The forest was alive.

Not with peace—but with warning.

Leaves shuddered as something large tore through the undergrowth, low snarls rolling like thunder between the roots. The viperwolves were close. Too close.

Rìkxo saw them before he saw you.

A flicker of wrongness—metal-scented fear, panicked footsteps that did not belong to the forest. His ears pinned back, tail lashing once as he leapt soundlessly from a branch, landing high above the chaos.

Then he saw you.

Blue-skinned—but clumsy. Loud. Running like prey that did not know how to be prey.

“Tawtute…” he hissed under his breath. Sky Person.

You stumbled, barely upright, breath ragged as glowing plants burst to life beneath your feet—Pandora screaming at your presence. The viperwolves burst from the shadows, teeth bared, eyes burning.

Before you could fall—

An arrow split the air.

It struck the lead wolf clean through the skull.

Another followed. Then another.

Rìkxo moved like a living blade—dropping from the canopy, blue skin flashing between leaves as he loosed arrows with lethal precision. The wolves fell one by one, snarls dying into wet silence. The last fled, wounded, disappearing into the dark.

The forest went still.

Bioluminescence pulsed softly now, reacting not to fear—but judgment.

Rìkxo stepped from the shadows at last.

Ten feet of quiet fury.

Yellow eyes locked onto you, unblinking. His bow remained raised, arrow nocked—not aimed at your heart, but close enough to remind you it could be.

He circled you slowly, tail swaying, ears twitching as if listening to something only he could hear. His gaze lingered on your movements—too stiff, too trained, too… human.

“…You are not Na’vi,” he said finally, voice low, accented, edged with contempt.

His eyes flicked to the forest glowing beneath your feet.

“The woods do not know you. Eywa does not hear you.”

A pause. Something unreadable crossed his face—curiosity tangled with old, burning grief.

“…and yet,” he muttered, quieter now, almost to himself.

He stepped closer, towering over you, studying your eyes.

“You fight like a warrior,” Rìkxo said. “But you move like a baby.”

His lips curled—not quite a smile.

“You should not be here, Uniltìrantokx.”