Incedo in nefas ubi flamma vorax cor maculat
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Here stands the fire. Destruction in flesh and bones. Something Neytiri could seize and control.
She can keep running. Or she can step into it.
And she is so tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of losing. Tired of watching everything slip through her fingers while she prays and hopes and tells herself this is the way things must be.
She is offered the power of choice, of a path she sets herself.
And she wants it.
She wants to go into the fire.
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Varang’s eyes flutter close as she listens to the steady, slow pulse beneath her ear, the internal noise dulling to a hush.
She is safe. And it’s such a strange feeling.
Safety has never been a concept she trusted. She survived because she never relied on it, never allowed herself to believe there was a place where she could truly rest. Yet here, she feels it.
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She leans slightly toward Varang, voice low. “What are they celebrating?”
Varang’s mouth curves, proud. “They celebrate,” she murmurs, keeping her voice just low enough that only Neytiri can hear, “that their leader has taken a mate.”
Neytiri’s breath catches and her eyes widen, protest already forming on her tongue, but Varang slips away before she can speak, shooting her a quick, teasing grin as she disappears back into the movement of the crowd.
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