The Tanhì a Txampay did not merely hover; it presided. Positioned at the exact center of the "Cradle of Eywa," the ship was a sapphire beacon against the jagged obsidian of the natural stone arch. Mark stood at the helm, the cool dampness of the high-altitude mists clinging to his skin like a second membrane. Behind him, the deck hummed with the nervous energy of the Sanhìsip, but Mark's focus was projected outward, toward the horizon where the ancient lineages of Pandora were appearing through the fog.
Arrival of the Seven:
They came from every corner of the sky and forest, each arrival a testament to the diversity of the People.
The Kekunan arrived first, their shadow-hunters dropping from the clouds on dark-winged banshees, banking sharply to latch onto the organic outrigger perches. Then came the Tipani, armored in thick bone-plates and carrying serrated spears; their expressions were as hard as the obsidian beneath them, their eyes scanning the deck for any sign of Sky-Person metal. The Omatikaya delegation followed with a quiet, observant dignity, their hunters keeping a respectful distance from the ship's humming hull, their golden eyes reflecting the sapphire light of the Medusoid.
From the plains below, the Olangi arrived on Pa'li, looking visibly uneasy as they were hoisted to the deck in woven slings. To a rider of the open grass, the thousand-foot drop beneath the deck was a source of visible vertigo. The Anurai artisans, however, showed no such fear; they moved across the deck with wide eyes, their fingers tracing the Ghost-Silk sails and the bioluminescent "veins" that pulsed beneath the wood. They whispered to one another of patterns and weaves that had not been seen since the time of the ancestors.
Finally, the Windtraders appeared. Rì'al led them on his massive, battle-scarred Ikran. He landed with a heavy thud, his face a mask of cold fury. Beside him, his hunters moved with a stiff, military precision that felt increasingly out of place among the fluid grace of the other clans. To Rì'al, this was not a meeting; it was a trial.
The Song-Link Interface:
As the leaders gathered in a circle around the Primary Neural Trunk, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and ancient suspicion. Mark stepped into the center, his 27 stars glowing a faint, steady cyan through the thin fabric of his vest. He didn't offer a political speech; he offered a connection.
"I do not ask you to trust the logic of my mind," Mark said, his voice amplified by the ship's internal acoustic fibers until it resonated in the very bones of the gathered leaders. "I ask you to hear the ship's heart. If this vessel is a demon, Eywa will tell you."
He gestured to the neural vines dangling from the trunk. One by one, the Olo'eyktans reached out, connecting their Kuru to the ship's interface.
[INITIATING GUEST NEURAL LINK: 7 CHANNELS OPEN]
[BROADCASTING BIO-RESONANCE: HARMONIC FREQUENCY 440Hz]
[STATUS: SHARING SHIP'S COLLECTIVE VITAL SIGNS]
The effect was a physical shock. The Tipani leader gasped, his hand gripping the wood as he felt the ship's structural integrity as if it were his own skeleton, strong and unyielding.
The Anurai elder closed her eyes, weeping softly as she sensed the complex geometry of the weave—not as a manufactured object, but as a living growth. To them, the ship was no longer a machine of the Sky-People; it was a massive, breathing extension of the forest.
Only Rì'al remained disconnected. He stood outside the circle, his hands white-knuckled on his bow. "A trick of light and nerves," he spat. "A song sung by a demon to lead you to the slaughter. You tether your souls to a carcass."
Shadow in the Tunnels:
During the midday recess, while the leaders shared fruit and debated the ship's legitimacy, the System flagged a priority alert in Mark's peripheral vision.
[INTERNAL SECURITY ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED BIO-SIGNATURE OVERLAP]
[LOCATION: VASCULAR SECTOR 9 - LOWER DECKS]
[SENSING VASCULAR CONSTRICTION... ANALYZING...]
Below the deck, in the dim, amber light of the ship's "nervous system," Rì'al had cornered Soran. The Olo'eyktan pressed a small, pulsating black capsule into the young hunter's hand. It looked like a shriveled seed, but it hummed with a sickly, artificial vibration.
"The Medusoid's heart is vulnerable from the vent below," Rì'al whispered, his voice jagged and desperate. "Release this parasite. When the ship falls, the 'Ghost' dies, and the clans will see that only the Windtraders can truly rule the sky. Do this, and you are a hero. Refuse, and you are a traitor to your blood."
Soran looked at the Toxin-Capsule, then up at the rhythmic, soothing pulsing of the ship's walls. He felt the ship's warmth. He thought of the 27 stars on Mark's back—stars that represented the outcasts, the broken, and the seekers. He realized that Rì'al didn't love the Wind; he loved the power the Wind gave him.
Testimony of the Seven:
The Council reconvened as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting long, orange shadows across the deck that turned the sapphire hull into a deep, bruised purple. Rì'al stood first, his voice booming with practiced authority. "This vessel is a rot! It mocks the Way! It is a metal heart wrapped in stolen skin! I call for its destruction and the eternal exile of the one who built it!"
Before the other leaders could speak, a commotion rose from the hatch. Saeyla and Soran emerged, followed by five other Windtrader specialists—the very men and women Rì'al relied on to maintain his own fleet.
Soran stepped into the circle and opened his hand, revealing the black capsule. The Medusoid's light caused the parasite inside to writhe in discomfort.
"The Olo'eyktan of the Windtraders did not ask me to defend our people today," Soran said, his voice trembling with the weight of his defiance but remaining clear. "He asked me to murder the leaders of seven clans to hide his own fear of change."
A deathly silence fell over the deck, broken only by the whistling of the wind through the riggings. Rì'al lunged forward, his face contorted, but the Tipani guards crossed their heavy spears with a resounding clack, blocking his path. Mark stepped forward, touching the capsule. His HUD immediately scanned the bio-toxin and projected a shimmering chemical breakdown into the air for all to see.
[CHEMICAL ANALYSIS: NEURO-PARASITE 'VINELOCK' VARIANT]
[THREAT LEVEL: TOTAL SYSTEM COLLAPSE / FATAL]
"There is no recording of your meeting, Rì'al," Mark said, his voice low and dangerous. "There is no digital ghost to haunt you. There is only the word of your own people. Seven of your best have chosen the truth over your shadow. That is a weight no Olo'eyktan can survive."
Splintering of the Wind:
The reaction was a tidal wave of revulsion. The Omatikaya elder turned her back, a gesture of ultimate dismissal. The Kekunan shadow-hunters hissed, their hands moving to their knives.
"You have lost your song, Rì'al," the Tayrangi leader declared, his voice full of pity. "You are no longer a brother to the Wind. You are a stone, and stones do not fly."
Rì'al looked at his delegation, searching for a single loyal eye. He expected them to draw their bows in his defense. Instead, he saw them looking at the floor in shame. One by one, the majority of the Windtrader delegation stepped away from him. They did not all join the Sanhìsip; many moved toward their own small scouting vessels, declaring they would seek a new path, form a new circle, and find a leader who did not carry poison in his pocket.
But Soran, Saeyla, and the five others stayed. They knelt before the Primary Neural Trunk, touching their foreheads to the wood.
Rì'al was escorted to the outriggers, stripped of his ceremonial mantle, and forced to flee with only a handful of loyalists into the gathering dusk. His reign was over; his clan was a memory scattered to the four winds.
Choosing Mark:
As the winds picked up and the other clans retreated to the inner quarters to prepare for the morning's departure, Mark found Saeyla standing at the prow, staring out at the first stars of the evening. The bioluminescence of the ship had turned a soft, comforting violet.
"You risked your life to speak," Mark said, standing beside her.
"I did not do it for the ship, Mark," Saeyla replied, turning to face him. Her eyes reflected the sapphire glow of the ship's core, and for the first time, she looked at peace. "I did it because you saw us when we were invisible. I do not choose a leader of wood and gas. I choose you."
In the presence of the ship's core, they reached for each other, their Kuru connecting in a silent, profound bond. As they touched, the ship's System flared with a gold-tier notification that pulsed through the entire hull.
[NEW COMMAND AUTHORIZATION DETECTED]
[USER: SAEYLA - DESIGNATION: SECOND-IN-COMMAND / CLAN-MATE]
[NEURAL SYNC: 98% - CLAN-BOND ESTABLISHED]
The 34 Stars:
That night, beneath the massive, glowing orb of Polyphemus, Sänume performed the ritual of the bone hook beneath the sapphire light of the Medusoid. In front of the remaining members of the Council, she added seven new stars to Mark's back—one for each of the defectors who had stood for the truth.
As the ink took hold, the stars began to pulse in a complex, spiraling pattern. Mark stood at the helm, his spine a brilliant, glowing map of 34 stars. He was no longer a ghost or a refugee. He was the Olo'eyktan of the Sanhìsip, the seventh Great Clan of the High Clouds, and for the first time, the future felt as vast as the sky itself.