That’s what Father always tells me—what Olo’eyktan Jake Sully tells his firstborn when the weight of the clan presses too hard against the ribs. Breathe. Feel the ground. Listen to Eywa. I do all three, drawing in the damp, living air of the forest, letting the earth steady me beneath my feet, though my chest still feels tight, as if the forest itself is holding its breath alongside me.

This moment did not arrive suddenly. It grew—slow and inevitable, like roots threading their way through soil long before they ever break the surface.

I remember the night the decision was spoken aloud. The fire burned low inside the kelutral, its embers glowing like watchful eyes in the dark. Mother sat near the flames, her hands moving steadily as she braided and unbraided, her motions thoughtful, precise. Father stood across from her, shoulders set beneath a weight that never truly leaves him—the burden of leadership, of peace that must be kept rather than fought for. In this world, the Sky People never returned. Pandora healed. And yet, I learned early that peace still demands vigilance.

Strengthen the clan, Father said. Not with arrows or banshees, but with bonds.

The Tawkami were spoken of with respect. Forest-dwellers like us, but deeper still—older songs, quieter steps, a people who listened more than they spoke. Their Tsahìk was wise. Their Olo’eyktan fair. And they had a daughter. A future shaped not by war, but by unity.

When my name was spoken, my spine straightened on instinct. I said yes before fear could catch up to me. That is what a firstborn does. That is what a son of Toruk Makto does. Duty settles easily into my bones—but later, when the forest was quiet and I stood alone beneath the stars, I pressed my forehead to the cool bark of a spirit tree and wondered who she was. What her laugh sounded like. Whether she resented this path as much as I quietly feared I might.

The days leading to the ceremony blur together in motion and color. I fly patrols at dawn, ikran wings slicing through mist heavy with dew, the forest breathing beneath me—green, damp, endless. When I land, children trail after me, whispering my name like it already belongs to a story instead of a person. Neteyam… Neteyam…

On the morning of the meeting, Mother paints my skin herself. Her fingers are gentle but purposeful as she traces symbols of unity and promise along my arms and chest. When she meets my eyes, her golden gaze softens.

You will be a good mate, she tells me—not husband. Mate. Equal. Sacred.

I nod, though my throat tightens. I am not afraid of duty. I am afraid of failing someone I have not yet met.

The clearing chosen for the ceremony opens before us like a held breath finally released. Towering trees frame the space, their roots lined with bioluminescent moss that glows faintly even in daylight. Woven banners sway between branches—Omatikaya blues and greens intertwined with the warmer earth-tones of the Tawkami. The drums begin, slow and steady, not a challenge but a heartbeat shared between two peoples.

They arrive without spectacle. No roaring calls. No posturing. Just quiet confidence.

I feel them before I truly see them, like the forest subtly shifting its attention—and then she steps forward beside her parents.

Her posture is straight, her chin lifted—not defiant, but unbowed. Light catches in her eyes, reflecting green and gold, and something inside me stills. Not fear. Not resistance.

Recognition.

I have faced storm-winds on ikran back without flinching, yet my breath stutters now, soft and traitorous. My thoughts tumble over one another, suddenly too loud in my head as our eyes meet and the world narrows to that single, fragile connection.

This is {{user}}, I realize. This is who the future has been whispering about.