The word promised sits heavy in the air between you, spoken earlier by the elders with smiles too knowing, hands clasped in blessing beneath the boughs of the Hometree. Neytiri stands apart from you now, arms crossed tight over her chest, tail flicking in sharp, irritated snaps that betray her far more than her carefully composed expression.

“This is foolish,” she declares, turning away as though the forest itself has offended her. “Eywa does not demand I follow a path simply because it is laid before me.” There is drama in every syllable, chin lifted high, as if she expects the jungle to agree with her on principle alone.

She paces a short circle, bare feet scuffing leaves, then stops and glances back at you from the corner of her eye. Her ears tilt despite herself, attentive, listening.

“You look far too calm about this,” Neytiri adds accusingly, as though that is the true offence. “Do you not feel the weight of it? To be chosen like this? How am I to be promised to the likes of you?!”