Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The forest was quiet. No nantang or palulukan could be heard; it was as if they were all holding their breath simultaneously. The air hung heavy with a strange anticipation, and deep within a hidden cavern, a faint ripple disturbed the stillness of a glowing pool.

She stirred, her body weightless, cradled by the cool, luminous water. A shiver ran down her spine as her skin registered the temperature—a chill that clung to her like the mist curling above the surface. Her chest tightened before her lungs expanded sharply, drawing in a breath that felt both foreign and instinctive.

Her eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was the ceiling above her—glowing vines draped like threads of light, intertwined with jagged crystalline formations that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the pool. The sight was mesmerizing, but something deeper pulled at her. She blinked, her vision sharpening as awareness dawned.

Slowly, she lowered her gaze. The movement felt strange, deliberate, as though she were learning how to command her own body. She stared at her hands, water dripping from her slender fingers, each droplet catching the faint light before falling back into the pool. Her palms were smooth, her skin pale blueish with faint iridescent patterns glimmering under the water's glow.

Her legs shifted next, the cold water brushing against her thighs as she became acutely aware of every sensation. Her toes flexed instinctively, causing ripples to spread across the surface. It felt… new. Everything felt new, from the texture of the rock beneath her fingertips as she steadied herself to the soft ache in her muscles, as if they were waking up alongside her.

She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat—a sound so intimate yet utterly unfamiliar. Her mind remained a blank slate, save for one thought. No, not a thought—a voice. Faint and soft, like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

'Move.

Stand.

You must begin.'

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. She obeyed the whisper instead, her hands trembling as she pushed herself up. Her reflection shimmered in the pool beneath her, distorted yet undeniably hers. Who was she? What was she?

The whisper faded, leaving her alone with the cold air on her damp skin and the soft glow of bioluminescence guiding her first, tentative steps into the unknown.

Chapter Text

Her first impression took her breath away. Unconsciously, her bare toes began to claw at the warm earth, as if trying to ground herself and take it all in. Before her stretched an enchanting passageway, formed by twisting branches that embraced the path like a natural tunnel. The trees seemed to fold together into a living arch, their thick trunks covered in a layer of moss that glowed faintly green in the sunlight. To her left, towering purple flowers rose above her, perched on branches that spiraled to form the tunnel. Their petals shimmered in pearlescent hues, as if revealing a new color with each ray of light. Around her, bioluminescent pollen danced through the air, sparkling like stardust, while the sounds of unknown creatures echoed through the leaves in the distance.

The jungle exhaled magic; it felt as though she was surrounded by Eywa’s very breath. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, exotic flowers, and a subtle, almost electric tingle. Flowers along the edges opened at the slightest movement, their curling petals unfolding in a mesmerizing rhythm. Some released a sweet, citrusy fragrance, while others emitted a spicy, invigorating vapor. She felt small, yet deeply connected to the whole. The ferns beneath her feet bent gently under her weight, and it seemed as if the grass lit up with every step she took. The pools flanking the path glowed with a soft blue hue, as though they absorbed and reflected light. Every detail, from the breathing leaves to the twisting vines overhead, seemed to invite her, beckoning her forward. This was no ordinary place. This felt like a gateway to something greater, a sanctuary of Eywa herself. With a mixture of awe and curiosity, she took her first step into the tunnel, unaware of the adventure that awaited her but certain of one thing: she was exactly where she was meant to be. The woman wandered through the forest, her bare feet sinking softly into the mossy ground. Every step felt new, each sensation sparking wonder and unease. She touched the bark of a great tree, marveling at its warmth, its hum of life. The air was thick with scents she couldn’t name—floral, earthy, alive. Though her mind was blank, her heart carried a strange certainty: she was meant to move forward. The whisper in her mind—gentle yet persistent—pulled her deeper into the vibrant jungle.

A soft rustling caught her attention. She froze, her eyes scanning the dense foliage. From the shadows emerged a creature unlike anything she had seen. Its sleek body was covered in fine, iridescent fur, glowing faintly in the dappled light. Large, gentle eyes met hers, full of curiosity and warmth. It was a Hexapede—a deer-like creature with slender legs, a long neck, and flowing antennae that pulsed faintly, sensing the air around it. Her heart quickened, not with fear but with a strange sense of recognition. The Hexapede took a cautious step closer, its hooves making no sound on the forest floor. She remained still, afraid to startle it. The creature tilted its head, its antennae brushing the air as if tasting her presence. 'Approach, my child.' the whisper urged her. She hesitated, then extended a hand slowly, her palm facing upward. The hexapede leaned forward, its delicate nose brushing against her fingers. Its warm breath tickled her skin, and she couldn’t help but let out a soft, surprised laugh. The sound echoed softly in the stillness of the forest, carrying with it a brief moment of joy. A warmth spread through her, a connection so profound it made her gasp. For a fleeting instant, their breaths synchronized, and she felt a flicker of something beyond herself—a glimpse of Eywa’s vast web of life. The Hexapede tilted its head slightly, as if amused by her reaction, before stepping back, its large, glowing eyes still fixed on hers, holding a quiet curiosity. Then, it turned, its body moving with effortless grace, and began to walk away. She felt the pull again, urging her to follow. She obeyed, her steps careful as she trailed the creature through the forest.

As she moved, she mirrored the creature’s steady, noiseless tread, careful not to step on anything that might give away her presence to predators. The creature knew exactly where it was going. Thus began the endless path of learning, and learn she would.

It led her to a small clearing where moonlight filtered through the canopy, illuminating a patch of soft, mossy ground. The Hexapede stopped and lowered itself, folding its long legs beneath its body. She hesitated, unsure of what to do. The creature looked at her expectantly, then leaned forward, pressing its head to the ground. A memory stirred within her—no, not a memory, but an instinct. She knelt, mimicking its posture. Her hands touched the moss, her fingers sinking into its softness. She felt the faint vibrations of the earth beneath her, a rhythm that matched the Hexapede’s breathing. Slowly, she closed her eyes. The world seemed to expand around her. She felt the pulse of the trees, the rustle of the leaves, the heartbeat of the forest itself. And within that vastness, she felt the Hexapede—its calm strength, its ability to move silently and harmoniously through the world. When she opened her eyes, the Hexapede was watching her. It rose to its feet, its antennae flicking toward the trees. She stood as well, feeling a newfound steadiness in her legs, as though she had absorbed some of the creature’s grace. The hexapede nuzzled her hand briefly, then turned and disappeared into the underbrush. The nameless woman watched it go, a strange mixture of gratitude and longing filling her chest. She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers. She could still feel the connection, faint but present, like a thread tied to something much larger than herself. The whisper returned, clearer this time. There is more to learn. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, ready to continue her journey. Days passed as she ran alongside her six-legged companion, her legs growing stronger and the long muscles needed for running beginning to develop. Eventually, she found a name for her friend: Win 'Eylan.

Chapter Text

The jungle hummed with life as she walked, her bare feet pressing into the soft earth. The whisper in her mind was growing stronger, pulling her forward, urging her toward something unseen yet profoundly familiar. She could feel it now—a presence, vast and ancient, calling to her like a forgotten melody. The storm had passed, but its remnants still clung to the air, thick with moisture and the scent of damp foliage. Her heart pounded in anticipation as she moved through the undergrowth, the path forming before her as if the jungle itself was guiding her steps. She had always been a child of the wild. The creatures of Pandora were her kin, her siblings in a world where she belonged yet still felt apart. Among them was Uluwi, a mischievous Prolemuris who had taken it upon himself to teach her the art of climbing and swinging through the trees. It had started with mere observation—watching the agile creatures pluck utumauti fruit from the highest branches with effortless grace. But one day, as she struggled with an unsteady grip on a vine, Uluwi had chattered at her, his golden eyes filled with amusement. From that moment, he became her teacher, pushing her to move with the fluidity of the jungle. Their lessons soon turned into playful battles, pelting each other with the vibrant fruits until her blue skin was stained in shades of purple. Laughter echoed through the canopy as they tumbled through the branches, painting each other in the colors of the forest. But no matter how many friends she made among the creatures, something was missing. Not long ago, she had seen others like her—tall, blue-skinned beings with bioluminescent freckles like hers. Their hair was woven in intricate patterns, some adorned with shells, stones, and other natural treasures. From the shadows, she had watched them, fascinated. They were so different, yet so familiar. What were the strange plants that seemed to grow upon their bodies? Were they a part of them, or could she find them too? The curiosity gnawed at her.

When the others had left their strange metal den—its purpose and origins still a mystery to her—she turned to Uluwi with a mischievous grin. Arming herself with orange, yellow, and green fruits, she launched a fresh assault on her friend, giggling as the vibrant colors splattered against his fur. She mimicked the hues she had seen on the Na’vi, hoping to adorn herself in the same brilliance. If she could not have the strange decorations they carried, she would create her own. Perhaps if she painted herself in these colors, she would understand them better. Perhaps, in doing so, she could belong. That night, as she lay beneath the protective embrace of the trees, sleep did not come easily. The jungle felt restless, as if holding its breath, waiting. Then, the storm came. Rain lashed the leaves, and thunder rumbled like the voice of Eywa herself. She woke with a start, her heart pounding. Something was pulling her, stronger than ever before, an invisible force wrapping around her very soul. She rose, stepping into the storm, unafraid. The jungle predators would be hidden away, cowering in their dens—this she knew. The storm protected her, guiding her through the darkness. Flashes of light illuminated the world around her, but the brightest glow came from within her mind. A vision. She saw glimpses—a great tree, its roots pulsing with power, its tendrils whispering of ancient knowledge. A warmth spread along her spine, curling in her belly like the gentle touch of unseen hands. Her feet moved on instinct, carrying her toward destiny.

Days passed as she traveled, her body adapting to the rhythm of the land. A lone Pa’li crossed her path, its powerful form gleaming under the filtered sunlight. The creature regarded her with intelligent eyes, its ears flicking forward as if listening to something she could not hear. Without hesitation, she stepped closer, her hand outstretched, feeling the warmth of its breath as it exhaled. There was no fear—only understanding. As she pressed her forehead to its broad skull, a thread of connection wove itself between them, silent yet unbreakable. The Pa’li knelt, inviting her onto its back, and together they moved like the wind, cutting through the dense jungle toward her unseen destination.  Soon night fell and life in the forest started to wake up again. From a distance, she saw a faint, whitish-pink glow that seemed to stir something deep within her. Her skin tingled as every hair on her body rose, and then, at last, she saw it—the Tree of Voices.

The moment she saw the Tree of Souls, a shiver ran through her spine. It stood before her, tall and unbendable, its bioluminescent tendrils swaying as though breathing. The great roots pulsed with life, whispering secrets only the worthy could hear. She dismounted and approached, her heart pounding with reverence. She reached for her queue, fingers trembling, and connected it to the sacred tendrils. Instantly, the world fell away. She was no longer standing before the tree—she was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Visions flickered before her like reflections on water: towering metal beasts tearing into the land, fire consuming the sky, cries of anguish, and the relentless thunder of destruction. Yet amidst the chaos, she saw something else—a figure, fierce and unyielding, standing against the tide. He was familiar, though she did not know why. His eyes burned with the fire of a warrior, his soul intertwined with Eywa’s song. A voice, neither loud nor soft, neither near nor far, resonated through her very being. 'You are of the past, the present, and the future. The threads of fate weave through you, child of the Great Mother. You walk with no name, yet one has always belonged to you.' She felt the name before she heard it, a whisper against her skin, a song in her veins. It was not given; it had always been hers, waiting to be spoken into existence. Nytara. Her breath hitched, her eyes widening. The vision swirled around her, fading like mist in the morning sun, until she was once again kneeling before the Tree of Souls. The name echoed within her, settling into her bones like it had always belonged. As she turned to leave, something shifted within her. A pull—stronger than before—guided her away from the sacred site. She did not question it. She followed. The journey back through the jungle felt different, the air thrumming with an unseen force.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, but the world still held its breath. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and ozone, and the trees dripped with the remnants of Eywa’s fury. Why  The Tree of Souls had shown her visions of destruction, of fire raining from the sky, of her home being swallowed by darkness. But there had been more—glimpses of people like her, of hands reaching out, of voices calling her home.

She did not understand it, but she knew she had to follow.

It was on the third day of her journey back that she heard it—a strangled cry, a growl of pain. Instinct took over, and she sprinted toward the sound, her bare feet silent on the damp earth. The sight that met her stopped her in her tracks.

A creature, one of the great predators of the jungle, lay ensnared in a cruel metal trap. Its sleek black body was marred by wounds, its great golden eyes filled with pain and fury. A thanator—young, but still dangerous. The moment its gaze locked onto her, it let out a warning snarl.

She should have run.

But something inside her whispered otherwise. She stepped forward slowly, hands open in a gesture of peace. "I see you," she murmured, her voice soft yet steady. The thanator growled again, but its ears twitched. It was listening.

Lowering herself to the ground, she inched closer, her fingers brushing against the damp leaves. The trap was cruel—metal teeth sunk deep into the creature’s hind leg, blood staining its dark fur. Her heart clenched at the sight.

"I will help you," she whispered, instinctively.

The Thanator’s eyes burned into hers, and for a moment, the jungle was silent.

Then, slowly, it lowered its head.

She worked quickly, fingers prying at the metal, whispering soothing words as she freed the beast. When the final piece fell away, the Thanator tensed, its muscles coiling. She braced herself, expecting teeth, claws—

Instead, it took a hesitant step forward and sniffed at her hand.

And then it was gone, vanishing into the undergrowth with a powerful leap.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. But before she could move, a new presence made itself known. 

Unseen by her, another pair of eyes had witnessed the entire event. High in the trees, Tsu’tey crouched, his muscles tense as he gripped his bow. He had seen many things in his life, but never had he seen a Thanator choose a Na’vi as its own. And never had he seen one that walked the forest unadorned, unclothed, like a spirit untamed.

His fingers twitched around the bowstring, but he did not draw. He only watched, brow furrowed, as the strange woman continued walking, the great beast following at her heels like a loyal warrior, before it leaped in to the bushes and disappeared.

Tsu’tey did not know what to make of her.

But he would find out.

The feeling of being watched was unmistakable.

She turned slowly, her gaze locking onto a figure perched on a thick tree branch above. He was tall, his body painted with the marks of his people. His golden eyes were sharp, assessing her with the scrutiny of a warrior.

A Na’vi.

She recognized him—not from a meeting, but from her silent observations. He was one of the others, one of the strong ones, one who carried himself with the weight of responsibility. His bow was in his hands, though not yet drawn.

He had seen everything.

Tsu’tey.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another. Then, with a graceful leap, he landed before her, towering over her with an expression she couldn’t read.

"Pesu lu nga?" he demanded.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She did not have an answer.

And so, her journey to the Omaticaya truly began.

'Pesu lu nga'  - Who are you

Chapter Text

Tsutey's P.O.V

The forest whispered in the dark. Soft, distant hums of night creatures wove through the air, blending with the gentle pulsing of the Sacred Tree’s tendrils. Tsu’tey knelt before them, fingers grazing the bioluminescent roots. The glow painted his skin in shifting patterns, flickering over his arms like the touch of spirits unseen. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the scent of damp earth, of life, of something older than memory itself. "You are not here for her." The thought came unbidden, sharp like a blade. He ignored it. This place… it had always been a refuge. A place of wisdom. A place of guidance. And yet, no matter how long he knelt, no matter how deeply he breathed, the ache remained. Sylwanin. His jaw tensed. He should not dwell on things he cannot change. She was with Eywa now, beyond the grasp of his hands. He had come here to seek clarity, to remind himself of his duty—not to lose himself in longing. Then, the air shifted. Not in the way wind moves through trees. No. This was different. It was a presence—felt, not seen.

A ripple through the very breath of the land. Tsu’tey’s ears twitched. His fingers curled into the roots beneath him. His body knew before his mind did. He was not alone. Slowly, he rose, melting into the shadows. Silent. Unseen. His sharp eyes scanned the sacred grove, searching for the disturbance. And then—he saw her. She moved like a whisper, her fingers ghosting over the luminous tendrils. There was a reverence in her touch, but also uncertainty, like she was searching for something she did not yet understand. A stranger. A mystery. She should not be here. Tsu’tey remained still, blending into his surroundings. His instincts demanded he wait—observe—determine what she was before revealing himself. Was she a threat? A lost one? A trick? His grip tightened around his knife. His breath came slow and measured. "Eywa does not make mistakes," he told himself. "But then… what is she?" He could not look away. The way she touched the sacred roots, the way the bioluminescence pulsed softly beneath her fingers—it unsettled him. As if Eywa whispered back to her. He did not reveal himself that night. Instead, he followed. For three days, he remained unseen, moving like a shadow through the jungle, tracking her every step. He watched the way she moved—not like an outsider, not like someone lost, but as if she belonged. As if she knew these lands without knowing why. And the jungle seemed to respond. He saw the way creatures did not flee from her, the way she walked among them as if she were part of something greater. Even the great beasts of the land regarded her with a strange kind of curiosity rather than fear. It was not normal. On the second day, he found her in a clearing, surrounded by the chattering of monkey-like creatures. The Syaksyuk.

She held a piece of fruit in her hand, tossing it playfully toward them. The creatures chattered back, and for a moment, it seemed like a game—until they decided to retaliate. One fruit after another rained down on her, bouncing off her arms, her shoulders, even her face. She yelped, shielding herself as best she could, but the creatures were relentless. Tsu’tey, hidden in the trees, watched with narrowed eyes. And then, despite himself—he smirked. A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest as she scowled at the creatures, muttering under her breath. She was losing. Badly. And it was amusing. And then, on the third day, he saw it. A strangled cry. A growl of pain. She ran towards it without hesitation, disappearing into the undergrowth. Tsu’tey followed, swift and silent, scaling the trees to gain a better view. What he saw made his breath catch. A Palulukan—young, but still deadly—lay ensnared in a cruel metal trap. Its golden eyes burned with pain and fury, its great body writhing against the biting metal. She should have fled. But instead, she stepped forward. Slowly. Hands open, voice soft. She spoke to the beast, not in words he understood, but in something else. Something older. Something instinctive. Tsu’tey’s grip tightened on his bow as he watched, expecting her to be torn apart. Yet, impossibly, the Palulukan stilled. She knelt, working quickly, her fingers prying at the metal with care, whispering to the beast all the while. He saw the moment the trap gave way, the moment the great predator was freed. It could have killed her. But it didn’t. Instead, it hesitated. Then, slowly, it stepped forward and sniffed her hand before vanishing into the jungle with a powerful leap. Tsu’tey had seen many things in his life. But never had he seen a Palulukan accept a Na’vi as one of its own. He dropped down from his perch, stepping into the moonlight. His voice was low, steady, but laced with something unreadable. "Pesu lu nga?"

Chapter Text

She did not flinch. Tsu’tey did not know whether that made her brave or foolish. The night pulsed around them, soft bioluminescent glows casting strange shadows over her form. His sharp eyes traced her stance—how she did not shrink away, how she stood her ground, even under his scrutiny. His grip tightened on the bow in his hand, the string pulled taut like a warning. His fingers rested lightly on the arrow, ready to strike if needed, but something about her held him back. "Who are you?" The question was on his tongue, but that was not what left his mouth. "Why are you here?"She blinked once, then tilted her head, studying him just as he studied her. Like a predator meeting another. "I felt the pull," she answered. "Same as you." His ears twitched. His body stiffened before he could stop it. She was not supposed to know that. "I do not know what you mean," he said sharply. She did not argue. Did not press. But there was something in her eyes now—something distant, heavy. Like she had seen too much. Like she was looking at him but seeing something else entirely. His frown deepened. "You do not belong here," he said at last. His voice was firm, but there was no true bite behind it. "And yet Eywa does not reject you." She looked at him again, her expression unreadable. "Eywa does not reject me," she echoed, her voice soft. Tsu’tey did not like that answer. It was neither submission nor defiance. It was something else entirely—something that unsettled him. His tail flicked in irritation. "Where is your clan?" he pressed. "What people do you come from?" She hesitated. A small thing. Barely noticeable. But he saw it. "I… do not know," she admitted. "I have no memories of a people. No memories of a home." Tsu’tey’s frown deepened. "You speak as if the wind itself taught you. No elder, no mother, no hands to guide you. Tell me—who showed you the way of the Na’vi, if no clan raised you?" He narrowed his eyes at her again. "You have nothing," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "No signs of where you come from, no way to prove you belong to anything." His eyes narrowed further. "As if Eywa placed you here herself." She gave him a look then—one he could not name.

"Perhaps she did," she murmured.

The words sent a strange sensation crawling down his spine.

His mind whispered another possibility, one that made his ears pin back slightly. What if she was not from Eywa at all? What if she was something else? A creation of the Sky People? A trick? A thing born of their hands but set loose to wander among them? But then he remembered the Palulukan. The way it had watched her. Protected her. And the way she had looked at it without fear. No Sky Person could do that. His grip on the bow tightened, his fingers flexing around the string. His heart hammered in his chest, but he held steady. He was not a hunter by instinct, but by training. A hunter, after all, did not rush.He glanced at the moonlit sky, a fleeting moment of vulnerability passing through him. Eywa... He never asked for signs, but this was different. Guide me. Show me the right path. The jungle is not kind to the weak, and she is... a mystery, a danger, and yet… she is here.

Tsu’tey’s jaw clenched, and the tension in his body only grew. What do I do? His loyalty was to his people, to his clan, and yet there was something about her that gnawed at his insides. Something he couldn’t shake."You should not walk alone," he said at last, his voice firm, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in his chest. "The jungle does not care if Eywa favors you."Her lips twitched—not quite a smile. Not quite amusement."Neither do I," she said simply.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked into the dark. Tsu’tey did not stop her. He only watched. Silent. Unmoving. A hunter measuring prey. Or perhaps… something else.

She moved through the jungle as though it were leading her somewhere. As if she were listening to something he could not hear.

The Palulukan was watching her. He knew it. Felt it. And so was he.

From the shadows, unseen, unheard—he followed. Just like the great beast.

Chapter Text

The night before she arrived, Mo’at sat in deep meditation, her senses stretched to the farthest reaches of the sacred Tree of Souls. The tendrils of its light twisted around her, shimmering like living threads, carrying with them the murmurs of Eywa. Those whispers were ancient, fluid, slipping between the threads of time as if they were but a single breath from the past, present, and future. And then came the vision. It was brief, fleeting like a breath held too long, but it sank deep into her being. A shadow, moving between flickers of light, a strange gleam of eyes—eyes that did not belong to any known creature of Pandora. No animal. No Na’vi. A presence that hovered in the space between threat and peace, neither hunter nor prey, neither friend nor foe. It simply was. The vision unraveled just as quickly as it had come, but its weight lingered, settled deep within her bones. Mo’at could not name it, could not grasp its full meaning—but she felt it, a tightening in her chest, a knowing that something was coming. She did not know if it was the humans who would come with their machines and fire or the creatures of the wild, restless and shifting. She did not know what it was—but she could feel it, like a storm on the horizon. The next morning, the village of the Omaticaya stirred to life, its rhythmic hum familiar and comforting. The first rays of light crept through the towering trees, casting soft glows on the moss-covered ground. The sounds of daily life filled the air—children’s laughter echoing like the calls of birds, warriors returning from their patrols with their quiet steps and watchful eyes. The scent of roasted teylu mixed with the cool, damp earth, and the steady click-clack of looms resonated from within the great Home Tree, where skilled hands wove intricate patterns into vibrant tapestries. These weavings were not merely art; they were the stories of their people, captured in threads. But even amidst this harmony, Mo’at's heart was restless.

Something shifted in the air. And then, she arrived. Nytara moved through the village with the quiet, absorbing grace of one who had traveled much but understood little. She did not creep like an intruder, nor walk boldly like a warrior—she simply was, her presence almost ethereal as her sharp eyes scanned every detail. Her gaze lingered on the vibrant tapestries, and Mo’at could see the strange pull they had on her—the patterns calling to something within the woman, something deep and untold. Her fingers brushed over the threads, tracing them with a delicate touch, sensing their story in each weave. The elder weaver did not speak but watched with quiet curiosity, as if she too could sense the mystery woven into this moment. Mo’at’s breath hitched, a whisper of recognition stirring in her chest—but she did not know why. Who was this woman? What was it about her that called to the bones of the forest? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Tsu’tey’s movements. He walked with purpose beside the stranger, his body coiled like a predator, though his presence was calm, controlled. Mo’at’s sharp eyes studied him closely. She had seen many things in her life, but something about this woman made Tsu’tey’s usually confident demeanor falter. His muscles were tight, his movements more deliberate, as though he, too, was unsure of what he was facing. She could feel it, too. Anomalous. Unsettling. An answer still to be uncovered. Mo’at's gaze met his, and she nodded. She knew what was to come. With a deep breath, he moved ahead, standing tall before the newcomer. His voice was steady, his words carrying the weight of authority. "I will take her to the Tsahik," he said, the statement final, but something in his tone held a question. A pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Mo’at could feel his uncertainty, could sense the unasked question hanging in the air. Then, she appeared. Mo’at stepped into the open, her gaze locking with the woman who stood at the heart of the village. Her presence was magnetic, but Mo’at was not intimidated. Instead, her mind raced, trying to find the key to unlock the mystery that this stranger carried with her. “Eywa has whispered of you,” Mo’at said, her voice steady, heavy with an understanding she didn’t yet fully possess. “And now, you stand before us.” The air between them hummed with an unknown energy. Mo’at had not asked for this moment, but it was here. And she would face it with the wisdom of her ancestors, guided by Eywa herself.

Chapter Text

The silence between them deepened. Nytara met Mo’at’s gaze and did not look away. Around them, voices quieted. A slow ripple passed through the village like a breath drawn and held. Children stopped their games, elders ceased their murmured conversations, and even the weavers laid their threads aside. One by one, the Omaticaya began to circle them—not in fear, but with a wariness sharpened by ancient instinct. Mo’at stepped forward.

Her eyes, once merely thoughtful, had changed. They narrowed now—not in malice, but like a predator assessing something strange that did not belong to forest or sky. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She began to circle Nytara, each step measured, beads clicking softly with her stride. "You carry the breath of something ancient,” Mo’at said, her voice low, cutting through the hush like a blade. “Not just a memory. Not just a wound. Something more.” Nytara stood still. She felt the weight of every gaze—wide Na’vi eyes studying her from the shadows, from the platforms above, from the roots below. Even Tsu’tey’s parents stood among them now—his mother, Peyla, tall and silent, face unreadable; his father, T’kal, a former warrior whose lined face showed nothing but the twitch of a jaw muscle. And near them, a younger man—Tsu’tey’s brother, Arvok—watched with open distrust, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “I do not know what I am,” Nytara said softly. “Only what I am not.” Mo’at stopped circling. She stepped closer, so close Nytara could feel the shift of air between them. “There are no stories of one like you,” Mo’at said, eyes gleaming in the filtered light. “Even the songs are silent. That is how I know—you were not born. You were called.” A slow murmur passed through the onlookers. Heads tilted. Children pressed into their mothers’ sides. Ka’ani frowned. Peyral inhaled sharply. Tsu’mong, the old storyteller, lowered his gaze.

Mo’at raised her hand—not to touch, but to feel. She hovered her palm just over Nytara’s chest, near the steady beat of her heart.
“You walk the boundary between flesh and spirit,” she said, voice roughened now by something deeper—skepticism, awe, and a wary respect. “Not as a memory returned, but as something Eywa shaped with her own breath.” The words settled into the silence, heavy and electric.
Nytara stood firm, but her pulse raced under Mo’at’s hand. She didn’t flinch. Not when Mo’at leaned in just slightly, nor when the scent of ash and forest clung to the elder’s breath. “Why?” Nytara asked, voice barely above the breeze. Mo’at’s eyes never left hers. “I do not yet know. And that is why I do not trust it.” A ripple passed through the crowd. “But Eywa does not shape without purpose,” Mo’at continued. “She brought you here. She called you from shadow into breath.” Then she turned, her gaze sweeping the silent crowd before resting briefly on Tsu’tey, who stood at the edge of the circle, unmoving. “But the People are not mine alone to guide,” Mo’at said. “Eytukan must decide what place, if any, you are to have among us.” Nytara nodded, slowly. Accepting it. Mo’at’s final words lingered like smoke:

“Eywa does not ask for ease. Only truth.”

And with that, she stepped back into the quiet of the circle, and the moment passed—but not its weight.

Flash back

The wind carried secrets. She could feel them in the rustle of the leaves, in the calls of distant creatures whose names she did not know but whose presence felt achingly familiar. Her hand brushed over the bark of a towering tree, rough and warm beneath her fingertips, like the skin of a sleeping beast. The world whispered around her—not in words, but in rhythms. Pulses. Echoes. She had walked with Tsu’tey for two days now. He spoke little. That suited her. Words were fragile things. They broke easily. Fell short. Disappeared when you needed them most. But she had seen him watching her. The way his eyes lingered on her movements. How he tensed whenever she stepped too far into the shadows. How he clenched his jaw when the Thanator appeared at her heel but did nothing to stop it. And then last night, under the blanket of stars, he finally spoke. “You do not know who you are.” She hadn’t looked at him. Only at the sky. “No. But I know what I am not.” He was silent for a long moment. Then: “My people… they know the forest. The songs. The ways of Eywa. If anyone can help you… it is them.” “Will they not fear me?” “They fear what they do not understand. So do I,” he admitted. “But I would rather face what I fear than let it remain a question.” The truth of it settled over her like dew. Cold. Sharp. Real. She had followed the voice this far. Perhaps the answers were not in the wild, but within the weavings of a people she did not know. She had nodded, just once. That was enough. And so, she followed him. Into the heart of the forest. Into the breath of something new.

.

She hadn’t meant to stay. When Tsu’tey first spoke of the Omaticaya, there was resistance in her blood. Not fear—she did not know that feeling—but unease. A tightness, like the world trying to wrap itself too tightly around her. Yet something in his voice—low, sure, even when unsure—had steadied her. He had not begged her to come. He had simply said: "Perhaps your memories are not lost… only waiting to be remembered in the presence of others." And somehow, that had been enough.

Now, seated beneath the latticework of Home Tree, surrounded by whispers and woven glances, she felt more seen than she ever had—and less known. The Omaticaya moved with practiced rhythm, their lives pulsing with quiet ceremony, but she was the pause in their breath, the strange thread in their tapestry. She watched their weavings, the patterns alive with history and voice, and her fingers itched to touch them again. She felt it—something buried. Not in the wilds. But within the weavings of a people she did not know. That morning, the tension broke. 

Tsu'tey came to get her. The air inside Hometree was thick with the scent of sap, moss, and wood smoke. Light filtered down from the great hollow above, shafts of gold and green that shifted and danced as the canopy swayed far overhead. It was like standing within the heart of a breathing, ancient creature. Tsu’tey walked ahead of her, silent except for the occasional glance over his shoulder to ensure she followed. His shoulders were tight, his every step deliberate. She stayed close but allowed her gaze to wander. The Omaticaya village was not built—it grew. Platforms spiraled from the massive inner walls of Hometree, connected by living vines and woven bridges. Dens hung suspended like baskets, crafted from strong reeds and flexible branches, decorated with feathers, beads, and the vibrant leaves of flowering plants.It wasn’t a place made for show. It was a place lived in. As they passed an open den, Nytara caught a glimpse of two Na'vi elders seated cross-legged around a shallow bowl of steaming herbs. Light streamed in from a crack above, hitting the mist rising from the bowl and making the whole space look dreamlike. One elder—Tsu’mong, she would later learn—had braids that had thinned with time, their once-rich weave now delicate as spider silk. His skin, once taut and luminous, bore the gentle creases of a long life, each line a map of stories told and wisdom earned. His eyes, however, still burned bright—sharp and knowing, like twin moons watching over the People. He looked up as they passed, his old, clouded eyes focusing not on her, but through her, a faint smile twitching his lips as if he recognized something unseen. Another figure stirred nearby: Ka'ani, one of the hunters. Young and impulsive, his braided hair was streaked with beads of red glass, and he gave Nytara a suspicious glance, his tail flicking once in agitation before he looked away. Tsu’tey said nothing, but she felt the flicker of tension in the air.

They continued upward, following a path spiraling around the inner trunk. Tiny gardens were tucked into niches where the light pooled brightest—little explosions of green, orange, and violet. Vines heavy with fruit dangled lazily from the higher branches, tended carefully by women humming soft songs under their breath. Ahead, they reached a wide platform bustling with activity: the weavers’ circle. It was beautiful chaos. Women and a few men knelt around broad frames, their fingers moving with hypnotic precision, twisting fibers dyed in every color of the forest. Tapestries bloomed under their touch—depictions of Eywa’s gifts, the Great Leonopteryx, the sacred groves. A heavyset woman with laugh lines around her eyes, Peyral, looked up first. Her skilled hands never stopped moving, but her gaze softened slightly when she saw Nytara. Curiosity sparked in her, but no hostility. The oldest among them, face painted with soot and clay, looked up—right at her. Nytara paused. Her fingers brushed one of the finished tapestries. The thread shimmered faintly where she touched it, just a flicker, like dust caught in sunlight. Tsu’tey stopped. “Do not touch.” “It spoke,” she said. Tsu’tey’s reaction had stalled—just for a heartbeat. A flicker of something crossed his face: disbelief, or perhaps unease. Then it was gone, buried beneath his usual scowl. “It is a pattern.”“To you.” His jaw clenched. “You speak in riddles.” She gave a soft nod. “I am one.” A child, no older than six, stepped close. The girl’s hair was braided with a feather, her skin daubed in berry-stain paint. She stared at Nytara, nose wrinkled. “She smells like the trees,” she said softly. Tsu’tey snaps: “Don’t speak of what you do not understand.” She stops at the weaving station again.The girl didn’t move. “Like old trees. And thunder.” Then her mother appeared, scooping her up with a whispered apology before disappearing into the shadows. An older boy nearby—Apxan, lanky and quick-fingered—grinned openly, a mischievous tilt to his mouth. “Strange, this one,” he said aloud in Na'vi, clearly meaning her to hear. “Eyes like waiting storms.” Peyral lightly smacked his shoulder with a roll of woven thread. “Storms feed the forest, fool.” Laughter rippled across the circle. Tsu’tey shot them a sharp look, but if he intended a reprimand, he didn’t speak it. Instead, he guided Nytara away. “They watch. They judge,” he said simply, voice low. “But they do not know.” “I do not know, either,” she murmured. They walked on.

The deeper they ventured into the heart of Hometree, the richer the colors became—banners woven with iridescent beetle shells, strings of luminous seeds swaying gently from overhead boughs. Children darted past, their bare feet pattering against the wood and vine. One, a small boy with hair cropped unevenly, nearly collided with Nytara in his hurry, then stared up at her with enormous amber eyes. “Sorry!” he chirped in heavily accented Na'vi before disappearing again into the dens. A few older children lingered nearby. A girl—Sray'ka, thin as a reed but sharp-eyed—approached cautiously, a carved whistle dangling from her neck. “What are you?” she asked, blunt and fearless. Before Nytara could answer, Tsu’tey’s voice rumbled behind her. “Mo’at says Eywa watches her,” he said flatly. “That is enough—for now.”.” The children backed off immediately, murmuring among themselves as they vanished into the maze of dens and bridges. Nytara stood a moment longer, her hand brushing the smooth living wall beside her. She could feel the slow pulse of sap, the ancient life of Hometree itself thrumming through the structure. It wasn’t just a shelter. It was a being, a soul of bark and leaf and breath. She looked around—at the baskets of drying herbs, the racks of spears tipped with bone and stone, the small shrines woven with bright feathers—and felt the immense, tangled warmth of a people living in balance with their world. The Omaticaya did not conquer their home. They became it. And somehow, though she did not know these people, though her memories were voids and shadows, she felt that the air here had a shape that could fit her, if only she let it. Tsu’tey finally slowed beside a wide branch that overlooked the lower floors, where the cooks prepared communal meals. Smoke curled lazily upward from small, contained fires. She smelled roasting yovo fruit and grilled yerik meat, the scents grounding her like roots winding through her chest. The sun was sinking outside now, painting the uppermost leaves a fiery gold. Light cascaded in shafts down the massive inner hollows, striking the weavers’ frames and setting the colored threads ablaze like captured rainbows. She turned slowly, taking it all in. Tsu’tey watched her. His expression unreadable—but no longer wholly hostile. “ They will not accept you easily,” he said finally. “I do not need them to accept me,” she answered without thinking. “I only hope I understand where Eywa leads.” He tilted his head, studying her for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he gave a single, short nod—almost an acknowledgment. Without another word, he led her away from the gathering places, toward the upper boughs where the elders met—the place she would not yet go. Not yet. The wind shifted, carrying the heavy, sweet scent of flowering vines. Somewhere deep in the village, a drum began to beat, slow and low, like the steady pulse of a heart. Nytara let the rhythm carry her forward, into the unknown.

As they climbed higher along the living spirals of Hometree, the air grew cooler, thinner, touched with the scent of old wood and distant rain. Tsu’tey’s steps slowed, and at a quiet, unspoken boundary, he stopped. Ahead, half-hidden by hanging moss and great flowering vines, was a space different from the others—still and solemn, like the eye of a storm. The place where the leaders dwelled. Tsu’tey turned to her, his face carved from stone. "You will go alone," he said, voice low. "He is waiting." The weight of the moment pressed against her skin, heavy and inevitable. She drew a breath, steadying herself, and stepped forward, leaving Tsu’tey—and everything she had known—behind.

Chapter Text

The air inside the chamber was hushed, thick with the breath of old wood and woven memory. High above, great root-beams arched like the ribs of a slumbering beast, cradling the space in solemn stillness. Vines drooped from the ceiling, heavy with pale blossoms that gave off a faint glow, casting their soft light over the curved walls. The drum she’d heard before still echoed faintly in her bones, low and slow, like the earth itself was watching. The chamber exhaled silence. Nytara stepped forward alone, guided not by knowledge, but by a feeling — something quiet and old that rose from within. No one had told her the way, yet her feet found it. She did not look back. Some part of her knew: this was a place where no one could walk beside you. Eytukan sat in the center of the room, upon a low platform of carved roots polished smooth by generations of feet. He did not rise when she entered. His gaze was steady, unreadable, his shoulders broad and unmoving—like stone shaped by wind and time. Nytara stepped forward without bowing. She stood tall, as the voice inside her had always told her. Stand where Eywa leads. Eytukan’s voice cut through the silence, low and resonant.

“You come from the forest. But not from us.” “I do,” she said. His eyes narrowed. “You wear no clan markings. Carry no songs. You have no ancestors among us. And yet… you are here.” She answered without flinching: “A voice led me." A long moment passed before Eytukan’s gaze slid past her, toward the entrance — or rather, the shadows beside it. “Tsu’tey,” he said, sharp as a blade drawn. “Why did you bring her?” Tsu’tey stepped forward, but not into the light. “Because Eywa already has.” Eytukan studied him, then Nytara again. “So you believe she is meant to be here?” Tsu’tey said nothing. He didn’t have to. Eytukan rose slowly from his seat, and with each movement came a weight—not of age, but of burden. Of leadership forged in fire. He stepped down from the root platform, his eyes never leaving hers. “Every Na’vi leaves behind an echo,” he said. “A trace of their people. A song. A path through the forest.” He paused. “But you… you leave none. And yet, there are whispers. Of something that follows you. A great shadow—one that cannot be named.” Nytara held his gaze. “Not all shadows are born of darkness.” His expression sharpened, unreadable. “You speak with confidence. That is dangerous in one so unknown.” Before she could answer, a presence moved behind her. Mo’at entered like mist spilling through trees—silent, slow, inevitable. She passed Nytara without pause and came to stand beside her mate, resting her hand gently on his arm. “You look with your eyes,” she said, quiet but firm. “But you forget—there are other ways to see.” Eytukan glanced at her, troubled.

“She comes from nowhere and I did not forget the past..” His gaze dropped for a breath — only a moment — but it carried the weight of years. Silence fell again, deeper now. Heavy as roots. Mo’at’s eyes softened. For a heartbeat, the pain was on her face too — raw, open, remembered. But she did not look away. And Tsu'tey swallowed hard. “I have not forgotten either,” she said, and stepped forward, her voice gaining strength. And for a moment she touched her heart, as if the pain became a piece of her again. Mo’at tilted her head, studying Nytara now. “And yet she stands here.” She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of Nytara’s skin, and lifted a hand to her shoulder. Her fingers brushed lightly across her collarbone—only a touch, but it awakened something old and vast within.

“She does not walk with lies,” Mo’at murmured. “She carries something… ancient. Eytukan’s jaw worked. He looked between them, the pulse at his temple sharp. Then he exhaled, slow and heavy, as though surrendering a weight he could no longer carry. “If you are what my mate believes you are…” He stepped back, his voice quieter now, but deeper—like roots sinking into the earth.“Then even I have no power over this. He returned to his seat without another word. Mo’at turned and gestured toward a narrow arch woven of flowering roots. “Come,” she said. “There is space for you.” Nytara followed, pulse thunderous. At the threshold she turned back. Tsu’tey stood in the shadow, one hand resting lightly against the vine wall. Their eyes met. No words passed between them. Only the faintest inclination of his head. Not quite a nod. But not denial, either. “She is not Na’vi,” Eytukan said again, as if testing the words. But his voice had lost its edge. It was not defiance now — only weariness. “Not in blood. Not in name.” The words struck her, more than she expected. A slow, quiet ache bloomed in her chest — not from the sharpness of rejection, but from the weight of truth they carried. She was not Na’vi. Not in the way they meant. Not in lineage, or song, or sacred memory. Her skin bore no paint. Her spirit no recorded thread. But then where does she belong? And yet—

“She listens better than most who were born into this place,” Tsu’tey said. The ache in her chest shifted, startled by the warmth that rose in its place — bewildered, almost childlike. She turned toward the sound of his voice, but he was not looking at her. He simply stood there, unflinching, offering no explanation for the words he’d given her. Something in her stilled — a deep, inner hush that spread like calm over water. Tsu’tey, who had watched her from shadows and silence, had spoken not just for her… but of her. Not as a protector. Not out of duty. But as if he saw something true she hadn’t yet found herself. She did not belong. But perhaps… she was not entirely lost. “There is something buried within. A thread. Older than song.” Her fingers trembled in the air, sensing what could not be seen. “Eywa does not create without purpose. If she has placed a seed in this child, then it must be nurtured.” She turned to Eytukan. “She will walk the path. She will learn. And when the time comes… she will remember.” Eytukan gave no protest. He only nodded once, slow and heavy, and bowed his head. Nytara’s breath caught “Remember?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper. Mo’at turned back, and for a moment, her face softened. “Yes, child. What sleeps in you is not empty. It is waiting.” “I will train her.” Nytara looked up, surprised—but he was already looking away, his expression unreadable. Mo’at tilted her head, a flicker of surprise crossing her face—brief, but unmistakable. For a heartbeat, she studied Tsu’tey, as if seeing him anew. “You will train her?” she asked, more softly now. Not doubt, but wonder. Tsu’tey gave no answer. He didn’t need to. Mo’at’s surprise faded into something warmer. A quiet pride, old and deep. A faint smile touched her lips. “Then it is well.” She turned to Nytara. “He will teach you the ways of strength and silence. Of the hunter’s eyes.” Her gaze softened further. “And when Neytiri returns from her journey, she too will guide you. She carries my spirit, and walks with the song of our mothers.” A strange quiet came over Nytara—not fear, but a stillness, like the hush before a storm. As though something had just begun to move beneath her skin.

Chapter Text

That night, sleep would not come. The wind sighed through the boughs of Hometree, stirring the leaves above. Nytara crept down into the forest, guided more by instinct than thought. She did not know where she was going until she arrived. The roots of the Hometree shimmered faintly in the moonlight, She knelt before it. And reached out. She didn’t know how long she had stayed like that. When she finally pulled away, the name that had hovered so clearly in her mind was already fading. Behind her, a voice asked—low, even—“Do you have it now? Your name?”

She turned, startled. Tsu’tey stood a few paces away. She hesitated, then decided to tell him. But it left her to wonder... How did he know that, that was what she was searching for? After numerous lessons he addressed her as 'skxawng' with every misstep she made. At first it stung—every correction sharp and scathing. But over time, she noticed it wasn't just disapproval etched on his face. If she looked closely, she could sometimes catch a flicker of a sly smile. She amused him. And that, in turn, sometimes made her furious. “I… I had it, once. I think.” He said nothing—just waited. “I saw things,” she said quietly. “There was a tree... I connected with it and it showed me things... Terrible things... Fire… metal beasts. A warrior I didn’t know, but who felt… important. There was a name. It felt like mine.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “But when I let go… it slipped away.” Tsu’tey’s face stilled, but his breath caught just slightly—almost imperceptibly. “A tree,” he echoed, voice low but strained. “Where?” “Far. I was just… drawn to it. Like I was being pulled.” He took a step closer, something sharp flickering in his eyes now—not anger, but unease. “And the vision… what does it mean?” She looked away. “I don’t know... but I feel it's important... I don't want to talk more about that.” Tsu’tey stared at her, the silence between them heavy. Then he nodded once, more stiffly than before, and turned without a word. But his steps were too fast, too tense. He had to think. He didn’t tell her that he had seen her there. That he had watched from the shadows as she touched the heart of Eywa—something sacred, something forbidden unless called. And she had been called. It made his skin prickle. What was she?

three weeks later…

Each day began before the sun kissed the tops of the trees. Under Tsu’tey’s watchful eye, Nytara ran the forest paths until her breath burned and her legs trembled. She learned the balance of silence and speed, how to blend into the shadows of the underbrush, how to move without disturbing the world around her. He did not speak much, but when he did, it was clear, measured, and—when she failed—unyielding. “Again,” he would say. And she did. Bow training was the worst. Her arms ached from drawing the string, her fingers blistered and raw. But she never stopped. Not when she missed. Not when her vision blurred from the sweat in her eyes. Because every time she looked up, he was watching. Not judging. Not softening. Just there. And somehow, that was enough. The afternoon sun slanted low through the branches when she stumbled into the central clearing of the village, breathless from the day's hunt. Her braid was half-loose, face streaked with dirt. She meant only to cross quietly, to find water—but the sound of children’s laughter caught her ear, too quick, too sharp.

“Why don’t you have a name?” She froze. Arvok stood with a few of the younger ones—Peyla, the bright-eyed daughter of a weaver, and two others she had seen around but never spoken to. They were smiling, but not kindly. “Is it because you were forgotten?” Peyla asked, head tilted. “Maybe the Great Mother didn’t want her,” said one boy, too young to know how deeply the words could cut. “Enough,” Arvok said quickly, but not soon enough. His voice wasn’t cruel—just awkward, uncertain. “We’re only asking.” Nytara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat felt tight, her face hot. “Don’t you remember anything?” Peyla whispered. Nytara walked away without a word.

She didn’t mean to cross paths with Neytiri. The warrior had returned from her journey only days ago, and this was the first moment they were alone. Neytiri stood at the edge of the training grounds, bow slung across her shoulder, eyes following a flock of yerik in the distance. “You are the one Mo’at speaks of,” she said gently. “The one who is… waking.” Nytara gave a nod, uncertain how much she was supposed to say. Neytiri turned to her then, expression soft but curious. "Who are you?" Neytiri’s voice was low but strong, like the hum of an approaching storm. There was no softness in the question—only the sharp edge of a challenge. Nytara’s gaze was unwavering, though she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of wariness at the intensity of Neytiri’s stare. The young Na'vi didn’t seem to trust her, and she could feel that distrust hanging in the air like smoke. “I do not know my name,” Nytara replied, her voice quiet but steady. She spoke in a tone that carried the weight of truth—of a story not yet fully told. “But I know I am not like the others.” “What is your name?” Neytiri tried again. Nytara’s breath caught. “I… I don’t know.” Neytiri blinked, startled. “You do not know?” The words weren’t meant to hurt. But they did. Nytara’s lips parted, then shut. She shook her head once and tried to keep her face still. But Neytiri saw it—the tremble, the flash of wounded pride. Nytara’s eyes burned. Neytiri rested a hand lightly on her arm. “You must find it. It is not lost. Only waiting. Later, after dusk, as the sky blushed with stars, Nytara sat alone on one of the higher platforms of Hometree, legs tucked beneath her. The distant murmur of the evening fire echoed below, but she had not joined the others for the meal. She didn’t feel like eating, and the children’s words still clung to her like smoke. She didn’t hear Tsu’tey approach until he stood just behind her, silent as ever. “You were not at the fire,” he said quietly. “You must eat. Especially with the training.” “I wasn’t hungry,” she replied, too quickly. “You need strength.” “I said I’m fine,” she snapped, sharper than she intended. “I’m going to sleep.” She didn’t wait for a response. She stepped onto the smaller branch-bridge connecting her perch to the sleeping platforms, climbed into her woven hammock, and pulled her blanket over her shoulders. The fibers swayed gently beneath her weight. She listened as Tsu’tey lingered nearby for a long moment, then finally walked away.

The soft creak of his own hammock settling echoed a few paces off. She stayed motionless, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. Only once his breathing slowed—deep and even—did she quietly slip out of her hammock and descend into the deeper heart of Hometree She rose quietly, careful not to wake him, and made her way through the dim passages of Hometree. Her heart beat fast—not from fear, but purpose. She had made up her mind. She would go to Mo’at. She needed answers. She needed... something. But when she reached the entrance of the inner chambers, she found Mo’at already standing there. Waiting. As if she had always known Nytara would come. Without a word, the Tsahìk turned and led her deeper into the heart of the great tree.