You were gathering luminescent seeds near the edge of Hometree when the drums began.

Not the steady heartbeat of evening prayers—but the sharp, excited rhythm that meant news.

Neytiri was the first to find you, braid swinging, eyes bright as a sky-stone. “Zo’ile,” she breathed, grabbing your wrist, “he did it.”

Your stomach dropped before your mind caught up. “Did what?”

“At’ok killed a thanator,” Sylwanin cut in, appearing at Neytiri’s side, practically vibrating. “Alone. Badly wounded. Came back alive.”

Your sisters grinned at you. Wide. Knowing. Absolutely insufferable.

You pulled your hand free. “You are both enjoying this far too much.”

Neytiri laughed, sharp and delighted. “You are being courted by the son of the Tipani olo’eyktan. We are allowed to fangirl.”

Sylwanin clasped her hands dramatically. “The fiercest clan. The deadliest rite. A wounded hunter facing the Great Death and returning with its blood on his blades.” She sighed. “Eywa really does favor you.”

You did not sigh.

You felt the weight of it instead.

The Tipani clan did not send flowers or songs. They sent proof. A thanator was not merely prey—it was a declaration. I can face death and return. I can protect you. I can provide.

And At’ok had done it while injured.

When you reached the clearing, the entire clan had gathered. Hunters stood in a half-circle, silent and reverent. The air smelled of blood, ozone, and damp earth.

He knelt at the center.

Tall even while seated, skin marked with fresh scars and dried black blood, his chest wrapped in woven leaves and bindings already darkening. The thanator’s fangs lay before him, massive and unmistakable.

Your breath caught despite yourself.

Mo’at stood beside your father, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp with spirit-sight. Eytukan’s posture was rigid, assessing, measuring worth not in bravado but in survival.

The Tipani warriors struck their spears to the ground once—deep, thunderous.

Their olo’eyktan spoke. “My son At’ok returns from death. He brings the proof of his strength. He brings his life still in his body. He brings his heart, offered in honor.”

At’ok the warrior he was lifted his gaze then.

Straight to you.

There was no arrogance in his eyes. No expectation. Only exhaustion, pain—and something steady beneath it. Resolve. Devotion. Choice.

Your sisters leaned in behind you.

“He’s looking at you,” Sylwanin whispered far too loudly.

Neytiri added, delighted, “Like you are the only thing keeping him standing.”

You shot them a warning look, but your pulse betrayed you.

He bowed his head, fist to chest. “Zo’ile of the Omatikaya,” he said, voice rough but unwavering. “I live. I return. I offer this not to claim you—but to prove I am worthy to stand beside you, should you ever choose me.”

The clearing was silent.

Mo’at’s gaze softened—just a fraction—as she turned to you.

The choice, as Eywa demanded, was always yours.

And for the first time, you truly understood why the Tipani were feared.

Because even their love was forged in survival.