The fire had died, but its shadow lingered.
The ground still smoked where metal carcasses lay twisted and broken. Human machines that once thundered with arrogance were now nothing more than blackened husks.
And in the center of it all, they stared at me.
Dozens of Na'vi warriors. Children peeking from behind their mothers. Elders with eyes wide as the moons above.
They whispered in tongues too low for most to hear.But my ears caught every word.
"He stopped their thunder.""He burned the sky itself.""Not man. Not Na'vi. Something more."
The storm I unleashed was still echoing—not in the trees, but in their hearts.
Mo'at stepped forward first, her staff glowing faintly with woven stones. Her ancient gaze swept over me, lingering on my glowing skin, still humming faintly from the absorbed energy.
"You stand not as warrior," she said, voice heavy as prophecy. "You stand as storm. Eywa's storm. Or… a demon's storm."
The circle of warriors tightened, their gazes torn between reverence and suspicion.
Neytiri broke through it, her face unreadable. She studied me with the eyes of a hunter who found her prey had grown too large for the hunt.
"You have power," she said slowly. "But power is not Na'vi. It is not balance. What you did…" She gestured to the smoking wrecks, "…was not harmony. It was destruction."
I held her gaze. "Destruction in defense. Would you rather your people be ash?"
Her silence was sharp.
Later, when the fires were being put out and the dead mourned, I walked alone to the river. The water shimmered with bioluminescence, reflecting a sky scarred by smoke.
Footsteps followed me. Light, careful, yet certain.
Tsireya.
She approached without fear, her glowing markings soft against the night. For a long moment she simply stood beside me, looking into the water as though it carried the answers neither of us could speak.
Then, softly, she said:"You caught the fire of the sky. And you gave it back. No Na'vi… no demon… could do this."
I turned to her, expecting the same doubt Neytiri carried. But her eyes—calm as the sea—held something else.
"Perhaps Eywa chose you," she whispered. "Not to live as Na'vi. Not to live as man. But as what you are."
Her hand brushed mine, hesitant but warm. "And what you are… is hope."
The storm within me quieted. For the first time since I awoke in Pandora, I felt not like a weapon—but like a man.
I wanted to answer her, to tell her she was wrong, that I was nothing more than flesh and willpower and anger. But when her gaze lingered on mine, when her lips curved into a faint smile, the words died.
Because in that moment, I wanted her to be right.
But behind us, unseen, Neytiri watched from the shadows. Her eyes narrowed, her bow at her side.
Not in hatred. Not in jealousy.
But in fear.
Fear not of the Sky People… but of me.