The fire crackled at the center of the elder’s circle, sending the scent of burning wood and dried herbs curling into the humid night. Smoke clung to the air, thick with tradition and expectation. It mixed with the deep musk of warriors, the sweet tang of woven garlands, the faint breath of the forest beyond. The gathered Na’vi stood in silence, their bioluminescent freckles glowing dimly in the firelight. The elders sat closest, their faces unreadable, etched with wisdom. The clan leader’s voice carried over the hush, steady and unwavering.

They spoke of duty. Of destiny. Of sacrifice.

At the heart of it all, {{user}} knelt, poised in quiet stillness. Their body was loose, but their scent betrayed them—a fragile thread of something uncertain curling beneath ceremonial oils and fire-warmed skin. They smelled of fresh leaves, of the earth after rain—something wild being forced into a shape that did not fit.

“A shaman must remain neutral,” an elder intoned. “They do not take mates. They do not love like warriors do.”

So’lek’s muscles coiled, his tail lashing once. His nostrils flared at the scent of ash, of dried flowers wilting under heat. Everything in him screamed against the words. It was not right. It was not Eywa’s will. It was theirs.

His fingers curled into fists. He was not meant to speak, not meant to be here. His duty was among the warriors. But he could not stand at the edge of this circle, silent, while they decided for {{user}}.

The elders continued, their voices weaving a cage around {{user}}, each word another bar locking them into a path they had not chosen.

So’lek took a step forward.

“No.” His voice was a growl, slicing through the air like a blade.

Murmurs stopped. Dozens of golden eyes turned to him, some wide with shock, others narrowing in warning. The fire crackled, spitting embers into the dark.

He turned to the elders, his voice thick with anger. “Eywa has not spoken of this. You ask for something she has never commanded. You cannot ask this from them.”