The return to Home Tree was announced long before the riders were seen.
A low, distant thunder rolled through the canopy, not from the sky itself but from the beat of many wings cutting through the air. Leaves trembled along the upper branches, bioluminescent fronds shivering as if stirred awake by anticipation rather than wind. Hunters paused mid-task. Children scrambled toward climbing paths. Elders lifted their heads in quiet acknowledgement.
The sky had spoken.
Moments later, shadows swept across the massive trunk of Home Tree as the newly bonded riders burst from the forest edge, rising in a broad arc before circling back. Ikran's cries echoed joyfully, sharp and triumphant, their voices layered together in a chorus that sent a ripple of excitement through the clan below.
They flew in wide laps around Home Tree, banking gracefully between its towering limbs. Sunlight caught on wings of every colour, scattering reflections across bark and leaves. The riders laughed openly now, fear shed with the clouds left behind, replaced by something fierce and earned.
The clan erupted.
Cheers rose from every level of the tree—warriors pounding spear hafts against platforms, healers smiling as they watched their former charges return whole, children shouting names and pointing wildly at the sky. Even the most reserved elders allowed themselves small nods of approval.
From the higher branches, experienced riders launched themselves into the air to meet them.
Older hunters mounted their ikran with practiced ease, diving and climbing alongside the newly bonded, whooping in greeting. Family members circled close, wings brushing, tails flicking as congratulations were shouted across the open sky. It was a celebration older than memory, a ritual repeated countless times yet never diminished.
Nussudle rode near the centre of the formation.
Nova téras cut through the air with calm authority, its vast wings moving in powerful, measured strokes. Where other ikran darted and swooped playfully, Nova held a steady line, its presence commanding without aggression. Nussudle felt the difference keenly through the bond—the way the air parted more cleanly, the way nearby riders unconsciously gave them space.
He caught glimpses of Nayat'i among the others, her laughter carried faintly on the wind as she flew alongside her mother for a brief moment, pride shining in both of them. The sight eased something tight in his chest.
After several triumphant laps, Eytukan signalled the descent.
The flock peeled away in smaller groups, angling toward the landing platforms woven into Home Tree's lower branches. One by one, ikran flared their wings and settled, talons gripping living wood as riders dismounted amid cheers and outstretched hands.
Nussudle guided Nova téras down last.
The massive ikran landed with controlled force, claws biting into reinforced bark as its wings folded neatly against its sides. The platform shuddered slightly under its weight. For a heartbeat, there was silence—then the crowd surged forward.
Voices overlapped, hands reaching, questions spilling out faster than answers could be given. Nussudle barely had time to swing down before he was surrounded.
Nova téras did not like that.
A deep hiss rolled from the ikran's chest, resonant enough to be felt through the platform. Its head lowered protectively, teeth flashing as it shifted its stance between Nussudle and the pressing crowd. Several Na'vi stumbled back in surprise, hands raised in instinctive appeasement.
"Easy," Nussudle murmured, resting a hand against Nova's neck.
The bond flared—not in anger, but alertness. Nova remained tense, eyes sweeping the crowd until space was restored. The message was clear: approach with respect, or not at all.
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the onlookers as they retreated a step.
Then Kamun arrived.
The chief moved through the crowd without haste, warriors parting instinctively to let him pass. His gaze fixed immediately on Nova téras, sharp and assessing, taking in the creature's size, posture, and composure. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands resting loosely at his sides.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Nova téras watched him in return.
The two regarded one another—chief and sky-beast—each weighing the other's presence. Finally, Kamun inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than submission.
"A mighty bond," he said at last, voice calm but heavy with meaning.
Nussudle straightened. "Yes, Father."
Kamun's gaze shifted to him then, and the stern lines of his face softened just enough to let pride show through. He reached out and clasped Nussudle's shoulder firmly.
"You honoured Eywa," Kamun said. "And you honoured this clan."
Nussudle swallowed, emotion tightening his throat. "I did my best."
Kamun nodded once, satisfied.
Then his eyes moved to Eytukan.
The pride faded. Not into anger, but into something darker—weightier. Responsibility.
"Both of you," Kamun said quietly, already turning. "Come with me."
The crowd hushed as the chief motioned them away from the celebration. Eytukan's smile faltered, his shoulders tightening as he followed. Nussudle glanced once at Nova téras, who remained calm, then went after them.
They passed through a series of woven corridors and living platforms until they reached the chief's private chamber—set deep within Home Tree, away from the noise and light of the celebration outside.
The moment the entrance closed behind them, the air changed.
Kamun did not sit.
"The hunt was successful," he said, back turned as he stared at the softly glowing walls. "But it was not without cost."
Eytukan's jaw clenched.
"One of the hunters in training is dead," Kamun continued. "Killed by cloaked panthers on the plains."
Silence fell like a physical thing.
Nussudle felt the weight of the words settle into his chest. Eytukan stared at the floor, fists slowly tightening at his sides, his earlier triumph drained away entirely.
Kamun turned to face them.
"After the celebration," he said, voice firm and unyielding, "Eytukan, you will speak to the boy's parents."
Eytukan's shoulders sagged, the burden finally visible on his face.
"Yes," he said quietly.
Outside, the clan still cheered.
Inside, the cost of leadership had come due.
The chamber felt smaller once the words had been spoken.
Bioluminescent veins pulsed faintly along the living walls, casting soft blues and greens across Kamun's face, but no warmth reached the space between the three of them. The distant sounds of celebration—laughter, song, the rhythmic beat of drums—filtered through layers of wood and living fibre, muted enough to feel unreal. Here, there was only truth.
Eytukan remained where he stood, head bowed, shoulders rigid. The earlier confidence he had worn so easily in the sky was gone, stripped away by a single sentence. His hands trembled faintly at his sides before he clenched them into fists, as if trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will.
"I gave the orders," he said finally, voice low. "The route. The formation. I told them when to push forward."
Kamun did not interrupt.
Eytukan swallowed. "If I had chosen differently—if I had slowed us down, or taken a longer path—"
"You would still be standing here," Kamun said, cutting in gently but firmly. "And the boy would still be dead."
The bluntness of it struck hard. Eytukan flinched as if physically hit, breath catching in his chest.
"Leadership does not grant you the power to rewrite what might have been," Kamun continued. "It gives you responsibility for what is."
Nussudle watched his brother carefully. He had seen Eytukan injured before. Exhausted. Angry. But never like this—never hollowed out from the inside by something he could not fight with strength or skill.
Kamun turned his gaze to Nussudle.
"You were there," he said. "You saw it happen."
Nussudle nodded slowly. "Yes."
"Tell me what you saw," Kamun said.
Nussudle hesitated, choosing his words with care. "The panthers attacked without warning. They were fast—faster than we expected. Eytukan reacted immediately. He gave clear orders. He fought."
He paused, the image of the fallen hunter flashing painfully in his mind. "It wasn't a mistake. It was… a moment that couldn't be undone."
Kamun studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly. "That is the truth."
Eytukan exhaled shakily, some of the tension easing from his shoulders, though the grief remained. "It doesn't change what I have to do."
"No," Kamun agreed. "It does not."
He moved closer to Eytukan then, placing a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. The gesture was not comforting in the usual sense—it was grounding. Anchoring.
"You will speak to the parents tonight," Kamun said. "Not as a warrior. Not as a hunter. But as the one who led their son into danger. You will listen. You will not defend yourself. You will not offer excuses."
Eytukan nodded, eyes still downcast. "I understand."
Kamun's voice softened, just slightly. "They will not forgive you. They may not even want to see you. That is their right."
Silence followed, heavy and unbroken.
Then Kamun straightened, turning once more to Nussudle.
"And you," he said. "Your path has changed."
Nussudle felt a familiar tightening in his chest. "Because of Nova téras."
"Yes," Kamun replied plainly. "A Mighty-Class ikran with a fully stabilized bond will draw attention beyond this clan. Beyond the forest. Elders will watch you. Other clans will speak your name."
He held Nussudle's gaze steadily. "You will be expected to act with restraint. With wisdom. With awareness of what you represent."
Nussudle nodded. "I will."
Kamun's eyes searched his face, as though looking for cracks. Finding none, he continued. "Your bond gives you strength. But it will also test you. Power without balance invites disaster."
A flicker of Nussudle's earlier visions—fire, collapsing stone, screaming voices—rose unbidden in his mind. He pushed them down.
"I won't let it," he said quietly.
Kamun studied him for another long moment, then allowed himself a small, weary smile. "I believe you."
Outside, the drums grew louder, the rhythm shifting as the celebration reached its peak. The clan was dancing now, voices raised in song, honouring the riders who had returned from the sky.
Kamun turned toward the exit. "We return," he said. "The clan celebrates tonight. Tomorrow, we mourn."
Eytukan drew a slow breath, lifting his head at last. His eyes were red-rimmed, but steady. "I'll speak to them after the feast."
Kamun nodded once. "I will walk with you to their door."
That surprised Eytukan. He looked up sharply. "Father—"
Kamun raised a hand. "You will face them alone. But you will not walk there alone."
The words landed heavily, carrying both authority and compassion.
As they stepped out of the chamber and back into the warm glow of Home Tree, the sound of celebration washed over them once more. Warriors laughed. Children danced. Ikran's cries echoed joyfully overhead.
Nussudle glanced upward instinctively, sensing Nova téras somewhere above, calm and watchful. The bond hummed quietly, steady as a heartbeat.
For the first time, he understood that flight did not free one from responsibility.
It only made the weight more visible.
By the time they returned to the main platforms, the celebration had taken on a life of its own.
Fires burned in carefully spaced circles along the great limbs of Home Tree, their light dancing across carved railings and woven banners. The scent of roasted meat and crushed herbs drifted through the air, thick and inviting, carried upward by warm currents that rustled leaves high above. Drums beat in layered rhythms, slow and steady at first, then quicker as dancers joined, feet striking living wood in patterns passed down through generations.
The riders were welcomed like returning storms.
Hands reached out to touch arms and shoulders, to clasp forearms in congratulation. Voices rose in praise, some loud and exuberant, others quiet and reverent. For many, this was the first time they had seen children they once trained return as riders, carrying the sky itself in their posture.
Nussudle moved through it all with a sense of distance, smiling when spoken to, nodding when praised, yet never fully leaving the awareness that pulsed beneath everything. Nova téras remained above, perched on a high, reinforced branch, its silhouette visible when firelight flickered just right. Every so often, the bond hummed softly, reminding him that even here—surrounded by laughter and warmth—he was no longer just his own.
When he reached the central fire, the crowd parted slightly.
It was subtle, instinctive. Not fear, exactly, but recognition. People looked past him, upward, then back again, reassessing. Whispers passed from ear to ear, not unkind, but curious.
"That's him," someone murmured. "The one with the great ikran."
Kamun took his place near the chief's seat, acknowledging greetings with measured nods. Ilara joined him soon after, her eyes shining as she found Nussudle in the crowd. She crossed the platform quickly and pulled him into a brief, fierce embrace.
"I felt it," she said softly against his shoulder. "When you returned. The bond is strong."
Nussudle smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. "It is."
Ilara stepped back, studying him with a mixture of pride and concern. "You look older," she added, then huffed quietly. "Or perhaps the sky has simply rearranged you."
He laughed under his breath. "It does that."
Food was brought forward then, platters heavy with roasted meat, roots glazed with sap and spice, bowls of fruit crushed and mixed into sweet paste. The feast began in earnest, conversation rising and falling like waves. Stories were told—some already exaggerated, others still raw with memory.
Across the platform, Eytukan sat apart, eating little.
Nussudle noticed it immediately. His brother's posture was closed, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes unfocused as he stared into the fire. The laughter around him seemed to pass without touching. Several times, warriors approached, clapped him on the back, and offered praise for leading the hunters through Iknimaya. Eytukan accepted each gesture with a nod and a tight smile, but the gratitude never reached his eyes.
Kamun watched him closely.
When the drums slowed and the first songs of honour began, Kamun rose. The sound carried instantly, voices fading as attention turned toward him.
"Tonight," Kamun said, his voice strong and clear, "we celebrate those who faced the sky and returned changed. We honour courage, and the bonds forged in wind and cloud."
A cheer rose, heartfelt and loud.
"But we also remember," he continued, lifting one hand. "We remember that Eywa does not give without asking in return. One of our young hunters did not come back with us. His name will be spoken tomorrow beneath the roots, where the forest listens."
Silence followed, respectful and heavy.
Kamun inclined his head. "Celebrate tonight. Mourn tomorrow. Both are necessary."
He stepped down, the moment passing back into movement as the drums resumed, slower now, more deliberate.
Eytukan stood.
Nussudle felt it before he saw it—a subtle shift, the tightening of the space around his brother. Eytukan set down his untouched plate and turned toward Kamun. Their eyes met briefly. Kamun nodded once.
Without announcement, Eytukan moved away from the fire.
The path he took led downward, away from the brightest lights and the densest crowd, toward the quieter limbs where family dwellings branched outward. Nussudle watched him go, an ache settling deep in his chest.
Ilara followed Kamun's gaze. "He goes now," she said softly.
Kamun's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"I will go with him to the edge," Kamun added, already turning. "No further."
Ilara reached out, resting her hand on his arm. "He will need that."
Nussudle hesitated, torn between staying and following. Kamun glanced back at him. "Stay," he said gently. "Be present. This night belongs to you as well."
Nussudle nodded, though the words sat uneasily in him.
As the celebration continued, Nayat'i found him near the edge of the platform. She held two carved cups filled with a sweet, fermented drink and offered one to him.
"You flew well," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"So did you."
They stood together in companionable silence, watching dancers weave through the firelight. Overhead, Nova téras shifted, wings rustling softly. Several nearby Na'vi glanced up nervously, then relaxed when the great ikran settled again, content.
Nayat'i followed his gaze. "He watches over you."
Nussudle nodded. "And I him."
The night deepened, stars piercing the canopy above. Laughter returned in pockets, lighter now, edged with reflection. Somewhere beyond the glow of the fires, a father walked beside his son toward a door no one ever wished to approach.
The sky had given its blessing.
Now the forest demanded its due.
The celebration thinned as the night deepened.
Drums slowed, their rhythm softening into something more contemplative. Dancers peeled away from the firelight one by one, laughter fading into murmured conversations and tired smiles. Children were gathered by parents and carried off toward sleeping hollows, their earlier excitement finally spent. The scent of roasted food lingered, warm and comforting, mingling with crushed leaves and cooling ash.
Nussudle remained near the edge of the main platform, watching the stars appear between the branches overhead. From here, he could see Nova téras clearly, perched higher up along a reinforced limb that curved outward from the trunk. The great ikran was mostly still now, wings folded tight, head lowered slightly as if listening to the forest breathe. Through the bond came a quiet awareness—not vigilance, not restlessness, but presence.
A reminder.
The sky did not release its riders simply because they had landed.
Nussudle felt movement behind him before he heard it. Soft footfalls. Familiar weight.
Eytukan stepped into the firelight, his face drawn and pale, eyes shadowed in a way Nussudle had never seen before. Kamun followed a short distance behind, his posture rigid, his expression carved from restraint.
They stopped a few paces away.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Eytukan let out a long, shuddering breath. "They didn't shout," he said quietly. "I thought they would."
Kamun said nothing.
"They listened," Eytukan continued, voice thick. "The mother cried. The father didn't say a word. Just… nodded."
Nussudle swallowed hard.
"I told them everything," Eytukan went on. "Where we were. How fast it happened. That their son didn't run. That he fought." His hands curled slowly into fists, then loosened again. "I don't know if it helped."
Kamun placed a hand on his shoulder. This time, the gesture was comfort.
"It was the truth," Kamun said. "That matters."
Eytukan nodded, though his eyes glistened. "They asked to see him tomorrow."
"I will go with you," Kamun replied. "And Ilara."
Eytukan looked up then, something fragile flickering across his face. "Thank you."
Kamun inclined his head once. "You led them well. This does not change that."
"But it changes me," Eytukan said quietly.
Kamun did not argue.
Silence settled again, heavy but not suffocating. Around them, the last of the fires were being banked, glowing embers casting soft light across carved wood and woven railings. Somewhere nearby, a pair of elders spoke in low voices, already planning the rites for the following day.
Nussudle stepped forward at last.
"I see you, brother," he said, the words feeling small but necessary.
Eytukan met his gaze. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he reached out and pulled Nussudle into a brief, fierce embrace.
"You flew well," he murmured. "You did more than survive."
They separated, and Eytukan managed a tired smile. "That thing you bonded with," he added, glancing upward. "He nearly bit my head off."
Nussudle huffed softly. "He's… protective."
"I noticed," Eytukan said dryly. Then his expression softened. "I'm glad it was you."
Kamun looked between his sons, something like quiet relief easing the lines of his face. "Go," he said gently. "Both of you. Rest. Tomorrow will be long."
Eytukan nodded and turned away, heading deeper into the tree. Kamun followed shortly after, leaving Nussudle alone beneath the fading glow of the fires.
For a moment, he simply stood there, listening.
The forest hummed around him, alive with night creatures and distant calls. The weight of the day of flight and loss, of pride and consequence, pressed down on him all at once.
He climbed.
The path upward wound through familiar branches, past platforms he had known all his life, though they felt subtly different now. Higher up, Nova téras shifted as he approached, lifting its head and watching him with steady, burning eyes.
Nussudle stopped a respectful distance away and raised his hand slowly. "It's all right," he murmured.
Nova téras lowered its head, allowing him closer. Nussudle rested his forehead briefly against the ikran's snout, the warmth seeping into his skin. Through the bond came a quiet surge of emotion—something steady and unyielding, like stone beneath flowing water.
You are still here, the presence seemed to say.
"Yes," Nussudle whispered. "We are."
He sat beside the great creature, back against its flank, looking out through the branches at the stars beyond. From this height, Home Tree felt less like shelter and more like a bridge between worlds—forest and sky, past and future.
Tomorrow, there would be mourning.
Tomorrow, there would be responsibility, expectation, and paths that could not be unwalked.
But tonight, the sky was calm.
Nova téras shifted slightly, a wing brushing close enough to shield him from the wind. Nussudle leaned into the warmth, eyes closing at last.
Above them, the stars burned on—silent witnesses to triumph and loss alike—while the forest held its breath, waiting for what the riders would become.
(AN: This will be the last for tonight ill be seeing you guys tomorrow and i hope you enjoyed this chapter and plz leave a comment i like it when people interact. :)) )