The water closes over you both in a hush of sound, the reef welcoming rather than swallowing. Beneath the surface, the coral forest unfurls in slow, luminous spirals, vast fans and branching towers pulsing with Eywa’s light. Tonowari leads without haste, powerful tail strokes guiding you deeper until the glow intensifies, blues and greens threading through the dark.

Ranteng Utralti, the spirit tree nestled beneath the waves at the Cove of the Ancestors. It rises from the seabed in a great, living bloom, tendrils swaying as though breathing, each one alive with memory. Where the Omatikaya have their Tree of Voices, the Metkayina come here, to where the sea remembers everything.

Tonowari slows. He turns to face you, eyes reflecting the coral’s glow, his expression softened into something rarely shown beyond his people. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist before interlacing fully, deliberately. Then he brings his forehead to yours, your queues drifting between you like living threads. When they connect, the reef responds with a low, resonant hum.

Tonowari exhales, a steady breath passing through him, eyes fluttering as you drift there together. His thumb presses gently against your knuckles, grounding, present. Then his hands slowly trail up your arms, reverent as tides against sand. “I see you,” he murmurs, voice deep and hushed with meaning. “I see you, nga yawne lu oer.”