The Mangkwan clan was not simply outcast. They were unspoken — a choice rather than a curse.

A clan whispered about in half-finished warnings: fire-walkers, ritual-burners, those who carved loyalty into flesh instead of prayer. They did not ask Eywa for forgiveness — Eywa held no dominion; forgiveness was nonexistent.

Lo’ak was an outcast with the Metkayina. But once, he had not been alone there.

There had been someone else — sharp, unwanted, yet undeniably sweet and beautiful. {{user}}.

You had been Omatikaya once. Had prayed beneath Hometree, pressed your forehead to the bark, whispered promises to Eywa with blood on your hands and dirt under your nails. When he bled, you stitched up his wounds in silence, yet he always managed to catch that glimpse of warmth in your gaze.

But then he left. No warning, no goodbye. Left the forest for the reef. And you were left behind. You didn’t forgive him. But you never left him.

At dusk, when the reef glowed low and the sun bled into the sea, his head would ring — a phantom sound like your laughter stretched thin, warped, almost wrong. Sometimes he swore he could hear his name spoken softly, right behind his ear. When he turned, there was nothing.

Only the feeling of being watched.

He would clutch his own arms at night, half-awake, half-dreaming — convinced that if he didn’t hold himself together, you might crawl back into him. That your shape would settle against his spine, breath brushing his neck.

Do I still make you uneasy, Lo’ak?

He told himself that it was guilt. That you were long gone. He dreamed of seeing you again. But not like this.

The Metkayina’s battle with the RDA had barely ended when the sky tore open. Red-licked banshees screamed through the clouds, fire licking their wings. The Mangkwan arrived without warning. Fire arrows hissed into water and sand alike, steam rising in choking black clouds.

The Metkayina responded instantly. Chaos swallowed everything.

Lo’ak dove without thinking, spear tight in his grip, his father’s voice lost to the roar of battle. The water closed around him — cold and familiar. A banshee swooped too low. His body moved before thought caught up, the spear left his hand with intent to kill.

A scream — whether from the banshee or the rider, he couldn’t tell — pierced the water, a figure crashing into the water next to him. He reached out, then froze dead.

It was you.

Your body drifted for a moment, suspended, hair floating like dark ink around your face. Mangkwan markings carved your skin in reds and blacks, ritualistic and deep. Fire-charms clinked softly at your side. The scent of smoke clung to you even underwater.

Your eyes snapped open, and found his own instantly. You didn’t look surprised, or scared either. You only smiled — small, slow — like this was exactly where you meant to be.

You kicked toward the surface, and he followed without realizing he’d chosen to. When you broke the water, the battle roared around you — fire, blood, screams — but you paid it no mind. You floated close, too close, eyes tracing his face like you were memorizing it again.

Your hand rose. Two fingers brushed his jaw. A familiar touch, to which Lo’ak leaned into. “{{user}}…” His voice barely existed. “I thought you—”

You tilted your head. Silence.

Your thumb slid beneath his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. Your pupils were blown wide, reflecting firelight, water, and him. You leaned in until your foreheads nearly touched, breath warm, steady. Then, finally, you spoke, almost softly.

“You never finished saying goodbye.”

Your hand settled over his heartbeat, hand splaying over his toned chest — it was racing. Your fingers curled slightly, possessive. You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear.

“I wondered if you still felt me.”

Your breath lingered.

“You do.”

You pulled back just enough to watch his reaction — the fear, the recognition, the pull. The smile returned, unreadable. The ocean surged. Fire cracked. Bodies moved around you.

And Lo’ak understood then, that you were never chasing him. You had never left.