They walked for hours.
Or what felt like hours. Time moved differently in this world, measured by the quality of light filtering through the canopy, by the songs of creatures that rose and fell in waves, by the rhythm of the jungle itself. Kaelen's new body didn't tire—or if it did, he couldn't feel it. Every step was a gift, a miracle, a prayer answered.
The Omaticaya moved through the forest like water flowing downhill—effortlessly, silently, in perfect harmony with their surroundings. They stepped over roots that seemed to shift out of their way. They ducked under branches that Kaelen would have crashed into. They walked on moss that left no footprints.
Kaelen, by contrast, stumbled and crashed and apologized. His new body was strong, but it didn't know this world. Every step required conscious thought, every movement a calculation. Seri watched him with barely concealed contempt.
"You move like a wounded ikran," she said at one point.
"What's an ikran?"
"You'll find out. If you're lucky."
They emerged from the forest into a vast clearing—except "clearing" was the wrong word. The space wasn't empty; it was filled. Filled with structures woven from living trees, platforms connected by bridges of vine, waterfalls that cascaded down artificial channels into pools below. And at the center, rising above everything else, was a tree so massive it made the Tree of Voices look like a sapling.
"Hometree," Seri said, following his gaze. "The heart of the People."
Kaelen stared. The tree's trunk was wider than any building he'd ever seen. Its branches spread across the sky like a second canopy, each one thick enough to support entire neighborhoods. Platforms and dwellings clung to its surface, connected by a dizzying network of stairs and bridges. People moved along these walkways—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—going about their lives as if living in a tree the size of a mountain was perfectly normal.
"This is where you live?" he asked.
"This is where we are," Seri corrected. "Living is what we do. This is simply where we do it."
They approached the base of Hometree, where a group of warriors had gathered. They were armed with bows and spears, their bodies painted for war. At their center stood a woman even taller than Tarsem, her features sharp with authority, her eyes ancient and knowing.
"Mother," Seri said, bowing her head.
The woman—the clan leader, Kaelen realized—studied him with the same unsettling intensity as Tarsem had. But where Tarsem's gaze had been measured, hers was piercing. It felt like she could see through his skin, through his bones, straight into the thoughts he was trying to hide.
"A dream-walker," she said. Her voice was low, musical, but carried weight. "It has been many cycles since one of your kind walked among us. The last one..." She glanced at Tarsem. "The last one brought sorrow."
"This one was lost near the Tree of Voices," Tarsem said. "He claims he was sent to learn. To see."
"To see." The woman—whose name, Kaelen would learn, was Anya, the clan matriarch—stepped closer. "And what do you see, dream-walker? Looking at me, at my people, at our home—what do you see?"
Kaelen thought carefully before answering. "I see a people who live in a way I don't understand. Who have something I've lost."
"And what is that?"
"Connection." The word came out before he could stop it. "To each other. To this place. To... something bigger than themselves."
Anya was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled. It was a small smile, barely a twitch at the corners of her mouth, but it transformed her face.
"You speak truth," she said. "Or at least, you speak what you believe to be truth. That is more than the last dream-walker offered." She turned to Seri. "Daughter, you will be his teacher."
Seri's eyes widened. "Mother—"
"You will teach him our ways. Our language. Our connection to Eywa." Anya's gaze returned to Kaelen. "He will live among us. He will eat our food, drink our water, breathe our air. And if he proves worthy, he will learn to see as we see."
"And if he proves unworthy?" Seri asked.
Anya's smile faded. "Then he will leave. One way or another."