The forest was breathing.

Under the night sky, Pandora shimmered with life. Bioluminescent plants pulsed softly in rhythmic harmony, the air thick with the hum of insects and the faint crackle of energy that only the Na’vi could truly feel. Above, a slow swirl of stars framed the towering branches of Vitraya Ramunong, the Tree of Souls. Its massive roots twisted through the earth like veins of ancient wisdom, and its luminescent tendrils hung like curtains of spiritlight, swaying despite the absence of wind.

It was not an ordinary night.

A thousand Woodsprites—Atokirina’—drifted silently through the air like pale, glowing seeds. They came in waves, descending from above, each one slow and deliberate, as if guided by a will older than the world itself. They hovered, circled, then began to land—on leaves, on the moss, on skin. Not one was disturbed.

At the center of the sacred grove, just beneath the roots of the Tree of Souls, a strange shape rested—part natural, part divine. A chrysalis, wrapped in silky threads of luminous energy, lay nestled in the soil like an unborn heart. The Na’vi had never seen anything like it. It glowed faintly with a soft teal light, breathing in sync with the tree itself. Inside, a figure could be seen—slim, still, curled like a dream not yet ready to wake.

Neytiri knelt near the chrysalis, her bow lying forgotten beside her. Her golden eyes were wide, unblinking, caught between awe and fear. The soft blue glow of the Woodsprites lit her face like moonlight on water. “She’s... still not moving,” she whispered, barely a breath. Her voice trembled—not with doubt, but reverence. “But Eywa... Eywa is here.”

Jake stood behind her, silent. His jaw was tense, his eyes fixed on the chrysalis like it might shatter if he blinked. He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but this—this was beyond anything he had seen in battle, in war, in life.