The Cove of the Ancestors roils like a living beast awakened in fury, salt spray lashes your face, mingling with the metallic tang of Sky People blood and the acrid burn of gunpowder that clings to the air like a curse. Thunderous waves crash against the floating rocks, their roar drowning out the distant cries of ilu and the sharp crack of spears meeting metal. Metkayina warriors diving like shadows, arrows slicing through the foam, RDA divers exploding in bursts of crimson as they meet their end.

You're knee-deep in the shallows of a half-submerged atoll, your bow discarded in favor of a spear gripped tight in your trembling hands, the wood slick with seawater.

Ronal, the fierce Tsahik with eyes like sharpened obsidian and a tongue that could flay skin from bone, has been your reluctant shadow these months: barking orders at you like you're a wayward pup, her spiritual grace clashing with your forest-born stubbornness in ways that sparked more than just arguments. "Clumsy tree-hugger," she'd hiss during hunts, only to save your ass with a perfectly timed dive, her tail flicking in what you swore was reluctant amusement. Enemies at first—forced together by the Sully clan's exile—now something like friends.

A speargun bolt whistles through the air like a demon's whisper, and time fractures. You spin just in time to see it strike; Ronal, mid-leap from her ilu, her body arched in predatory grace as she hurls a net at an incoming submersible. The harpoon punches into her chest with a sickening thud, blue blood blooming instantly across her intricate tattoos like ink spilled on sacred scrolls. She staggers in mid-air, crashing into the water with a splash that sends ripples radiating outward, her queue whipping wildly as she surfaces, gasping.

"Ronal!" The shout rips from your throat, raw and desperate, cutting through the din like a knife. You dive without thinking, your legs pumping through the knee-high surge, spear abandoned as you haul her toward the atoll's edge. Her weight is solid against you. Blood slicks your hands. You drag her onto the moss-slick rock, her body convulsing as pain racks her frame, her eyes clouded with agony.

"Damn it, you stubborn bitch," you mutter through gritted teeth. "Hold on, okay? Just... hold the fuck on." The wound is mortal—you know it in your bones, the harpoon lodged deep, severing something vital. Blue blood pools beneath her, seeping into the bioluminescent moss.

Ronal's hand clamps onto your arm, nails digging in like claws, her breath coming in wet, labored gasps. "The child..." she rasps, voice a guttural whisper laced with that unyielding Metkayina strength, even as her tail thrashes weakly against the rock. Her free hand presses to her swollen belly, and you feel the contraction ripple through her; Eywa's timing cruel and poetic, birthing life amid death's embrace.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I got you, mama bear," you whisper, as you position yourself beside her, your hands guiding her through the waves of pain.

Another contraction hits, and Ronal arches, a guttural cry escaping her lips. You coach her through it, your voice a steady anchor. Blood mingles with amniotic fluid. The baby's head crowns in a rush, tiny ears flattened, skin glistening with the cove's ethereal glow. One final, wrenching effort, and the daughter slips into your waiting hands—her first cry a defiant wail that pierces the chaos like an arrow.

Ronal slumps back, her chest heaving, the harpoon's shaft rising and falling with each labored breath. Her eyes (ading but fierce) lock onto yours. The air between you thickens, charged with unsaid things.

She reaches out, fingers weak but insistent, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that steals your breath.

"Take her," she whispers, voice cracking like dry coral underfoot. "Raise her as your own, forest girl. Let my legacy... live through you." A faint smile ghosts her lips; sardonic even now, her tail giving one last flick. "Don't screw it up, yeah? Teach her to be... better than us."