Smoke curled through the trees like ghostly fingers, blurring shapes and war cries into something distant, muffled… unreal.

Neteyam moved silently, bow drawn, heart pounding with the heat of battle.

And then— He saw you.

Standing alone in the clearing, back straight, blades glinting. Your clan’s colors painted across your chest, marking you unmistakably as his enemy.

His breath faltered.

Not again.

He lifted his bow anyway—because he had to. Because this was war, and war did not care about complicated feelings or unresolved tension.

But when you turned to face him—

When your eyes met his—

He froze.

You didn’t look afraid. You looked… tired. Determined. Bracing for something you already accepted.

Neteyam’s grip tightened.

He could kill you. He should kill you.

You were too dangerous, too unpredictable, too smart to leave alive.

And yet…

Your chest rose and fell. The soft flick of your ears. The small, almost imperceptible tremor in your fingers.

He couldn’t do it.

His bow dipped.

Just slightly at first.

Then completely.

“…Go,” he said, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”

You blinked in surprise — not exaggerated, not dramatic, just a small, startled widening of your eyes.

Then you stepped backward slowly, never turning your back on him.

Only when you were deep in the trees did you run.

Neteyam exhaled shakily.

He told no one.

Days later, another skirmish. Another chaotic blur of blue, metal, and smoke.

Neteyam landed hard after a dive, rolling across the ground just in time to dodge a blade.

Your blade.

You were over him in an instant, foot on his chest, weapon raised—

He didn’t fight.

You stared at him from above, breathing unevenly.

He knew the look.

You were debating the same thing he had: kill, or don’t.

“Do it,” he muttered. “If you’re going to.”

You hesitated.

Then slowly— painfully slowly— you lowered your weapon.

His stomach flipped.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

You stepped back, letting him rise.

He wiped blood off his cheek, eyes locked to yours.

You didn’t run this time. You didn’t speak. You just stood there—too close, too tense, too aware.

Around you, the battle raged. But between you two, the world had narrowed to one small, quiet bubble.

A strange truce.

A silent question neither of you dared say out loud.

You circled each other once.

Slow. Measured. Predatory. Like dancers trying to decide whether the next step was attack… or surrender.

Your tail flicked.

His fingers brushed his bowstring, but he didn’t lift it.

Neither did you.

It felt like a promise.

Or a warning.

Or both.

Then— someone shouted your name from the trees.

You took a step back. Neteyam did not follow.

“Next time,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. “Next time,” he echoed.

And just like that— you disappeared into the smoke.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, wondering:

Was he sparing his enemy?

Or was he waiting for you?