Jake Sully had lived long enough on Pandora to believe he had seen all her faces. But damn, was he was wrong.

The skies beneath his ikran opened into a vast expanse of white — endless snowfields and jagged snow-capped peaks glinting like crystal’s beneath the pale Pandora sun.

He had left the Metkayina alongside after the RDA allied themselves with the Mangkwan, a clan feared for their mastery of fire and ash. But here, fire held no dominion.

Jake had known then that nowhere was safe anymore — not the forest, not the reef. So he flew onward, chasing the fleeting whispers of a place the Sky People had never claimed as their own.

Behind him, Lo’ak muttered bitter complaints about the cold, his voice nearly stolen by the harsh wind. Neteyam flew steady and silent, Tuk bundled against his chest, clinging to him like a prolemuris. Jake swooped lower, icy air biting into his skin, when something caught his eye.

A faint glow of red against the white. Life.

“Stay close,” Jake called out to the rest of his family, angling his ikran downward as the snowfields gave way to towering, ice-carved cliffs. Nestled within their sheltering caves lay a hidden settlement — thick woven tents reinforced with bone and fur, fires burning low and controlled. The snow Na’vi.

The Herwìvina.

Heads snapped upward as the ikran’s descended, warriors already bracing for threat. From the largest tent stepped two figures — your mother and father, the Tsahìk and Olo’eyktan of the clan. You stood just behind them, wrapped in a thick shawl that blended seamlessly with the frost, eyes sharp and curious as you watched the strangers land.

Jake dismounted first, raising his hands in peace. No one came to the snow lands, and definitely not the Omatikaya of all people. The silence stretched on, thin and dangerous.

Then your father’s voice cut through it.

“Toruk Makto.”

The name carried weight even here. He bowed his head, and one by one, the Herwìvina followed. Jake exhaled slowly; Eywa’s will had reached farther than he’d thought.

“What brings you to the lands of the Herwìvina?” your mother asked, her gaze, befittingly, as cold as ice.

Jake glanced back at his family — Lo’ak tense and defensive, Kiri shivering despite herself, Tuk clinging tighter to Neteyam — and felt the familiar pull of responsibility settle heavy in his chest.

“Olo’eyktan. Tsahìk,” he said evenly. “I come seeking shelter. For my family and myself.”

Then his eyes found yours. The tsakarem of the snow. There was nothing hostile in your gaze — only something assessing, something warm beneath the ice. Jake felt an unexpected twist in his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t known since his first days on Pandora.

He straightened slightly, forcing himself to look away before returning his attention to your parents once again. “We will respect your laws, your land, and your people,” he added. “All I ask is a chance to prove we mean no harm.”

The wind rose, sending snow swirling between you, a silent yet powerful message from Eywa herself. Jake felt the judgment in the warriors’ stares, the weight of his children huddled behind him.

Then you moved.

Your boots crunched softly against the snow as you stepped forward, close enough that Jake could see the snowflakes adorning the edge of your lashes. The warriors tensed, weapons raised, but neither of your parents stopped you.

Jake’s breath hitched. He met your gaze again, yet this time, he didn’t dare to look away.