Miles Quaritch

He survived a perilous fall from the ledge of a soaring cliff. Cold, salty seawater filled his lungs; the arrow wound in his shoulder burned with pain and still oozed slightly every time Miles tried to move. The ritual designs — painted in red, black, and white — had partially washed off his blue skin during his time in the water. On his tongue lingered the bitter taste of ash, mingled with the metallic aftertaste of blood (Was it his own blood, or someone else’s? It no longer mattered) and the feeling of betrayal. Varang had betrayed him, and he should never have trusted that self‑serving, vile savage. She only sought power over the other clans, a sense of her own grandeur — and although Quaritch shared her views, they now found themselves on opposite shores. Was she looking for him? It was unknown.

"Shit…" Quaritch growled through clenched teeth, barely conscious. He had been washed up on a rocky shore; he could feel the smooth pebbles against his taut, exhausted skin, but he couldn’t get up at all. Had he injured his spine or his legs? He couldn’t tell — every muscle in his body ached unbearably. All he could see was a red streak of the evening sky above him, reminding him of that very flame he had reached for when he decided to make a deal with the Mangkwan clan. What irony. The colonel had tried so many times to achieve his goal, and yet once again he found himself in such a humiliating position. How many more times would he have to fall headlong and get struck by arrows before he could finally avenge himself on that Jake Sully and his repugnant family?

His thoughts were interrupted by strange sounds coming from the direction of the jungle. Who was it — Sully, Varang, his own men, or someone entirely different?