The forest had a way of swallowing sound.
Branches intertwined overhead, forming a living ceiling that filtered the sunlight into thin ribbons of gold. Each step Tomora took sent a soft crunch through fallen leaves, the noise swallowed almost instantly by the vast stillness around them. The path ahead was narrow, barely more than a suggestion carved through roots and moss, yet he walked it with purpose—shoulders tense, senses alert.
He felt it again.
That presence.
Tomora slowed, then stopped entirely. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. Slowly, he turned.
Tala stood a few steps behind him, her posture relaxed, her expression calm in a way that made his skin prickle. She wasn't hiding. She wasn't cautious. She looked as though she belonged there, framed by trees and dappled light.
His eyes sharpened.
"Why are you following me?" he asked.
The words came out firm, clipped, leaving no room for playfulness. This wasn't curiosity—it was a warning.
Tala didn't flinch. She met his gaze head-on, unbothered by the intensity behind it. There was no mockery in her eyes now. No arrogance. Just quiet resolve.
"If you run back to the Black Iron," Tomora continued, his voice lowering, "you're dead."
He watched her carefully as he spoke, searching for hesitation. There was none.
"You're powerless there," he added. "They won't hesitate."
For a moment, only the wind answered him, stirring the leaves and brushing past Tala's hair. Then she smiled—not wide, not mocking. Small. Controlled.
"Don't worry about me," she said softly.
The words unsettled him more than anger ever could.
Tomora studied her, really looked this time. The girl who once barked orders without thought. The girl who hid behind her father's shadow. Now standing alone in the forest, stripped of protection, stripped of authority—and yet she didn't look afraid.
"Then why are you here?" he asked, quieter now.
She tilted her head slightly, considering him. Her smile lingered, but there was something else beneath it. Curiosity. Challenge.
"Because I want to see how far you'll go."
The forest seemed to lean in, as if listening.
Tomora turned away first, resuming his path without another word. Tala followed, her footsteps light but certain, keeping pace without trying to catch up. Whatever game she thought she was playing, he didn't understand it. But he didn't tell her to leave.
The sun sank lower as the day wore on, shadows stretching longer between the trees. By the time night settled, the forest had transformed—cooler, quieter, alive with unseen movement. They stopped in a small clearing, the ground relatively flat, sheltered by thick trunks on all sides.
Tomora worked in silence, gathering dry branches and striking a spark. The fire caught slowly, flames licking upward until they formed a steady glow. The warmth pushed back the cold, painting the clearing in flickering orange light.
They didn't speak as the night deepened.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed Tala first. She lay down on a bed of leaves, turning slightly toward him, her breathing evening out. Tomora remained awake, staring into the fire, the flames reflected faintly in his eyes.
At some point, without asking, Tala shifted closer.
He felt it before he saw it—the light pressure, the warmth. Her head rested against his chest, her breath brushing faintly against his shirt. His body went rigid instantly, muscles tensing as though expecting an attack that never came.
He looked down.
Her face was peaceful in sleep, brows relaxed, lips parted just slightly. The sharp edges she wore so often were gone, replaced by something fragile and real. The firelight danced across her features, softening them further.
His heart skipped.
A faint heat crept up his neck, settling into his cheeks. He swallowed, unsure what to do with his hands, unsure if moving would wake her—or make things worse. For several long seconds, he didn't move at all, barely breathing.
"Tala…" he murmured, the name slipping out before he could stop it.
She didn't stir.
Slowly, carefully, he allowed himself to relax. His shoulders lowered a fraction. The tension in his chest eased just enough for him to breathe normally again. He stared up at the stars peeking through the canopy, their distant light steady and indifferent.
He had been alone for so long.
Not just physically—but inside.
Now, for reasons he didn't understand, someone had chosen to stay. Not out of obligation. Not out of control. But choice.
The thought unsettled him.
And yet… he didn't push her away.
The fire crackled softly beside them. The forest watched in silence. And beneath the stars, surrounded by shadows and uncertainty, two runaways rested side by side—no chains, no commands, only the fragile quiet of something beginning.
Whether it would save them or destroy them, neither of them yet knew.