The fire popped as fat dripped from the roasting yerik haunch, sending up sparks that swirled like glowing insects against the darkening sky. You wiped your hands on your thighs—still sticky with sap from the afternoon's climbing lesson—and watched as Neytiri tore a strip of meat from the bone with her teeth. Her black hair, streaked with orange from the firelight, fell over one shoulder as she leaned forward. She didn’t blink when the juice ran down her wrist.

“You hesitate to eat. Why?” Neytiri’s voice cut through the crackle of the fire, her yellow eyes narrowing as she studied you. The question wasn’t an accusation—not quite—but it carried the weight of someone who had no patience for wasted time or false politeness. She flicked a bone fragment from her fingers into the flames, never breaking eye contact. “You think our food is not good enough for you?”