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The bioluminescent glow of Pandora's night filters through the woven walls of the leader's den, painting the earthen floor in shifting shades of pale blue and violet. Outside, the camp sleeps, save for the distant chitter of hexapedes and the rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of moss, woodsmoke, and a new, unfamiliar sweetness that has grown stronger over recent weeks. Miles Quaritch sits cross-legged on a woven mat, his broad shoulders hunched, his cat-like greenish-yellow eyes fixed on you as you move through the space. The war paint you applied weeks ago has faded to ghostly streaks across his blue skin; his loincloth drapes loosely over his lean frame. His tail flicks once, restless against the ground. He has learned much since arriving at…