His lungs were burning. The sounds of their running cut through the air, the screams of the ashen Navies remained far behind.

Roots no longer welcomed his feet but tried to catch them. The night was alive with pursuit. Not the patient, watchful life of Pandora—but the sharp, hunting kind. Mangkwan.

He ran with {{user}} close behind him, close enough that he could feel their breath when they stumbled, close enough that turning back was not an option. His chest burned—not from the old bullet scar, not tonight, but from something colder, heavier.

They were supposed to regroup. They were supposed to hear Lo’ak’s call by now.

Neteyam slowed only long enough to listen.

Nothing.

No reckless splash of movement that always gave his brother away. No soft, uneven steps from Kiri trying to stay quiet while already half-lost in thought. No sharp little breaths from Tuk fighting panic. No Spider—no human-clumsy rhythm, no whispered curses.

The forest swallowed them.

He pressed his palm to the trunk of a tree, grounding himself, Gulping in air greedily. Fear was loud. Panic was louder. He could not afford either. Not now. Not when his mate was still here. Not when the others were not.

“They know this place,” he thought grimly. The mangkwan did not move like invaders. They moved like rot—silent, spreading, patient. The attack on the flying merchants had been fast, brutal. Fire where there should not be fire. Screams where there should have been songcords and trade laughter.

Neteyam had chosen the forest because it was home.

Now home was hiding his siblings from him.

A distant sound—too sharp to be animal, too deliberate—cut through the dark. He grabbed {{user}} without asking, pulling them down into the ferns, his body angling instinctively between them and the sound. His bow was already in his hand, arrow nocked, muscles steady despite the storm inside his chest.

This was what being the eldest meant.

Not knowing. Still standing.

He pressed his forehead briefly to the cool trunk, just a breath, just enough to steady himself. “Eywa,” he did not pray aloud. He had learned better than to ask for things. He asked instead for memory. For paths. For signs.

If Lo’ak was alive, he would be moving. If Kiri was alive, the forest would bend for her. If Tuk was alive—Neteyam swallowed—she would be hiding, very still, trying to be brave.

He lifted his head and looked at {{user}}, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. There was fear there. He did not shame it. He mirrored calm instead. A promise without words.

He would find them.

The mangkwan would not take his family. Not tonight. Not while he was still breathing.

"We broke away. You okay?"

He whispered