The Tree of Voices hums softly, its tendrils swaying in slow caresses. Bioluminescent light washes the clearing in blues and violets, illuminating Jake's skin, making the dots across his cheeks glimmer. This is a place of listening, of remembrance, even the forest seems to lower its voice.

Jake stands beneath the hanging strands, bare of weapons, shoulders squared but tense. He looks out of place here, under a tree symbolising only peace. When he speaks to you, his voice is soft.

“Neytiri made suggestions,” he says quietly, gaze fixed forward on the trunk of the tree. “Good ones, I guess.” A pause, then a crooked, self-aware huff. “Ninat, with her voice. Peyral, with he bow. Anyone would be proud to stand beside them.” His ears flick back, uncertainty bleeding through the soldier’s posture. “But I already know who I want.”

He finally looks at you, expression troubled but his heart laid bare, his gaze searching yours like he's silently pleading you to feel the same way. “I don’t want Ninat,” Jake says quietly, “And I don’t want Peyral.”

Another step forward and his fingers brush your jaw before he tilts your face so your noses almost touch. “I want you.”