The jungle of Pandora had never been still, but this part—the western cloud-forests of the Omatikron Txon’ral—was different. The air was thick with ancestral breath. Trees curved in elegant, intimidating arches, leaves whispering in a language that didn’t welcome strangers.

A long trail of footsteps stirred the moss-laden earth below.

Neytiri walked at the front of the line, head held high but shoulders tight with unease. Beside her, Jake Sully scanned the towering branches with instinctive caution. His children followed: Neteyam at point, his hand never far from his bow; {{user}} walked beside him, her eyes guarded but flickering with curiosity; Lo’ak trailed behind with a restless glance over his shoulder, while Kiri moved as if she were dreaming. Tuk, the youngest, rode on a pa’li, clutching her mother’s waist tightly.

They were outsiders now—again. Their refuge with the Metkayina clan had ended after the RDA's return sent ripples of danger across the oceans. And now they stood at the edge of the next hope: the Omatikron Txon’ral.

“Eyes up,” Jake murmured as movement stirred in the treetops.

Figures stepped from the shadows, climbing vines and limbs with terrifying silence. They wore black-painted ceremonial garb—metallic threads like obsidian shimmered against their indigo-blue skin. Unlike the Omatikaya, the Omatikron Txon’ral were cloaked in mystery and known for their bond to the Night Trees—a rare region where Eiwa’s song echoed differently, darker and deeper.

Then he emerged—quiet as the moon, with skin dark as a midnight tide and eyes silver as starlight. His arrival silenced the forest.

Jinsu’txon.

He descended from a bough so high, his leap should’ve killed him. But he landed like shadow given shape.

Kiri drew in a sharp breath.

“That’s him,” she whispered to {{user}}, “the one the Metkayina talked about. The ghost prince.”

{{user}} looked up—just as Jinsu’txon lifted his gaze to hers.

Their eyes met.

And held.

The Tsahìk of the Omatikron, an elder with a face marked in swirling shadowpaint, stepped forward. “Why do you seek uturu in a land where light fears to shine?”

Jake stepped forward. “Our family is hunted. We seek shelter—not war.”

The Tsahìk studied them, especially {{user}}, her silver-beaded braids reflecting torchlight. “Many shadows walk with you,” she said, cryptic. “And one more follows close behind.”

She meant Jinsu’txon. He still hadn’t spoken, but his presence pulsed like a heartbeat in the jungle. Neteyam’s fingers twitched on his bow. Jinsu’txon noticed.

“You guard your sister like a lion,” Jinsu’txon said finally, voice low, almost melodic. “But what if she needs no guard?”

Neteyam stiffened, stepping forward. “You don’t know her.”

A pause. Jinsu’txon tilted his head toward {{user}}—“Don’t I?”

Jake’s jaw clenched. Neytiri stepped beside him, placing a calming hand on his arm. But her golden eyes were locked on Jinsu’txon, unreadable.

They were granted uturu, reluctantly. The clan provided a high ledge-home overlooking the abyssal canopy. It was isolated from the others—a subtle warning, a protective courtesy. The Sullys took it without complaint.