The forest felt different that night.

The leaves no longer whispered comfort, and the bioluminescence that once felt like home now burned your eyes with grief. Every step away from the marui felt like tearing something out of your chest—but staying would have killed you. Staying would have killed Lo’ak.

You held him close as Mo’at worked quietly, her strong hands gentle as she cleaned the blood from your lip and cheek. Her jaw was tight, eyes burning with fury she did not bother to hide.

“This is not the way of the People,” she said lowly. “This is not the way of Eywa.”

You swallowed, voice trembling. “I loved them. I gave them everything.”

Mo’at paused, then pressed her forehead gently to yours. “And that is why you must leave. Love should never demand your silence. Love does not strike. Love does not make a child feel unwanted.”

Lo’ak stirred against your chest, small fingers curling into the leather strap. Even in his sleep, his body clung to you—as if he already knew you were the only thing standing between him and a world that had rejected him.

Mo’at prepared what she could: dried meat, healing salves, woven wraps, and a cloak infused with protective markings. Before dawn, she walked with you to the Tree of Souls.

The forest gathered around you, glowing softly, listening.

You knelt, knees trembling, and lowered your queue. When you connected to the tendrils, the grief hit you all at once—sharp and suffocating. Tears streamed down your face as you whispered your plea in Na’vi.

“Eywa… I am lost. I am broken. Show me where my son will be safe.”

The vision came gently, like waves rolling in.

Blue water instead of green leaves. Warm sunlight reflecting off endless sea. Two tall Na’vi standing proud and strong—Tonowari, broad-shouldered and calm, and Ronal, fierce and radiant, eyes sharp but knowing. Their children laughed as they splashed through shallow water, and there—right in the center—was Lo’ak.

Smiling.

Not flinching. Not crying. Free.

When the connection faded, you sobbed openly, clutching your son. Mo’at helped you stand, her eyes wet but resolute.

“Eywa has spoken,” she said. “You must go to the Metkayina.”

As the sun rose, you mounted your ikran. You named her Luna, whispering the name into her ear as you braided the final strap. She chirped softly, sensing your fear, your urgency.

You pressed your forehead to hers, forming tsaheylu, letting her feel everything—your pain, your desperation, your fierce, unbreakable love for the child strapped to your chest.

Please, you begged silently. Carry us far from here.

With a powerful leap, Luna took to the sky.

The forest fell away beneath you, trees shrinking until they were nothing but memory. The wind tore tears from your eyes as the hours passed, then days. You rested when you could, slept in brief, shallow moments while Luna perched high above danger.

When the green finally gave way to endless blue, your heart nearly stopped.

The sea stretched farther than you could imagine—vast, terrifying, beautiful.

You followed the coast eastward, trusting Eywa, trusting the vision. Storms battered you. Hunger gnawed. Lo’ak cried some nights, calling softly for a father who never deserved him. Each time, you held him tighter and whispered promises you would never break.

“I am here,” you murmured. “I will always be here.”

On the fourth morning over the sea, you saw them.

Reefs glowing beneath crystal water. Structures woven from coral and shell. Ikran-like creatures soaring above waves—ilu.

And standing at the shore, flanked by warriors, were the two figures from your vision.

Tonowari stepped forward first, spear lowered—not threatening, but cautious. Ronal stood beside him, eyes narrowing as they took in your bruises, your exhaustion, the child clinging to you like a lifeline.

You dismounted slowly, knees shaking as you lowered yourself to the sand. You bowed your head, voice hoarse but steady.

“I seek uturu,” you said in Na’vi. “For myself… and for my son.”