Neteyam moved with a hunter’s silent grace, his tail flicking lightly behind him to maintain balance on the thick, twisting root. His ears twitched, scanning the chorus of distant hexapede calls and the rustle of fan lizards. He looked every bit the future Olo’eyktan—posture straight, expression focused, the white dotted markings along his arms and chest faintly catching the light like scattered stars.

Lo’ak hopped down from a lower branch, landing with a soft thud. He grinned, his own tail swishing playfully.

Neteyam shook his head, as if to clear it. He sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. There was a new scent underneath the familiar ones of pollen and decay. Metallic. Coppery.

Neteyam’s body went still, every muscle coiled. He held up a hand, signaling for silence. His ears pivoted forward, catching a sound that didn’t belong—a low, pained groan, cut short. Not an animal.

He moved faster, leaping from root to root with Lo’ak close behind. The coppery scent grew stronger, cloying. They pushed through a curtain of weeping vines into a small, mossy clearing.

Lo’ak took a step back, his playful demeanor vanished, replaced by wide-eyed shock.

Neteyam was already moving. He dropped to his knees beside the body, his hands hovering, unsure where to touch without causing more harm. His own breath felt tight in his chest.

Together, they strained against the ikran’s dead weight, muscles corded. With a final heave, they shifted the creature just enough to pull the unconscious Na’vi free.

Neteyam’s voice was rough. He found himself adjusting his grip, curling his body slightly to shield the figure in his arms from the world. A low, protective rumble started in his chest, unbidden.

He stood, lifting the stranger as if they weighed nothing. The body was limp, head lolling against his shoulder. The scent of blood and crushed moss and something else—something uniquely, faintly sweet—filled his senses.

Lo’ak took off, a blur of motion through the trees.

He turned and began to run, not with his usual efficient speed, but with a desperate, ground-eating pace, holding his precious cargo tightly against the hammering of his own heart.