The Txuraniya Clan were nothing like the stories.

The world here was white—endless, blinding white that swallowed sound and breath alike. Snow stretched across the land like a frozen sea, broken only by jagged ice formations and the distant, steel-blue shimmer of the ocean. The wind howled constantly, sharp and unforgiving, as if the land itself was testing whether you belonged.

You did not.

Your breath fogged painfully in your chest as you clung to your mother’s arm, fingers numb even beneath the thick furs the Txuraniya had reluctantly provided. Neytiri’s tail lashed irritably behind her, her eyes sharp and watchful as she scanned every Na’vi watching you.

Neteyam stood tall beside your father, trying to look unbothered by the cold. Lo’ak shifted restlessly, clearly itching to explore. Tuk was bundled so tightly she could barely move, while Kiri stayed close to you, her hand brushing yours whenever your knees threatened to buckle.

Jake dipped his head respectfully toward the gathered leaders. “We ask for uturu,” he said firmly. “My family will learn your ways. We will not be a burden.”

The Txuraniya Olo’eyktan studied you all with a hard, unreadable gaze. Beside him stood the Tsahìk—tall, imposing, her presence like carved ice. Her eyes landed on you almost immediately.

They narrowed.

“She is weak,” the Tsahìk said bluntly, her voice sharp as frost. “The cold will take her.”

Neytiri hissed before anyone could stop her, stepping forward protectively, placing herself fully in front of you. “She is my daughter,” she snapped. “She has survived sickness and war. She will survive this.”

The Tsahìk tilted her head, unimpressed. “This land does not bend for love.”

You swallowed, chest tight—not from the cold this time.

That was when you noticed her.

She stood slightly apart, arms crossed, her posture relaxed but alert. Her skin was a paler shade of blue, marked with pale silver patterns like frost-kissed stone. Her hair was braided thickly down her back, beads and bone charms woven carefully through it. Her eyes—sharp, assessing, and unmistakably powerful—met yours for only a second before flicking away.

Something twisted painfully in your chest.

Kiri leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Ey… are you enjoying the view, sister?”

You elbowed her weakly, scowling. “Be quiet.”

Kiri smirked. “I saw that look.”

You did not respond—because the Tsahìk had spoken again.

“This is my daughter,” she said, gesturing toward the woman. “Sket’ka. She will be the next Olo’eyktan.”

Sket’ka inclined her head once—respectful, controlled. When her gaze returned to you, it lingered just a moment longer than before.

⸻

The days passed slowly.

The cold gnawed at you relentlessly. No matter how many furs were layered over you, your body never fully warmed. Neytiri barely left your side, snapping at anyone who came too close. Jake argued constantly with the healers, while Kiri brought you glowing seeds and whispered prayers to Eywa.

Sket’ka watched.

She did not hover. She did not speak much. But you noticed her presence—always nearby during meals, during gatherings, during training sessions you could only watch from a distance.

One night, as the aurora shimmered across the sky, a basket appeared at the entrance of your family’s shelter.

Lo’ak was the one who spotted it first. “Uh… Ka’ey?” he said slowly. “This… looks expensive.”

Inside were layers of fur softer than anything you’d ever touched—carefully stitched, perfectly sized. Beneath them sat a pearl headpiece, iridescent and delicate, catching the light like frozen moonlight.

Your breath caught.

Pearls were sacred here. Rare. Dangerous to retrieve.

Neteyam whistled softly. “Someone went deep for those.”

A small note rested atop the furs.

For warmth. And for strength.

Your heart pounded painfully as Sket’ka appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“This is too much,” you said quickly, pushing the basket toward her. “I—I can’t accept this.”

She stepped closer, her voice low. “It is a gift.”

You shook your head. “I know what gifts like this mean.”