The reef burns. Not with fire — but with war. Smoke stains the horizon where Sky-People machines crawl across the water. Explosions thunder in the distance, sending shockwaves through the sea. Ilu scatter. The songs of the ocean have gone silent, replaced by alarms, shouts, and the clash of metal against living stone. Jake Sully stands at the frontline, bow slick with salt and blood, his avatar body aching with exhaustion. Neytiri moves like a storm beside him — relentless, precise, wrath made flesh. Behind them, on the highest platform above the reef, Chief Tonowari stands immovable, watching his people fight for their home. Ronal is beside him — her face painted for war, her breath shallow as she listens not to the battle… but to Eywa. Then it happens. The water stills. Not gradually. Instantly. The explosions continue. The shouting continues. But the currents — the living pulse of the sea — pause. Ronal’s head snaps up. “…Eywa,” she breathes. A Metkayina runner stumbles onto the platform, soaked and trembling, holding a sealed binding of dark fiber and bone — old, older than any reef tradition. Tonowari stiffens the moment he sees the mark burned into it. An ancient sigil. A clan spoken of only in whispers. A clan that does not answer chiefs — only Eywa. “They are real…” someone murmurs. Ronal’s hands shake as she opens the binding. There is no message of alliance. No request for shelter. No plea for aid. Only four words, etched in ritual marks: Eywa has spoken. We are coming. The sea answers. A deep vibration rolls through the reef — not sound, but presence. The sky darkens as clouds gather unnaturally fast, the wind shifting direction against all reason. Jake feels it in his bones. “…That’s not weather,” he mutters. Then the warriors see them. Shadows move beneath the waves — fast, silent, coordinated. Figures rise from the water along the outer reef, bodies marked in patterns no Metkayina recognize — pale, luminous lines etched into blue skin like living prayers. No battle cries. No hesitation. Only precision. They move like Eywa’s breath made flesh — deadly, exact, unstoppable. Sky-People weapons fail mid-fire. Targeting systems glitch. Panic spreads. Neytiri stares, awed despite herself. “These warriors…” she whispers. “They do not fight like clans.” At the center of them, you emerge. Your presence bends the moment around you. You wear the markings of a tsahìk, but unlike any Ronal has ever seen — not painted, but woven into your skin and spirit, glowing faintly as if Eywa herself left fingerprints upon you. Your eyes do not scan the battlefield. They already know it. You step onto the reef, unarmed — yet no one doubts your danger. Ronal steps forward instinctively, heart pounding. “You speak to Eywa directly,” she says, voice unsteady. “A clan hidden even from memory.” Tonowari lowers his weapon. Jake exhales slowly. “…So this is what Eywa sends,” he says. “When she’s done waiting.” You lift your gaze — not to them, but to the burning horizon. The war has changed. Because Eywa’s warriors have arrived.