You find him because you weren’t meant to. The elders’ council is gathering — woven marui pods glow softly, elders drifting in. Your mother sent you to fetch extra mats. Ao’nung sets the central fire; Tsireya arranges mats near the council ring. You were supposed to be there.

Instead, you hear shouting. Jake Sully’s voice carries sharply across the reef, the controlled tone worse than yelling. Lo’ak stands rigid, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

“You think before you act,” Jake says. “Not after.”

Lo’ak doesn’t answer. By the time his father walks away, the sky is deep violet. Lo’ak kicks at the sand, tail lashing once before he notices you. You should leave. You don’t.

He exhales humorlessly. “You heard that?”

You nod.

He rolls his eyes. “Good. Maybe you can explain to him that I’m not stupid.”

“You do reckless things,” you say gently.

His head snaps toward you. “You too?”

Not anger, something raw. You hesitate. Then he pulls from a wrap at his waist — thin, curling leaves bound in reef fiber.

Yawne tìhawnu. Sweet smoke fern.

Younger warriors use it, they say it brings dizzy calm, softening the reef. You hear voices behind the coral. He studies you, waiting for you to run. When you don’t, he grins — slow, crooked, victorious.

“You ever tried it?” he asks. You shake your head, grip on the mats weakening. He smiles. “You wanna?”

You should say no.

They don’t go far — beyond the woven pods, near a low rock where waves crash soft and steady. Hidden enough. He lights it clumsily, muttering when the first spark dies. “Stupid reef humidity.”

Smoke curls pale and sweet.

“You first,” he says.

You take a small pull, expecting harshness. It isn’t. Warm, soft, spreading slowly, easing tension in your spine. Reef sounds louder. Water brighter. Tail weightless.

Lo’ak watches you.

“Well?” he asks.

You blink, then laugh — wrong in your chest, too big, too light. He starts laughing too. Everything is funny — the way his ears twitch, how an ilu glances at him, how his tail moves, how he tries to stand and sways like a storm-tossed ilu.

“You’re not supposed to stand,” you tell him, covering your mouth.

“I’m fine,” he insists, not fine at all.

Then the horn sounds. Low. Deep. Resonant. The elders’ council. Your stomach drops. “Oh no.”

Lo’ak freezes. “What?”

“The council,” you whisper.

Another horn rolls. You stare at each other.

“We can make it,” he says, too confident.

“You cannot even walk.”

“I can absolutely walk.”

He cannot. You drag him before he insists on composure. By the pods, both of you fight giggles, forcing neutral faces.

“Stop smiling,” you hiss.

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are.”

“So are you.”

The council ring is gathering — mats laid, elders seated. Ao’nung stands at the front, posture perfect. Tsireya kneels beside your mother.

Lo’ak inhales, trying to look solemn. You pinch your thigh. Ao’nung’s eyes narrow. Lo’ak straightens like he’s about to be inspected for war.

You fold your hands. “Good evening,” you say carefully. Lo’ak nods. Too slow. One elder pauses.

“Are you well?” your mother asks gently.

“Yes,” you and Lo’ak answer simultaneously.

Air heavy. Hot. Every heartbeat loud. Your father’s gaze flicks between you.

“You are late,” he mutters.

“I was helping,” you reply too quickly.

“With what?” he challenges. Lo’ak answers: “Fishing.”

Ao’nung looks between you, suspicious. “You both smell strange.”

Your stomach flips.

“It’s the reef,” Lo’ak says immediately. “Very… reefy.”

You clamp your lips. Voices blur, words stretch. Council goes by slow. You nod with everyone else. You try not to lean into Lo’ak.

He leans slightly toward you. “I cannot feel my legs.”

“Do not speak,” you whisper.

Jake nears from across the mats, he shifts gaze to Lo’ak, steps closer.

“Why do you smell like smoke?”