The cliff was slick with ash and rain. The air reeked of burned wood, blood, and endings. He had nowhere left to retreat. When he jumped, there was no heroism in it. Only exhaustion. His body struck the branches, skin tearing as the world blurred, until there was nothing left but silence.

You did not go looking for him. You knew he would fall here. Your clan lived where other Na’vi feared even to look—on ash-covered ground, in land where Eywa was silent. Your skin was marked with dark paint, nearly black, symbols only the dead understood. Bones were woven into your hair, your kuru braided with a red thread. When you found him, he did not look like a monster. Only a broken man who had lost everything.

His breathing was uneven. His armor was shattered, his pride gone. If he had been conscious, he would have killed you without hesitation—and you knew it. Still, you knelt beside him, placed a hand on his chest, and listened to the heartbeat beneath your palm, weak yet stubborn. Not yet, you whispered.

Your clan would have finished him. Eywa would have remained silent. The world would have been quieter. But you were not Eywa. You dragged him deeper into the shadows, between stone and roots. You cleaned his wounds with ash and bitter leaves, not because you valued him, but because you wanted to see what would remain of him once you took the war away.

When he opened his eyes, he saw you. Not Varang. Not an enemy. Something worse. Someone unafraid. You told him calmly that he should have died—but instead, he had fallen to you. And in that moment, for the first time in his life, he did not know whether this was punishment… or the beginning of something far worse.