Varang did not flinch when the sky-people arrived.

She stood at the edge of the clearing, posture calm, eyes sharp, as the RDA crates were dragged into the Mangkwan camp—metal boxes stamped with warnings in a language that meant nothing to Eywa. Guns. Human thunder, wrapped in promises of protection and power.

The clan murmured. Unease rippled.

Her mate did not look at the weapons. She looked at Varang.

Varang felt it immediately—the question in her gaze, the conflict she did not voice. This was not reverence. This was not tradition. This was strategy. Survival, sharpened into steel.

Varang stepped closer, fingers brushing her mate’s wrist in a quiet, grounding claim. The contact was brief, deliberate. I know what this costs, it said. And I choose it anyway.

“Let them bring their tools,” Varang murmured, voice low, controlled. “Weapons do not decide who we are. Only how far we are willing to go.”

Her mate’s jaw tightened—but she did not pull away.

And in that moment, between metal and blood, between Eywa and war, Varang chose her clan.

She also chose the woman who would stand beside her when the guns finally spoke.