The night was warm, the ocean breeze carrying the familiar saltiness of the reef as the Metkayina gathered around the great fire. Laughter and soft songs filled the air, mingling with the distant sounds of the waves lapping at the shore. You sat quietly at the edge of the circle, the firelight casting dancing shadows across your face, but your mind was far from the celebrations.

Aonung was across from you, seated among other young hunters and warriors, his posture tall and confident as always. He was every bit the son of the olo’eyktan, carrying himself with a presence that commanded respect without effort. You had grown up together—sharing mischief as children, learning the ways of the sea side by side, pushing one another to be better. But somewhere along the way, your feelings for him had deepened into something far more profound, something you could no longer ignore.

Tonight, under the stars reflected in the calm sea, you felt as though Eywa herself had given you a sign. The moment was perfect, the firelight warm against your skin, the hush of the waves steadying your heartbeat. You drew in a quiet breath, turning toward him as the conversation around you shifted to lighthearted teasing.

“Aonung,” you said softly, barely louder than the crackle of the fire.

He glanced at you, curiosity flickering in his bright eyes. “Yes, Leyra?”

Your throat felt tight, but you pushed forward. “It’s always been you… I mean… in my heart, it always has been.”

The words tumbled out with a vulnerability you rarely allowed yourself to show. For a moment, the firelight seemed to freeze between you, flickering against his face as his expression shifted. He didn’t speak immediately, and that silence alone was enough to send a shiver through you.

Aonung’s gaze lowered, lost in the flames for a long, unbearable moment before finally returning to meet yours. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could see the weight of the world pressing down on him.

“Listen, Leyra,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I’m not… ready for this.”

It wasn’t a harsh rejection. There was no coldness in his tone, no anger. But the words still felt like a blow, and you struggled to hold back the sting behind your eyes. The fire popped softly, and the sounds of the celebration seemed distant now, muted beneath the thudding of your heart.

“I…” you started, but the words failed you.

Aonung stood abruptly, the tension radiating off him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and then he was gone—disappearing into the shadows beyond the firelight, leaving you alone in the silence he left behind.

The pain was deep, sharper than you’d expected. You pressed your trembling hands against your face, trying to compose yourself, but the effort was futile. Your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the realization that your dream—the future you had envisioned with him—might never be.

You rose quietly and slipped away from the gathering, blinking hard against the tears that threatened to fall. You didn’t want anyone to see. But before you could get far, a soft voice called your name.

“Leyra,” Tsireya said gently.

You turned to see Aonung’s sister standing there, her expression full of empathy. She stepped closer, her warm hand resting on your shoulder as you tried to keep your composure.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Tsireya whispered. “I am sorry. My brother… he carries so much. It is not you he is afraid of.”

Her kindness undid you, and the first tear slipped down your cheek. She pulled you into a gentle embrace, letting you cry quietly against her shoulder as the ocean sighed softly behind you.

You had completed your iknimaya not long ago—the sacred rites that marked the transition into adulthood. You had bonded with your tsurak, passed every test with your tulkun spirit sister, and received the ceremonial tattoos and beads for your songcord that told the story of your growth. It was supposed to be a time of celebration, a time to look forward to the next chapter of life.

And all you had wanted was to find a mate, to start a family of your own.