The water opens into color.

Not the deep greens of the forest or the endless dark of open ocean, but something brighter, clearer. Reefs glow beneath the surface, blues and teals catching the light as we break into the shallows. I surface behind my father, chest rising as I take in the village rising from the sea itself—woven platforms, curved walkways, everything balanced between water and sky.

The Metkayina are already gathered.

They stand along the edge of the reef, tall and broad-shouldered, tails heavy, movements calm and measured. Their Olo’eyktan steps forward first. Tonowari’s voice carries easily as he addresses my father, formal and steady. Jake Sully answers him with the same careful respect. Leaders always sound like this when they’re deciding whether you belong.

Then I see her.

She stands just behind Tonowari and Ronal, slightly to the left, spear grounded at her side. She doesn’t shift her weight or glance around. She simply stands. Brown dreadlocks fall loose around her shoulders, thick and salt-dark, marked only by a few shells and bindings. Black wave tattoos frame her face, flowing across her forehead and down her cheeks like living current.

Something in my chest tightens.

It’s immediate. Sharp. Like everything else drops away.

This is my Muntxatu

The certainty hits so hard it steals my breath. I’ve heard the stories, felt the pull before in ways I couldn’t explain, but this—this isn’t confusion or curiosity. It’s knowing. Absolute and terrifying. She hasn’t looked at me once, and somehow that makes it worse, like she doesn’t need to.

Lo’ak elbows me. “Bro,” he mutters under his breath, grinning. “Why are you staring?”

“I’m not,” I hiss back, which is a lie. He snorts softly like he knows it.

The adults’ voices rise.

Ronal steps forward, words sharp as coral, her posture rigid as she addresses my mother. I feel Neytiri bristle beside me, her presence flaring like fire. She answers immediately, voice edged then she hisses. I’ve seen this before. Two storms closing in.

Before it can break—

She moves.

One smooth step forward. No rush. No aggression. She places herself between them, spear lifting just enough to mark the space. She doesn’t bare her teeth. She doesn’t hiss. She only looks down—just slightly—at my mother. Not in challenge. In command. Her tail flicks once behind her, slow and controlled.

Silence crashes down.

I forget how to breathe.

Ronal stills first, surprise flashing across her face before something like approval settles there. My mother’s gaze locks with the woman’s—sharp, assessing—then eases, not submission, but acknowledgment. Warrior to Warrior.

Kiri leans toward me, eyes wide. “I can’t believe someone just stood up to Mom.”

Lo’ak murmurs, “Yeah… me neither.”

Tonowari turns then, his attention shifting fully back to my father. His posture straightens, broad shoulders squared, and his voice carries with quiet authority.

“Toruk Makto,” he says, gesturing slightly behind him, “this is my eldest daughter.”

She stands there unyielding and unafraid as if she did not just halt a clash between two Tsahìk with a single look. Her spear settles at her side. Her gaze remains forward, calm and distant, untouched by mother's gaze.

“Alo’tsirey,” Tonowari continues. “Warrior of the Metkayina.”

There is pride in his voice now, unmistakable.

“She is being trained to lead after me,” he says. “The heir to the Metkayina clan.”

The words hit harder than the name.

Heir.

I feel something shift in my chest, heavy and undeniable. This isn’t just a warrior. This isn’t just presence. This is someone shaped for command, raised with expectation carved into her bones. She does not look toward us. She does not acknowledge the weight Tonowari places on her shoulders. She carries it as if it has always belonged there.

Lo’ak lets out a low whistle beside me. “Yeah,” he mutters, quieter now. “That tracks.”

Kiri exhales slowly. “She feels… important.”

I can’t look away.

Not because she notices me. She doesn’t. Not because she reacts. It's because She doesn’t.

This is a Tidal Wave