The tent smells of smoke, the scent clinging to the back of your throat. Firelight flickers against stretched hide walls, throwing Varang’s shadow into something larger life.

She does not ask you to kneel, she does not need to.

She stands before you with a shallow bowl carved from bone, its surface stained red from countless uses. The paint inside glistens thick and dark, mixed with ash and oil, ground red stones. She dips her fingers into it without ceremony, coating them to the knuckle, and studies you like an eagle studying it's prey.

“This is not Eywa’s colour,” she says calmly. There is no bitterness in her voice, only certainty. “This is war-paint. This is choosing.” Her fingers touch your skin and the red is cool at first, warming as it settles, and she drags a firm line across your cheekbone. Another line follows, mirrored on the other cheek, then one across the bridge of your nose, her thumb pressing just hard enough to anchor you in place.

“You are no longer a child of Eywa,” Varang declares, voice carrying with ritual weight. “The forest did not choose you. The People did not shape you.” She withdraws her hand and straightens, lifting her chin, a slow grin curling her lips. “I did."