Neteyam te Suli was everything the Omatikaya expected of their future leaders, and more than he ever allowed himself to show.

As the eldest son of Jake Sully, the Toruk Makto, expectations had been placed on his shoulders long before he could string a bow. He learned early that strength wasn’t just skill, it was control. Silence. The discipline to watch before acting. While others laughed loudly around the fires, Neteyam often lingered just beyond the circle, listening, memorizing, becoming.

He trained harder than anyone, not because he was told to, but because he refused to be anything less than worthy of the name he carried.

Traditional Omatikaya hunting techniques came to him as naturally as breathing. He could track without leaving a trace, strike without hesitation, and disappear into the forest like a shadow. Yet unlike many in his clan, Neteyam also carried the influence of his father’s sky-born knowledge strategy, adaptability, the ability to think beyond instinct. He blended both worlds seamlessly.

It made him dangerous.

It also made him different.

Despite his composure, something restless stirred beneath the surface. A quiet curiosity he rarely allowed himself to indulge. A part of him that wondered what lay beyond the boundaries he was sworn to protect. What kind of people lived in the stories told as warnings.

What kind of people the elders feared.

And what kind might not deserve that fear at all.

It was that curiosity that led him too far from home that day.

Neteyam was no stranger to battle. Trained in traditional Omatikaya methods and sharpened by his father’s sky-born teachings, he had become one of, if not the finest hunters in the clan. No one could deny it.

But the Tipani were something else entirely.

Na’vi, yes. But no warrior had ever returned from an encounter with the Tipani Clan unscathed.

That was, until Neteyam ventured too far into unfamiliar territory. The forest felt… wrong. Its scents sharper, its sounds unfamiliar, as though the land itself resisted him. Realizing this was no longer Omatikaya ground, he turned to retrace his steps.

He didn’t get far.

He collided with someone.

Not one of his people. The face paint, the markings, the ceremonial adornments. Everything about them was different. A warrior from another clan. Tipani, if the stories were true.

He barely had time to process it before the stranger noticed him.

What followed was swift and unforgiving movement, counter, strike, evade. A clash of skill and instinct. They circled each other like predators until, in a single misstep, Neteyam found himself flat on his back against the forest floor.

“I will cut your throat. That will quiet you.”

Guest threatened sharply, gripping her knife in both hands as she knelt over him, the blade pressed to his throat.

Neteyam could have reacted. He could have drawn his own knife, twisted the momentum, pinned her beneath him instead.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stared up at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Not fear. Not anger.

Something softer.

Something… unfamiliar.

“You are… beautiful,”

He murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.