Night pressed down on the forest like a held breath.
The fire at the center of their camp burned low, its flames no higher than a clenched fist, crackling softly as if afraid to wake anyone. Embers drifted upward and vanished into the dark canopy above. The river nearby whispered to itself, water sliding over stone in a slow, patient rhythm.
Jer slept with her spear within arm's reach, one arm thrown over her eyes. Yora lay curled close to the fire, chest rising and falling in small, quick breaths, fingers twitching occasionally as if she were still half-invisible even in sleep. Tala sat a little apart, back against a tree, eyes closed but not fully surrendered to rest. She listened—to the wind, to the forest, to him.
Tomora lay on the far side of the fire.
His body looked still, but something in him was restless. His brows twitched. His jaw clenched. One hand fisted tightly into fabric—the worn scarf wrapped around his wrist, frayed at the edges, carrying the faint scent of smoke and old blood and something gentler beneath it. Patricia.
A shudder passed through him.
The fire popped.
And Tomora fell deeper.
---
There was no ground.
No sky.
No sense of direction.
He stood suspended in nothingness, the darkness swallowing sound, swallowing distance. Even his breathing felt wrong—too loud, too small. He turned, instinctively searching for something familiar, but the void gave nothing back.
Then light burst across the darkness.
Not warmth. Not comfort.
Lightning.
It split the void open in jagged lines, white and violent, burning images into the air. Faces flickered in and out, too fast to grasp.
Patricia—kneeling, smiling softly as she tied his bandages too tight, scolding him under her breath even as her hands trembled.
Patricia—falling.
Her body hit the ground without a sound, blood blooming across the dirt like spilled ink.
"No—"
The void tore again.
A man running through trees, breath ragged, boots slipping on wet leaves. Arms wrapped protectively around something small. A newborn's cry cut through the air, sharp and desperate.
His father.
The man stumbled. Looked back once. Fear and resolve twisting together on his face.
Then lightning—raw, wrong, tearing out from inside the man's chest.
Tomora felt it like it was his own heart burning.
"Stop!" he screamed, his voice shredding itself against the emptiness. "Please—stop!"
The images didn't listen.
The lightning twisted, growing darker, heavier. It stopped looking like light and started looking like something alive. It crawled. It clawed. It ripped through the void with soundless fury, warping everything it touched.
Tomora raised his hands instinctively, trying to call it back, trying to shape it the way he always had.
Nothing answered.
Instead, the space in front of him warped.
A black spiral formed, slow at first, like ink bleeding through water. It twisted inward on itself, edges jagged, wrong. Shadows peeled away from the void and were dragged into it, stretching like tearing flesh.
Something moved inside it.
Claws—long, thin, reaching out as if testing the world beyond.
Tomora staggered back, heart slamming against his ribs. His feet slipped on nothing. He fell hard, landing on his knees even though there was no ground to hold him.
His hands shook.
"That's not…" His voice cracked. "That's not mine."
The shadow pulsed, responding to him.
A pressure settled on his chest, heavy and suffocating, like the moment before drowning. He hugged himself, fingers digging into his arms as if he could hold himself together through force alone.
"Please," he whispered, the word barely more than breath. "Don't take it away. I need it. I—I need it."
The void didn't answer.
The shadow surged.
---
Tomora's body jerked violently.
In the real world, his breath hitched, sharp and uneven. Sweat soaked through his clothes, darkening the fabric at his chest and back. His fingers clawed tighter into the scarf, knuckles whitening.
A sound slipped from his throat—not quite a sob, not quite a scream.
"Don't go…" he murmured, voice breaking apart. "Please… don't go…"
Tala's eyes snapped open.
She turned toward him, heart sinking at the sight of his shaking form. She started to move—
And stopped.
The forest shifted.
Not with sound, but with presence.
The shadows between the trees deepened, gathering unnaturally in one place. Moonlight bent around a figure standing just beyond the reach of the firelight, cloaked in darkness that didn't belong to the night.
The figure didn't make a sound.
Didn't disturb a leaf.
Didn't breathe.
They stepped closer, moonlight catching briefly on a hand as it emerged from the cloak. Golden symbols traced across the skin like etched sunlight, faint but unmistakable, pulsing slowly—once, twice—as if alive.
The figure knelt beside Tomora.
Up close, their gaze softened—not with pity, but with recognition. As though they were looking at a reflection from a long time ago.
Tomora whimpered in his sleep, shoulders curling inward.
The figure watched the rise and fall of his chest. The way his fingers refused to let go of the scarf. The way his face twisted with fear even as he slept.
"So much power," the figure whispered, voice barely stirring the air. "And no shelter to hold it."
Their fingers hovered just above Tomora's forehead. They didn't touch him.
Didn't need to.
"You're cracked all the way through," they murmured. "Lightning burns outward. But this…"
Their eyes flicked briefly to the way the shadows clung just a little too closely to Tomora's form.
"…this grows inward."
Tomora's breathing steadied slightly, though his face remained tight with pain.
The figure rose to their feet, cloak whispering softly as it brushed the ground. They took one last look at him—at the boy curled around a memory, shaking beneath the weight of things he was never meant to carry alone.
"Not yet," they said quietly.
The forest seemed to listen.
"Grow," the figure added, stepping back into the darkness. "Or be consumed."
They vanished without a trace. No ripple. No echo.
Just absence.
The fire crackled.
An ember popped and fell.
Tomora slept on, unaware of how close fate had knelt beside him—unaware that something had looked at his broken pieces and decided to wait.