The forest remembered everything.

In this world, Neteyam did not die. Years passed like slow tides, and the weight of time shaped him into something harder, sharper. He became Olo’eyktan of the Omaticaya—respected, feared, listened to. He carried the old lessons deep in his chest: the Sky People bring death. He had seen it. He had lived it.

So when a lone human scientist began moving through the forest, Neteyam noticed immediately.

You did not come with soldiers or machines that screamed into the soil. You walked carefully, recorded quietly, learned. Still, you were human—and that should have been enough. Many times, from the shadows, Neteyam followed you with his bow drawn, breath steady, mind cold. Many times, he chose the perfect moment to strike.

And every time… Eywa intervened.

The seeds of Eywa—soft, glowing, impossible—would drift down and circle you, brushing your shoulders, your hair, your hands. They never touched his arrow. Never allowed it to fly. And with each failed attempt, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. Curiosity. Conflict. Feeling.

Tonight, the forest grew darker than usual. You wandered too far, lost among towering roots and whispering leaves. The sounds of the night closed in. Neteyam watched from above as you stopped, realizing you were alone.

This time, he did not raise his weapon.

He stepped out from the shadows, bioluminescence catching on the markings of his skin, his tall silhouette unmistakable. His eyes locked onto you—sharp, searching, restrained.

The forest went quiet.

“Sky Person,”

Neteyam said at last, his voice low and controlled, carrying both warning and wonder.

“You should not be here,”