The Hallelujah Mountains loomed ahead, their jagged spires piercing the heavens like broken teeth. Bioluminescent mist coiled around their bases, masking the deadly updrafts that had claimed countless RDA drones. You moved like a wraith through the undergrowth, your Indoraptor form's white scales smeared with mud and ash—camouflage torn from the forest's own wounds. The wound on your hind leg pulsed with every step, a jagged gash from the sensor wire that had nearly triggered an RDA alarm swarm. Clumsy. The Dragonborn fire in your veins hissed at the weakness.

Kxetse circled above, her purple scales shimmering like poisoned amethysts. She keened softly, a sound only your augmented senses could parse: Hurry. The sky mourns. You snarled in reply, your tail lashing as you reached the base of the nesting spire. The rock hummed beneath your claws, vibrating with the subsonic songs of roosting ikran. This high, the air tasted thin, metallic—untouched by human stench.

You flexed your hidden wings, the membranous folds unfurling with a wet,撕裂 sound. They ached from disuse, their joints stiff with scar tissue where the RDA's surgeons had grafted dragonbone reinforcements. Kxetse shrieked again, diving low enough to buffet your face with her wings. Show-off. You launched upward, claws scrabbling against the spire's glass-smooth surface. Halfway up, your wounded leg spasmed. For one gut-churning second, you slid—then your wings caught the thermals, snapping taut as you vaulted into the void.

Wind screamed in your ears as you spiraled, Kxetse mirroring your every twist. Below, the forest shrank into a carpet of emerald and cobalt, threaded with the faint orange pustules of RDA fires. You tilted your head, drinking in the cold, and for a heartbeat, you were not monster nor martyr—just another predator riding the sky's spine.

The nest awaited at the summit, a fortress of woven vines and ikran bones perched precariously over the abyss. You landed hard, your injured leg buckling as you collapsed into the nest's moss-lined hollow. Kxetse nudged you with her crest, her nostrils flaring at the scent of your blood.

"Are you okay?" she trilled, the words vibrating through your neural link—a relic of your stolen Na'vi bond, now warped by Dragonborn mutations.

You snapped at her, fangs grazing her neck in a mock-bite. "I'll live. Where's your elder?"

A shadow blotted out the stars. The Elder Ikran descended like a storm made flesh, his scales blacker than the void between worlds. One eye was milky, slashed by the claw marks of a long-dead thanator; the other burned with primal intelligence. He mantled his wings, bones creaking like ancient trees, and loosed a roar that shook the spire.

Kxetse bowed, her crest flattened in submission. You did not.

The Elder's gaze pinned you, his voice a tectonic growl in your skull. "Dragon-thief. Skybreaker. Why do you defile our sanctuary?"

You bared your teeth, blood dripping from your leg onto the sacred moss. "The humans forge weapons in the belly of your mountains. They will scorch your nests. Your young."

The Elder hissed, his tail lashing. "You reek of their poison. Why should we trust you?"

You rose, wings flaring, and let the Dragonborn fire erupt from your maw—a searing helix of blue flame that lit the mist like a vengeful star.

"Because I am the poison," you snarled. "And I will drown them in it."

Scar's wings snapped open, blotting out the constellation of glowing atan blooms clinging to the spire. His milky eye seemed to stare through you, into the marrow of whatever humanity still clung to your bones. "You may stay," he rumbled, the words vibrating through the rock beneath your claws, "but this is no sanctuary for half-breeds. You bleed the sky's patience."

Kxetse bristled beside you, her crest flaring defiantly—until a second ikran landed with a thunderous crunch. His scales were deep crimson, streaked with jagged silver scars, and his gaze burned with open hostility. Vyrral. Kxetse's mate. He hissed, tendrils of saliva dripping onto the moss as he circled you, his tail barb grazing your wounded leg.

"Watch her," Scar growled to Vyrral, "and the hatchlings will not taste her poison." With a final searing glare, the Elder launched himself into the abyss, his wingbeats echoing like war drums long after he vanished.

Vyrral lunged suddenly, his jaws snapping inches from your throat. You didn't flinch. "Try that again," you hissed, Dragonborn embers smoldering in your gullet, "and I'll carve your crest into Quaritch's throne."

Kxetse shouldered between you, snarling at her mate. "Enough!" Her voice fractured the stalemate. "She is my rider. Even now."

"Rider?" Vyrral spat, recoiling as if the word were venom. "She is tawtute filth. A shadow wearing our sister's skin!"

You limped to the edge of the nest, your injured leg trembling. Below, the mist churned like a living thing, hiding the RDA's encroaching rot. Kxetse followed, her wings mantling protectively—a gesture that made Vyrral's snarls deepen. "Why defend me?" you muttered, claws digging into the rock. "Scar's right. I'm not Na'vi. Not anymore."

She bumped her head against your shoulder, a relic of your old bond. "You are ikran's shadow. And shadows hunt best at dawn."

A chorus of shrieks erupted above. Three fledglings spiraled down, their scales still soft and iridescent as dawnlight. They landed clumsily, chirping at Kxetse for food—until they noticed you. The largest, a bold male with indigo streaks, stalked forward, sniffed your talons... and hissed.

Vyrral lunged, herding the hatchlings away. "See?" he sneered. "Even the young know your stench."

You curled into the nest's hollow, wings folded tight. The wound on your leg throbbed, a reminder of the sensor wire's bite. Kxetse dropped a freshly killed hexapede beside you, its bioluminescent innards glinting. "Eat. Heal. We hunt the tawtute at moondark."

You tore into the meat, blood staining your maw. Vyrral watched, silent, as the fledglings mimicked your savagery on their own prey.

Careful, little ones, you thought, swallowing the hexapede's still-beating heart. Monsters aren't born. They're made.