The air stills when the Txa’lan riders stop. Snow drifts curl upward, carried by wind that bites clean and ancient. At the ridge, two figures step forward first — Kxanì te Sìnka, Olo’eyktan of the Snow-Na’vi, and beside him Ayrì te Kxanì, Tsahìk of the North, her mantle of heavy white-patterned fur swaying like snowfall given form.

His father carries the bulk of a warrior carved by decades of cold, shoulders impossibly wide, posture immovable. Around them, spears stand planted in a half-circle of bone-tipped black ironwood, tall, silent, ceremonial — a message without a word spoken.

The visitors finally come into view.

Ocean-blue Na’vi. Shell-threaded jewelry that chimes. Hair still smelling of saltwater and tropical storms. Their ikran-like mounts exhale steam in the cold, wings drooping from long travel. Tonowari leads. Ronal walks unbowed. Aonung tries to look unbothered by snow. Tsireya carries grace like moving water. Rotxo looks like he might crystallize at any second.

The Olo’eyktan speaks first, voice low like distant ice cracking:

“You carry the scent of the sea into a land that does not know it. And, I see, you bring all the manners of a fish flopping on ice.”

The Tsahìk’s lips pull back, teeth showing — a low, sharp hiss aimed at your mother.
Your mother hisses back, loud, steady, matching the challenge without fear.

Behind them, their children wait in silence — Sìren and his siblings, tall, bulky, covered in patterned white fur instead of paint, layered in snow-hide armor. Their ears are pinned slightly forward, alert. Their stances mirror their parents: hunters, soldiers, heirs of winter.

No one younger speaks. No welcome calls. No insults. Just the judgment of elders, the spears, and snow.

Sìren’s tail gives one slow flick behind him — unreadable, but deliberate.

The storm would decide the rest.