. You, together with the other Metkayina warriors, travel in a loose, practiced formation. 

As you approach, something acrid seeps in.

Burnt oil. Melted metal.

You breathe in again, slower this time. A sourness that doesn’t belong in water this blue.

The air feels heavier in your lungs, damp in the wrong way, like it’s been bruised. The breeze no longer carries the bright tang of seafoam and sun-warmed coral. It carries smoke that’s traveled too far and stayed too long.

Your grip tightens on the reins.

Ahead, the reef breaks the horizon, and even from this distance, the colors are off. The blues dulled. The greens muted. Thin smears of gray curl upward where nothing should be burning anymore.

Your stomach twists.

The skimwing senses it too, letting out a low, uneasy call as it glides lower. The water below reflects the sky like a cracked mirror, debris drifting where schools of fish should be flashing silver.

The smell clings as you approach, coating the back of your throat, sinking into your chest. A warning your body understands before your mind catches up.

You slow your skimwing as the reef comes into full view.

Burned coral. Shattered huts. Nets tangled around broken posts like ghostly vines. The water is littered with debris, pieces of woven rope and scorched planks drifting where children used to dive.

No chatter. No laughter.

Only the low crackle of dying fire and the distant cries of wounded ilu.

The warriors fan out immediately, leaping into the water, calling out in sharp, urgent calls. You follow, diving beneath the surface.

The reef below is worse.

Coral that once bloomed in spirals of color now lies pale and fractured, like bones. Fish dart nervously through the wreckage. A skimwing carcass is tangled in metal netting, its wings shredded.

You help where you can.

Pulling survivors from collapsed shelters. Untangling nets. Holding pressure on wounds while healers rush in. Your hands move on instinct, but your thoughts are loud and messy, crashing like waves.

This didn’t have to happen.

Hours pass in a blur of salt and blood and smoke.

When the fires are finally smothered and the injured are gathered, you wander farther down the reef, searching for anything… anyone… that might have been missed.

That’s when you see it.

Half-buried in the sand near the remains of a watch post.

Metal.

You kneel, brushing away the sand. Your fingers curl around a compact, angular device. Human-made. A comms unit.

Still intact.

Still powered.

Your pulse spikes.

Your thumb hovers over the activation panel.

Then you press it.

A burst of static crackles through the air, sharp and alien against the soft hush of the sea.

And then a voice.

Familiar in the worst way.

“Jake Sully.”

Your breath catches.

“Looks like we found another of your little hideaways.”

A faint hum of machinery follows, then the distant echo of gunfire.

“You really oughta stop running, Marine. You’re just getting people hurt.”

Your fingers tighten around the device.

The voice shifts slightly, closer to the mic now. Like he knows exactly who’s listening.

“And you, kid.”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah, you. The tall one. Always showing up after the fun’s over, patching holes and playing savior.”

A dry chuckle buzzes through the static.

“Gotta admire the dedication. Shame it won’t save anyone.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Tell your old man we’re not done. Not with him. Not with his family.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“The ocean won’t protect you.”

Click.

You stay there for a long moment, staring at the dark screen in your palm. The weight of it feels heavier than any weapon.

You don’t tell anyone about the device.

You just… keep holding it.

Your fingers stay curled around the comms unit like it might dissolve if you loosen your grip. Cold metal pressed to your palm.

A healer calls your name.

You flinch, then nod, slipping the device into the satchel at your side. But your hand lingers there, resting over it, like a guard at a gate.

You move through the rest of the day on instinct.

Lifting debris. Carrying water. Helping patch torn sails and broken structures. Your body works, your hands steady, your face calm.

Inside, everything is loud.

Every cry of pain sounds like a warning. Every scorch mark feels like a countdown.

As the sun sinks low, painting the ocean in copper and crimson, the reef looks less like a home and more like a wound trying to close.

You stand at the edge of the water, watching Metkayina warriors guide the injured back toward shelter. Some lean heavily on spears that were never meant to be walking sticks. Others clutch their sides, their shoulders, their pride. Children cling to their parents with both arms and all their weight, small fingers digging in like they’re afraid the tide might take more than it already has.

Elders murmur to the sea. Quiet words. Old words. The kind that ask for mercy without expecting it.

You don’t speak.

There’s nothing left to say.

When you finally mount your skimwing, the ocean feels different beneath you. The familiar sway of water against muscle and fin carries a new tension, like the sea itself is bracing for impact.

The creature clicks softly, sensing the shift in you. You press your heels in, and it launches forward, slicing through the surface with a burst of spray.

The wind tears past your ears as you race the dying light, the sun dragging itself toward the horizon like it’s reluctant to leave this version of the world behind. 

The comms unit pressed close to your side, its silence louder than any siren.

The skimwing cuts through the waves, steady and fast. You let the rhythm carry you, let the wind strip the heat from your face. For a moment, there’s nothing but motion — water, air, the sound of your own breathing.

Then the thoughts come.

If they’re willing to burn villages just to make a point, how far will they go when the point isn’t made?

If they’re still searching, still circling, still testing, how long before they hit somewhere closer?

If waiting means watching more people lose everything, what is it really protecting?

You? 

Your family?

The water rushes past beneath you, endless and darkening. Your grip tightens on the reins without you realizing.

What happens when there’s nothing left to burn?

The question lingers for a beat too long.

Your jaw sets.

No.

You lean forward slightly, shifting your weight. The skimwing responds immediately, dipping toward the shallows as if it feels the change in you. The wind still howls in your ears, the water still races beneath you — but your thoughts don’t scatter this time.

The reflection beneath you smooths as the water calms, your shape pulling back into something whole.

The reef rises ahead, glowing strands threading through the dusk.

Your feet hit the sand with purpose.

You move through the village faster than usual, steps urgent, barely slowing for greetings. The noise swells around you — laughter from one direction, hushed conversation from another, the constant rhythm of life refusing to stop.

Your path narrows to one place.

Your family’s marui pod.

You slow just before the entrance, breath catching in your chest. Your hand presses briefly to the woven frame, grounding yourself.

Calm down.

Take a breath.

Then release it.

Then you step inside.

Jake sits on the woven bench, forearms resting on his knees, posture familiar and heavy all at once. Neytiri crouches nearby, fingers working gently through Tuk’s hair, braiding it with practiced ease. Tuk squirms, trying to stay still, beads clicking softly as they’re woven in.

Off to the side, Lo’ak, Kiri, and Spider sit in a loose circle. Lo’ak’s talking with his hands, too animated for the quiet mood he’s trying to keep. Spider listens, nodding along. Kiri watches them both like she’s half in the room and half somewhere else entirely.

You move to them first.

Your hand squeezes Kiri’s shoulder. You ruffle Lo’ak’s hair, earning a startled protest, then do the same to Spider just because you can.

“Hey,” Lo’ak mutters, swatting at your hand.

You wave at Tuk, smiling. She grins back, beads swinging, before Neytiri gently tugs her still.

Then you straighten.

“Mom. Dad.”

Both of them look up at once.

Your voice is steady when you speak again. “I’d like to talk.”

You sweep your gaze over your siblings, softer this time.

“Alone, please.”

For a moment, no one moves.

Lo’ak looks like he’s about to say something — you can see it in the way his mouth opens, the way his shoulders tense. But Kiri nudges him gently with her elbow, eyes already on you.

“Come on,” she murmurs.

Spider pushes himself to his feet, offering you a small, searching look before following them out. Lo’ak lingers half a second longer, then finally sighs and trails after them. Tuk pouts but slides off Neytiri’s lap when her mother gives her a quiet look.

The marui feels bigger when they’re gone.

Quieter.

You take a breath.

“I went on a patrol today,” you begin. “One of the outer reefs.”

Jake’s posture shifts. Subtle. Alert.

“And the Sky People left something behind,” you add, tapping the satchel at your side. “A message.”

Jake exhales slowly. “For us.”

You nod, but your fingers linger on the sling a little too long.

He notices.

“That’s not what you really came to talk about,” he says quietly.

Your jaw tightens.

Jake crosses his arms. “What are you thinking, Tari?”

You hesitate, then lift your chin.

“I think we need allies.”

Silence.

Not sharp. Just dense.

“The Metkayina can’t handle this alone,” you continue. “And neither can we. The other clans know me. They’ve fought beside us before. If anyone can convince them to prepare, it’s me.”

Neytiri’s eyes widen just a fraction. “You would go to them.”

“Yes.”

Jake shakes his head immediately. “No.”

He exhales, running a hand over his face like he’s already weighing options in his head.

“I’ll go,” he says after a beat. “Or I’ll send one of the Metkayina. We’ll handle it.”

You hold his gaze. “You can’t leave the reef. Neteyam’s still healing. The Metkayina need you here. And if both of you go, we leave everyone exposed.”

Neytiri’s ears flick back. “You assume they would not listen to your father.”

“They would,” you admit. “You’re Toruk Makto. That name still carries weight.”

Jake’s jaw tightens.

“But you won’t go,” you continue quietly. “Because right now, your focus is here. On us. On keeping the family safe.”

His jaw clenches, unable to deny it.

“And I get that,” you add. “I really do. But while we stay protected, other families are getting burned.”

Silence presses in.

Jake’s gaze softens for half a second. Then hardens again. “That doesn’t make this your responsibility.”

You straighten. “It already is.”

The words hang between you, heavier than you meant them to be.

Jake stares at you for a long second, like he’s searching for the kid who used to follow him everywhere, who trusted him to make the hard calls. His voice comes out low, careful.

“You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

“I’m not deciding alone,” you reply. “I’m looking at what’s happening. Reefs getting burned. Families running. Messages being left for us to rise to the bait.”

Neytiri’s eyes flash. “And you think walking into danger will stop this?”

“No,” you say. “But pretending it’s not coming won’t either.”

Jake’s jaw tightens. “We are not pretending.”

“You are waiting,” you counter. “The same way we waited back in the forest.”

Silence snaps tight.

“That was different,” Jake says.

“Was it?” Your voice stays steady, but your chest feels like it’s caving in. “We hid. We moved. We tried to stay out of their way. And the Sky People still came.”

Neytiri steps forward, her tone sharp now. “You speak as if we did nothing.”

“You protected us,” you say quickly. “You always have. But other families didn’t have Toruk Makto.”

Jake exhales hard. “And you think sending our daughter into unknown territory is the answer?”

“I think sending someone the clans trust is better than sitting in silence.”

Neytiri’s ears pin back. “Trust does not stop bullets.”

“And hiding doesn’t stop fires,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself.

The air crackles.

Jake’s voice rises, just a notch. “We are keeping this family alive.”

“And I’m trying to keep others from losing theirs,” you reply.

For a moment, no one speaks.

The ocean hums in the distance, steady and uncaring.

But the space between you feels like a fault line, and every word is another step closer to the break.

Jake looks away, jaw tight, like he’s holding something back. Neytiri watches him, silent, tense.

You feel it. The familiar weight of being the one they’re trying to shield.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” you say quietly.

Jake’s jaw tightens. “We know that.”

You nod once, steadying yourself.

“You trained me to fight,” you continue. “To think ahead. To lead. To protect my siblings. To be an older sister.”

You add. “And I failed at that.”

Both of them stiffen.

“Neteyam got hit,” you say, the words heavier now. “He’s still in a coma. I was supposed- I was supposed to see it coming.”

Jake’s voice lowers. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Then why does it feel like it was?” you ask.

Silence.

The ocean keeps breathing behind you.

“And now the Sky People are moving again,” you continue. “They’re testing us. Burning places that don’t have the same protection we do.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“You said Sullys never quit,” you add, voice steady but firm. “What happened to that?”

The words land like a stone in water.

Jake looks away, jaw flexing.

“We didn’t quit,” he says. “We adapted.”

“And now we’re hiding,” you reply, not cruel, just honest. “Waiting for the next place to light up in flame.”

Neytiri’s ears pin back. “We are protecting our family.”

“I know,” you say. “And I love you for that. But protecting us shouldn’t mean turning our backs on everyone else.”

Neytiri steps closer, eyes fierce. “We will not send our daughter into another war.”

“I’m not asking to fight a war,” you reply. “I’m asking to prepare for one before it starts.”

Your voice doesn’t rise.

It cracks.

“I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

The silence that follows isn’t angry.

It’s aching.

Neytiri reaches for your arm, her grip tight, protective. “You are our child.”

“And I’m also someone you trained to lead,” you say softly.

The silence stretches too long.

You break it gently.

“I’m not asking you to stop being my parents,” you say. “I’m asking you to see me as more than just your daughter.”

Jake exhales slowly. “Those two things aren’t separate.”

“But they don’t have to cancel each other out.”

Neytiri’s grip tightens on her bow. “You think we do not see your strength?”

“I think you see it,” you reply. “But you don’t trust it.”

Jake’s eyes snap back to you. “We do trust it. Trust you-”

“Then let me go.”

The words are calm. Firm. Final.

Neytiri shakes her head immediately. “No.”

You swallow, but your voice doesn’t waver. “Why?”

“Because you are ours,” she says. “Because the world does not get to take you from us.”

“I’m not being taken,” you reply. “I’m stepping forward.”

Jake’s tone hardens. “Into something we don’t fully understand.”

“Neither did you,” you say softly. “When you rode Toruk.”

That hits.

Jake’s jaw clenches. “That was different.”

“You took a risk for your people,” you say. “I’m trying to do the same.”

Neytiri’s eyes blaze. “And look what that cost us.”

The air goes still.

Your chest tightens. “You think I don’t know that?”

You gesture toward the reef, toward the quiet, toward the unspoken weight of Neteyam’s absence.

“I live with it every day.”

Jake’s voice finally rises. “We are trying to keep you alive!”

“And I’m trying to make sure other people don’t die!”

Your voice echoes louder than you meant it to.

Full of everything you’ve been holding in.

“Not because of the Sky People,” you continue, breath shaking now. “But because of us.”

“We’re sheltering Toruk Makto,” you say. “The warrior who was supposed to end wars. The one who doesn’t run from them.”

Jake’s eyes harden. “Watch your words.”

“-And what happens,” you press on, “when they burn through all the reef clans? What happens when there’s nowhere left to hide?”

Jake’s jaw tightens.

“Do we leave again?” you ask. “Run again? How long does that last, Dad? A year? Two?”

The words start coming faster now, no longer carefully placed.

“How long until they reach this place? Until they realize we’re not just some quiet sea family? How long do we keep letting other families pay the price for sheltering us?”

Jake’s fists curl.

“They’ll follow us,” you say. “They always do. They’ll follow us until the day we all die.”

That one hits.

Hard.

Jake’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. Jake’s voice is tight, shaking with something that isn’t quite anger. “You don’t get to talk about me like I’m afraid.”

You don’t raise your voice.

You don’t step back either.

“This isn’t about you as my father,” you say.

The words land softer than your last ones but sharper, somehow.

“I would never call my dad a coward.”

Jake’s jaw clenches.

“I’m calling Toruk Makto a coward.”

The air stills.

Neytiri inhales sharply. “Tari—”

“It’s about what Toruk Makto is choosing not to do,” you continue. “What he’s not standing up for.”

Jake stares at you like you’ve struck him without touching him.

Neytiri’s voice cuts in, fierce and protective. “You do not speak to your father like this.”

Your gaze flicks to her. “I’m not speaking to my father.”

You look back at Jake.

“I’m speaking to the leader who taught me that standing still while others burn is not who we are.”

His voice rises. “I am trying to keep my children alive!”

“And I’m trying to make sure we don’t become the reason others die!”

Neytiri steps between you, eyes blazing. “Enough.”

Jake looks at you, really looks at you.

Not anger.

Not disappointment.

Fear.

Fear that the child he raised to stand tall is now standing somewhere he can’t protect her anymore.

And that terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.

For a moment, no one speaks.

The wind moves through the woven roofs. Water laps against the shore. Somewhere in the distance, an ilu cries, long and lonely.

Jake stands with his back half-turned, shoulders tight, hands braced on his hips like he’s holding himself in place. Not angry anymore.

Just… braced.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest. Like he’s fighting something that doesn’t have a shape.

Your own breathing finally evens out.

You didn’t mean to push like that. Not this hard. Not this deep.

Your voice comes softer this time.

“I’m not trying to run into a war.”

Jake doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders ease a fraction.

“I’m not trying to be reckless,” you continue. “Or heroic. Or whatever story this sounds like.”

You glance down at your hands. At the faint scars. At the calluses that never really faded.

“This is just the life I was raised in.”

Silence answers you.

“We grew up in war,” you say quietly. “We learned how to fight before we learned how to rest. How to read the land. How to read danger. How to think three steps ahead.”

“And most of all,” you add, voice softer still, “you taught me how to be an older sister.”

Jake’s head dips, just slightly.

“When Neteyam was hit,” you whisper, “it felt like everything you taught me failed. But it didn’t. It just showed me what I’m meant to protect.”

Another long pause.

The reef breathes around you.

You step closer, careful now. Gentle.

“Ma,” you say.

Neytiri’s ears twitch, her eyes softening despite herself.

“Pa.”

Jake finally turns.

The names carry the same cadence they always have, the same quiet reach for them.

But the voice behind them is steadier now. Lower. Worn smooth by years of things you were never meant to carry so young.

Not a child calling for comfort.

Someone asking to be heard.

Both of them see it.

And for a heartbeat, neither knows how to answer.

“I’m not asking to fight a war,” you tell them. “I’m asking to prepare for one. So we don’t lose more than we already have.”

Your voice doesn’t rise.

It steadies.

“I don’t want to leave again. I don’t want to run. And I don’t want to watch the world burn while we stay quiet.”

The ocean hushes, like it’s listening.

Jake exhales slowly, long and heavy, like he’s setting down a weight he’s been carrying alone. His face isn’t hard. It’s tired. Lined with too many choices and not enough good answers.

The three of you stand there, the ocean filling the spaces none of you are ready to touch yet.

Jake doesn’t answer right away.

He looks out toward the water, eyes unfocused, like he’s seeing something far beyond the reef. Battles that never really left him. Decisions he thought he’d already made peace with.

Neytiri watches him from the corner of her eye.

Waiting.

A quiet exchange passes between them. A tilt of Neytiri’s head. The faint tightening of Jake’s jaw. The way her fingers curl, then relax at her side.

Years of shared war. Shared loss. Shared knowing.

You stay still. 

Finally, Jake speaks. His voice is lower than before.

“You’re asking us to trust the world with you.”

You shake your head gently. “I’m asking you to trust me in it.”

That makes him pause.

Neytiri’s gaze shifts to you then. Really looks at you. Not as the child she carried. Not as the daughter she shields.

As the warrior she raised.

“The clans will listen,” she says quietly. It’s not a question.

“They will,” you reply. 

Jake exhales, slow and heavy.

“And if they don’t?” he asks.

“Then I come home,” you say. “This isn’t a one-way path.”

Neytiri studies your face, searching for cracks. Finding none. Just resolve, carefully held.

She turns back to Jake.

Another silent conversation. This one longer.

Her ears flick. His shoulders sag, just a fraction. A mutual understanding forming in the quiet.

“We cannot fight another war unprepared,” Neytiri says at last.

Jake nods once, but stops himself halfway. Catches it. Lets the motion die.

“No,” he says. “We can’t.”

The words sit there, unfinished.

Jake looks at you again, and there’s something new in his eyes. Not permission.

Acknowledgment.

“We need time,” he says. “To think.”

You nod, accepting it. “I know.”

Neytiri steps closer to him, her hand brushing his arm. Grounding. Steadying.

She doesn’t look at you when she speaks, but you hear it anyway.

“She is not wrong.”

Jake closes his eyes briefly.

When he opens them, he meets Neytiri’s gaze.

Just a small movement between them. Almost nothing.

But it’s there.

A shared breath. A resigned tilt of the head.

Not a yes.

But no longer a no.

Jake turns to you. “That’s all for now.”

You hesitate, then nod.

“Okay.”

As you turn to leave, Neytiri watches you go.

The way your shoulders stay squared even when you’re tired.

The way your steps never waver.

The quiet fire you carry without shouting about it.

She sees Jake in you.

Not just his strength.

His stubborn heart.

His refusal to stand still when the world is burning.

The way he always walks toward the storm, even if it costs him himself.

And painfully, she sees herself in you too.

Her voice softens when she finally speaks.

“You raised her well.”

Jake exhales, the tension easing from his shoulders. “We did.”

Neytiri’s lips curve into the smallest smile.

And you walk away, leaving them in the hush of the reef, with more to think about than either of them expected.

___