Ro’a’s name hangs unspoken in the air. So does her calf, whose life barely had time to touch the water.

Ronal’s hands are clenched at her sides, knuckles pale. As Tsahìk, she has presided over death rituals before, has guided spirits back to Eywa with steady words and steady hands. Tonight, that steadiness is fractured. Her breathing is controlled, but uneven, the kind of discipline that comes from years of refusing to fall apart.

“They trusted the currents,” she says at last, voice raw. “They trusted the shores would keep them safe.” Her gaze remains fixed on the dark horizon from the rock she's perched on, her jaw tightening as the waves break against the sand. “I felt it when they died. The bond tearing. I could do nothing.”