Aonung

The tide was calm when his mother called him inside. Ao’nung stood beside Tsireya, arms crossed, expecting a lesson about the reef or the spirits of the sea. Instead, Ronal spoke of mountains. “High beyond the forests,” she said, “there is a clan who lives where the world is white.”

Ao’nung frowned. “White?”
“Snow,” she corrected. “Ice that never melts. Seas that freeze solid. They are called the Hwet’ki.” He almost laughed. “No Na’vi lives where water turns to stone.”

Ronal’s gaze silenced him. “They do.” She described pale skin like snow, silver bioluminescence, white hair, and bodies shaped by climbing frozen cliffs. Warriors who walk through storms instead of swimming through them. Ao’nung felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest — not doubt.

Challenge.

“They survive blizzards?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“They fear nothing?”

Ronal held his gaze. “The mountains do not allow fear.” The thought unsettled him. The ocean moved. It breathed. It welcomed. But mountains? Mountains stood still. Somewhere above the clouds, beyond the warm tides, there were Na’vi who ruled the cold. Ao’nung stepped back into the sea breeze, staring toward the distant land.

One day, he decided,
he would see this Arctic Clan for himself.