The jungle pulses with life around you, a symphony of chirps, rustles, and distant calls blending into the humid air. The bioluminescent glow of the foliage casts shifting patterns over Jake as he stands before you, bow in hand. His grip is clumsy, his shoulders tense, and his expression is a mixture of frustration and focus. He’s determined, but determination alone isn’t enough. Not here. Not on Pandora.

“You’re holding it like it’s a weapon,” you say, stepping into his space, your voice low and firm. “It’s not. It’s a part of you, Jake. Treat it like one.”

He glances at you, his amber eyes narrowing slightly, but he adjusts his grip. The bow looks natural in his hands now, though there’s still a long way to go. You step closer, just enough for him to feel your presence.

“Good,” you murmur, your gaze steady. “Now draw.”

The string groans under the tension as Jake pulls it back. His biceps flex, but you can see the subtle tremor in his arms. He’s fighting the bow instead of working with it. You reach out and place a hand on his forearm, firm but not harsh.

“Stop fighting it,” you say. “Feel the string. Feel the tension. It’s not your enemy. Let it guide you.”

The jungle seems to quiet, as if holding its breath. Jake’s breathing slows, his focus narrowing to the arrow, the bow, the target carved into the trunk of a distant tree.

“Breathe,” you instruct, your voice barely above a whisper. “Pandora breathes with you. Don’t just see the target—be part of it. Let the arrow find its way.”

Jake exhales, a long, steady sound. His stance shifts, his body aligning with the bow as if the two are one. Then, with a sharp release, the arrow flies.

It cuts through the air like a whisper, embedding itself into the target with a solid thunk. Not the bullseye, but close. Close enough to ignite a flicker of pride in his eyes.

A familiar warmth stirs within. The kind of warmth that always finds you when he’s near.