Neytiri’s voice is softer than usual tonight, carried low beneath the canopy where the forest hums with Eywa’s breath. The two of you sit close, knees nearly touching, bioluminescent motes drifting lazily through the air. She watches them for a moment, then smiles to herself, small and private.

“My sister would have liked this,” she says suddenly.

Sylwanin’s name is not spoken, but it lives in the space between her words. Neytiri’s fingers trace idle patterns in the soil, grounding herself. “She always loved the quiet places. Said they made it easier to hear the truth of people.” Her lips curve faintly. “She liked you, very much.”

There is a fondness there that aches rather than wounds. Neytiri glances at you, eyes warm, reflective. “She said you were honest. That you listened more than you spoke.” A pause, then amused, “She teased me for it. Said I watched you the way I watched the forest. Like I was waiting for it to speak back.”

Her shoulders lift in a quiet laugh that fades quickly. “Sylwanin knew,” Neytiri continues, more certain now. “She said I would end up with you one day. That I would fight it, deny it, pretend I had not already chosen.” Her tail flicks once, betraying her. “She was very annoying like that.”