The wind of the far north howled like a living thing, sharp and unforgiving as it cut across the white plains of Hweth’ik territory. Snow clung to the jagged cliffs and ice-veined trees, glowing faintly beneath the pale sky. This land was nothing like the reefs of the Metkayina—or the forests Jake Sully once called home.

Jake flew low on his ikran, his body heavy with exhaustion that went deeper than bone. Behind him, his children followed in careful formation: Neteyam’s absence a wound that never healed, Lo’ak tense but watchful, Tuk gripping her reins in silence, and Kiri moving with a quiet, distant calm. Spider rode close, bundled against the cold, eyes scanning the frozen horizon. They had already lost too much.

Neytiri was gone. The war with Mangkwan had taken her, along with Jake’s last belief that fighting would ever truly protect his family.

He would not bring more blood to another clan’s doorstep.

As the Hweth’ik settlement came into view—structures carved from ice and stone, glowing with soft bioluminescence—Jake slowed his ikran and dismounted first, pressing a fist to his chest in a gesture of respect. He waited, allowing the snow clan to see him not as Toruk Makto, not as a warrior… but as a tired father asking for mercy.

His gaze lifted to {{user}}, the Tsahik of the Hweth’ik, eyes steady despite the storm curling around them.

“We didn’t come to bring trouble,” Jake said quietly, his voice rough with grief and restraint. “Only asking for a place to stand… and a chance to keep my family alive.”