Born to Hunt, Bound to the Alpha

The Camp

Eywa POV



The firelight reaches through the trees long before I step into the clearing.

Voices carry through the night in loose, uneven threads. Laughter, rough and unrestrained, layered over the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clatter of metal against wood. Smoke hangs thick in the air, mixing with sweat, leather, damp earth, and the faint metallic edge that always seems to follow a successful hunt.

Home.

If anything ever deserved the word.

I step into the circle of light without announcing myself. I don’t need to. A few heads turn immediately, conversations stuttering for a moment before settling again.

They always notice.

Not because I ask for it.

Because they expect it.

“There she is,” someone calls from near the fire. “The one who actually brings something back.”

A few chuckles follow.

I ignore them and keep moving, my gaze sweeping over the camp automatically as I pass. The tents are arranged in a loose semicircle, weapons laid out with casual familiarity, guards posted at the edges of the clearing more out of habit than concern.

It is a good setup.

Defensible.

Efficient.

Predictable.

“Nice work out there.”

I don’t need to turn to know it’s Jack. His voice always carries the same steady, unshakable tone. Approval stripped of warmth, like praise and judgment were built from the same material and he never saw a reason to separate them.

“It ran longer than expected,” I reply.

He steps closer, his boots quiet on the dirt. “Still didn’t get far enough.”

That is his version of praise.

I incline my head slightly, accepting it without comment.

Behind him, Pete lets out a low laugh. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“You don’t need help with that,” someone shoots back.

More laughter.

Pete grins, unbothered, but his eyes flick to me for just a second too long.

Assessing.

Always assessing.

I look away first. Not because he unsettles me, but because he isn’t worth the attention.

“Where’s Maris?” I ask.

Jack jerks his chin toward one of the larger tents. “Waiting.”

Of course she is.

She always is.

The noise of the camp dulls slightly as I step away from the firelight, the shadows thickening around me. The air feels cooler here, quieter, the energy shifting from celebration to something more measured.

More real.

Maris doesn’t look up when I enter. She sits at a small wooden table, lantern light pooling softly across the scattered contents in front of her. Vials, herbs, a mortar, a blade laid neatly to one side. Her hands move with practiced ease as she grinds something into a fine powder.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I stayed to watch.”

That earns me a glance.

Her eyes flick over me quickly, checking for injuries, for blood that isn’t mine, for anything that doesn’t belong.

Finding nothing.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Observation is what keeps you alive.”

I step further into the tent and let the flap fall closed behind me. The sounds of the camp dull instantly, muffled by canvas and distance.

“He was there,” I say.

Maris does not react immediately.

“He usually is,” she replies after a moment.

“That close?”

Now her attention sharpens.

“Close enough,” I say. “Close enough to know he isn’t avoiding us.”

“That is not something to take lightly.”

“They never are.”

“No,” she says, looking at me more directly now. “But this one doesn’t behave like the others.”

Neither do I.

The thought comes and goes so quickly it barely has time to settle.

Maris reaches for one of the vials and holds it out to me.

“Drink.”

Routine.

Every night.

I take it without hesitation, the glass cool against my fingers. The liquid inside is dark, almost black in the dim light, thick enough to cling to the sides when I tilt it.

It smells bitter.

Unpleasant.

Familiar.

“What is it tonight?” I ask, more out of habit than curiosity.

“A stronger blend,” Maris replies. “You’ve been pushing yourself harder.”

I hum quietly and roll the vial once between my fingers before bringing it to my lips.

The taste is worse than usual.

Sharp.

Bitter.

It burns slightly on the way down and settles heavy in my stomach.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then a dull pressure begins to build behind my eyes.

I close them briefly and wait for it to pass.

It always does.

“You need to rest,” Maris says, watching me more closely now. “Recovery is as important as the hunt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine.”

There is something almost dry in the way she says it, but I don’t miss the edge underneath.

I open my eyes again as the pressure eases just enough to become manageable.

“He is choosing where we meet,” I say. “That’s what matters.”

Silence settles between us.

Maris leans back slightly, studying me in the way she usually reserves for strategy discussions and people she doesn’t entirely trust.

“That makes him dangerous,” she says.

“They’re all dangerous.”

“No,” she corrects softly. “That makes him deliberate.”

I hold her gaze.

“So am I.”

For a second, something like approval flickers across her face.

Then it’s gone.

“Good,” she says. “You’ll need to be.”

She gestures vaguely toward the entrance, toward the muffled sounds of the camp outside.

“They’re celebrating tonight. Let them. Tomorrow we plan.”

I push away from the support pole, the last of the pressure behind my eyes settling into a low, manageable ache.

“Next time,” I say, “I won’t come back without him.”

Maris watches me for a long moment.

Not questioning.

Not doubting.

Measuring.

“I know,” she says quietly.

When I step back outside, the fire has burned lower, but the energy in the clearing hasn’t faded with it. Hunters move easily around each other, relaxed in a way they never are outside the safety of camp. Laughter still breaks through the night, drinks passed between hands, stories growing sharper and less accurate with every retelling.

I move through it without stopping.

This part has never interested me.

Not really.

A few people call out as I pass, but I don’t slow. Their voices fade behind me as I make my way toward the edge of the clearing, where the trees begin again.

The darkness feels different tonight.

Closer.

Sharper.

I pause at the boundary and let my gaze drift into the forest.

For a moment, I simply listen.

To the wind.

To the distant movement of animals.

To something deeper.

Something I still can’t name.

A faint unease settles low in my chest.

Not fear.

Not discomfort.

Just awareness.

I exhale slowly and turn away.

Tomorrow I go deeper.

And next time, I won’t be the one walking into his territory.

He'll be walking into mine.