Chapter — Echoes of the Past
The forest path narrowed as it stretched ahead of them, packed earth winding between towering trees whose leaves filtered the sunlight into soft, broken patterns. The air smelled of damp soil and old bark, the kind of quiet that felt alive rather than empty. Birds stirred above, unseen, and somewhere far off, water trickled over stone.
Tomora walked with his hands loose at his sides, steps steady but distant, as if part of him was somewhere else entirely. Tala kept pace beside him, her boots brushing fallen leaves. She glanced at him more than once before finally breaking the silence.
"You never told me much about your parents," she said quietly, careful not to shatter the calm around them.
Tomora's steps slowed by half a beat. His gaze drifted to the trees, to the way the light fractured through branches like broken glass.
"I don't know much," he replied. His voice was low, stripped of emotion, but not empty. "The only thing I remember… is the day they died."
The forest seemed to dim around him.
Rain poured in his memory—cold, heavy drops soaking through cloth and skin. Mud clung to everything. His mother's screams cut through the storm, raw and desperate, echoing between the trees as pain overtook her body. She was running and collapsing at the same time, breath tearing from her lungs as life forced its way into the world under the worst possible sky.
His father's arms were shaking as he held the newborn—Tomora—against his chest. Blood mixed with rain. Fear lived in his eyes, not for himself, but for the tiny life pressed against his heart. Footsteps thundered behind them. Voices shouted. The forest that once promised shelter turned into a maze with no escape.
And then—
The memory shattered.
Tomora blinked, the present snapping back into place like a tightened chain. His jaw clenched, throat dry. He didn't look at Tala, afraid that if he did, the past would spill out all at once.
She watched him carefully, noticing the way his shoulders had stiffened, the faint tension in his fingers. After a moment, a quiet laugh escaped her lips—not mocking, not cruel, but awkward, almost self-conscious.
"I laughed at you that day," she admitted. "When you told me… I'm sorry."
Her voice faltered at the end.
Tomora finally turned his head toward her. His eyes were unreadable, a storm hidden behind calm water. "And I resented you for that," he said simply.
Tala nodded, accepting it. She kicked a small stone off the path, watching it disappear into the undergrowth. "Yeah. I was cruel." Her lips pressed together. "But maybe… I didn't want to admit I was scared."
The words hung between them.
Scared.
Not powerless. Not evil. Just afraid.
Tomora considered that, the idea turning slowly in his mind. He remembered her threats, her sharp voice, the way she hid behind her father's shadow and his soldiers. He remembered the way her hands had trembled when she thought no one was watching.
"But still," he said at last, "I'm glad you didn't kill me."
The honesty in his tone caught her off guard.
Tala let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. The forest seemed to breathe with her, leaves rustling gently as sunlight warmed the path ahead. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need.
They walked on.
After several steps, Tomora spoke again, softer this time. "My father wasn't strong," he said. "Not like the people your family respects."
Tala listened without interrupting.
"He was a stage one thunder user," Tomora continued. "So weak that most people wouldn't even call it power." His fingers curled slowly. "If he had used it normally… his heart would have given out. That's what he told my mother. That's why he never used it."
The forest seemed to grow quieter, as if even the insects were listening.
"He ran instead," Tomora said. "Carried me. Protected her. Every step, every breath, knowing he couldn't fight back." His voice didn't shake, but there was weight behind every word. "And when they caught us… when there was nowhere left to go…"
His eyes darkened.
"He used it."
Tala's chest tightened.
"Not from his hands," Tomora said. "Not like I do." His gaze dropped to his own chest, right over his heart. "From here."
He stopped walking.
"That electricity wasn't meant to exist," he said quietly. "It burned him from the inside. It was his last hope. His only choice." His lips pressed together. "He never used his power before that… because he knew it would kill him."
The wind stirred the leaves overhead, sunlight flickering across their faces.
"He saved me," Tomora said. "And died doing it."
Tala didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat felt tight, eyes stinging as the image formed in her mind—a man with no real strength, standing between death and a child, choosing to burn himself away rather than let his son disappear into darkness.
Tomora resumed walking, slower now. "People talk about power like it's something you're born with," he said. "Like it defines your worth." A faint, bitter smile touched his lips. "But the strongest person I ever knew… was weak."
They walked in silence after that, the forest wrapping around them like a witness that would never tell their secrets. Tala glanced at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, she understood something she'd never been taught.
Strength wasn't always loud.
It wasn't always visible.
And sometimes, it only appeared once—at the cost of everything.
As the path curved ahead, Tala finally spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What would you have done," she asked, "if you were in his place?"