Rì'al stood upon the High Roost, his fingers digging into the rough bark of the Windtrader Hometree. Below him, the "mini-council"—a tight circle of his most loyal elders and war-captains—whispered in hushed, jagged tones.
The air in the Roost felt thin, lacking the vital lift it once carried. To Rì'al, the world had become stagnant ever since the "Ghost" had begun carving its sapphire path through the clouds.
"He steals our children," Rì'al growled, his voice a low vibration that silenced the elders. "He offers them a life of metal logic wrapped in stolen skin. If we do not act, there will be no Windtraders left to sing the gales."
"He has the Tayrangi's favor," one elder cautioned, her eyes clouded with age. "And the stars on his back... the young ones speak of them as a prophecy."
"Prophecy is written by those with the strength to hold the pen," Rì'al snapped. He turned away from the horizon, his amber eyes settling on a gnarled horn of ancient bone resting upon a pedestal. It was the Ollìva'yì, the Horn of the First Flight. To sound it was to invoke the Vatìng a Eywa—the Ancient Gathering—a diplomatic summons so old it predated the memory of the current Olo'eyktans. "We will not hunt him like a beast. We will judge him as a heretic. We will call the Seven."
The Call of the Wind:
The following morning, the blast of the Ollìva'yì echoed through the canyons of the Deep Shade, a resonant, bone-shaking frequency that traveled for leagues. It was an inescapable invitation. For the next seven days, Rì'al watched the skies, his heart a knot of bitterness and desperate pride.
From his vantage point, he watched the arrival of the delegations, noting each with a hunter's scrutiny:
The Tipani: They arrived like a thunderstorm, their heavy armor clattering. Rì'al felt a spark of hope; the Tipani valued strength above all. They would see the "Ghost" as a threat to be dismantled.
The Anurai: They drifted in like autumn leaves. Rì'al sneered. These weavers and dreamers were too easily impressed by beauty. They would be the hardest to sway if the ship looked too much like art.
The Olangi and Kekunan: One group grounded and wary, the other arrogant and sky-bound. They were the wildcards, the clans who followed the scent of the strongest wind.
The Omatikaya: They were the last to arrive, moving with a silent grace that irritated Rì'al. They carried a reputation for wisdom that he found inconvenient.
The Shadow of Doubt:
As the final shadows of the Omatikaya banshees crossed the Roost, Rì'al felt a presence behind him. He didn't need to turn to know it was Saeyla.
"The invitations are accepted, Father," she said, her voice devoid of the warmth it once held. "The Seven will meet at the Cradle of Eywa. But they do not come to help you destroy him."
"They come to preserve the Way," Rì'al countered, his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the Tanhì a Txampay floating near the obsidian arch. "They come to see the demon for what it is."
"They come to see the future," Saeyla whispered, stepping up to the edge of the Roost. She looked out at the sapphire glow in the distance—a light that seemed to call to her more than the ancestral fires of her own home. "And I fear you are the only one looking backward, Father. If you strike at the heart of the Star-People, you may find that the stars are the only thing left holding us up."
Rì'al did not answer. He gripped his bow, watching the sapphire speck in the distance. He had called the council to exile a demon, but as he looked at the cold resolve in his daughter's eyes, he felt a chilling sensation that the exile had already begun—within his own blood.