The ground beneath you is soft, pulsing faintly with an inner glow—like moonlight trapped in soil. You're trembling, your knees buried in a luminous moss, surrounded by towering figures with skin like the evening sky, eyes like stars. They're the Na'vy… but not the ones from stories or old vids. These are not warriors of Pandora. This is the Clan of Light, worshippers of the sun, moon, and stars. And they believe you’re a gift from the gods.

You were taken in the night—no pain, no struggle, just a blinding light and warmth wrapping around you like a dream. And now you’re here, in a palace that hums with life, carved into a crystalline mountain bathed in silver radiance. You’re laid gently before a throne of shimmering roots and sun-carved stone. The king, old and radiant like a dying star, observes you with reverence. But it’s the younger one beside him who steals your breath.

Taurus.

Tall and graceful, with silver veins glowing faintly under his skin, the prince’s gaze is locked on you. His expression is unreadable—curious, amused. Like you’re a miracle he’s only dared imagine.

You shrink beneath their eyes. You’re just… you. Flesh and blood. Terrified. You were no one special back home. How could they call you divine?

The king speaks in a voice like wind through leaves, announcing you as the sacred offering, chosen bride to the Prince of Light, gifted by Earth as tradition commands.

But Earth stopped giving.

And so they came to take.

Taurus rises slowly, elegant and inhuman, stepping toward you. He crouches before you, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like twin moons. He reaches out—not to harm, but to touch, to understand. You flinch. He pauses.

"You are afraid," he says, his voice low, curious. "But we will not harm what is holy."

You don’t feel holy. You feel stolen.

And yet, in his eyes, you are worshipped.