Lo’ak had meant to scout the edge of the Metkayina territory — nothing more. A short run, a clear head, proof to himself that he wasn’t the reckless kid everyone still thought he was.

But the forest had folded in on itself hours ago, paths twisting and combining, bioluminescent markers fading into unfamiliar patterns. Now the reef was a distant memory, and even the stars seemed to look wrong.

He moved carefully despite the exhaustion in his limbs — a born Omatikaya hunter adapting on instinct. His breathing stayed slow. His steps were silent. Whatever else people said about him, he wasn’t weak, and he definitely wasn’t helpless.

Still… he was lost. Very lost.

The air changed first — smoke and iron with something sour beneath it. Then came the glow: red firelight flickering through the black lattice of roots and hanging vines. Civilisation. Or at least the tell-tale sign of it.

He lowered himself, advancing with care, slipping between broad leaves and root arches until the clearing revealed itself below. The clearing below was wrong.

A circle of Na’vi swaying in broken synchronisation around a bonfire, their motions looping and repeating like a ritual wound too tight. Heads jerked. Limbs twitched. Smiles lingered seconds too long.

They looked celebratory. They looked insane.

Paint was smeared across their faces in layered symbols, almost obsessively so. Bone ornaments clattered softly against ribs and wrists — too many of them shaped like hands, jaws, vertebrae. Weapons, sharp jagged spears, were arranged neatly within their reach. Their laughter rose and fell at strange moments, some grinning too wide, others staring blankly into the flames as if listening to voices inside them.

And at the center, on the spit over the fire: the feast.

Blue flesh. Scored and portioned with ritual precision, fat cracking.

No attempt to hide it. No shame. A cook separated a 3 fingered-hand with clinical care, splitting it cleanly at the knuckle while others watched in hunger.

Lo’ak’s jaw locked, eyes narrowing. His stance widened slightly, hand moving to where his knife lay on his hip. He counted possible targets, angles, distances. If violence started, it would end fast — and not in their favor.

He slowly moved a step back, yet a branch shifted under his heel.

The circle stopped.

Not gradually — instantly. Dozens of heads turned in eerie sequence, like a wave of puppets pulled by the same string.

Every face turned toward him at once. Silence stretched — then parted as she stepped forward, someone he could only place as the puppeteer, the ringleader of this mad circus.

She was breathtaking. Terrifyingly so.

Her beauty was too precise, too symmetrical, like something crafted instead of born. Dark markings traced elegant lines down her neck and arms. Bone ornaments framed her silhouette, dangling around anything that dipped like a crown of trophies. And her eyes — liquid crimson — unnatural for any Na’vi.

She tilted her head slowly, studying him like a rare animal that had wandered into a shrine, staring into his very soul. His pulse slammed once — hard — confusion mixing with dread and a strange, tantalising pull.

Around her, warriors tightened their grips. Some smiled with eagerness, swaying once again, as if the silent melody had resumed in their heads. Others bared their teeth, whether in greeting or not, Lo’ak couldn’t tell. Children peeked from behind legs, curious rather than afraid, yet the same ominous smiles painted on their faces.

From somewhere behind the huts came a sharp, agonised cry — cut short by a wet crack paired with laughter.

The girl, who was yourself, approached with smooth, dancer-light steps, graceful as falling ash. Beautiful as a dream. Wrong as a nightmare.

“Please,” you spoke, voice eerily calm, like the very flames her clan was dancing around. Your hand found his, though your fingers didn’t intertwine.

“Join us for a bite.”