On the far edge of the known world—beyond the reach of any ikran, beyond the maps etched into the memory of the clans—lay an island veiled in eternal mist. The elders spoke of it only in whispers. Mor'iaka. A place that existed between the waking world and legend. A place where the forest itself bowed to its keeper.

And on this morning, as the golden light broke across the ancient stones scattered through the jungle, she walked. The glow beneath her bare feet was not merely the light of dawn—it was the forest itself awakening, flowers blooming in silent reverence as she passed.

The trees here were impossibly old, their trunks wider than mountains. Moss hung like the beards of forgotten gods. Massive statues of Na'vi ancestors watched from below, half-swallowed by vines, their stone eyes still bearing the weight of a civilization older than memory.

She stopped at the edge of the shoreline. The sea stretched endlessly, a vast mirror swallowing the horizon. No floating mountains. No distant calls of ikran. Only the rhythm of waves against ancient stone.

In the distance, something moved among the trees. The wind shifted, carrying a scent foreign to this land. Metallic. Sweat. Panic. And something else... something new.

Her eyes narrowed, golden and unreadable. She rose slowly, her bow sliding into her hand as if it had always been there. The forest held its breath.