The night settled over Patricia's village like a heavy blanket. The air smelled of ash and pine resin, and the distant hum of insects filled the spaces between breaths. Bonfires burned low now, reduced to glowing ribs of wood and lazy orange tongues that licked the darkness without urgency. Most of the village slept—warriors wrapped in cloaks, spears laid within arm's reach, children curled beside parents who dreamed of quieter days.
Tomora didn't sleep.
He sat on a fallen log near the edge of the firelight, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely interlocked. The flames reflected in his eyes, flickering across the faint lightning-shaped scars that traced his skin. When the fire flared, the scars seemed to answer—glowing just enough to be noticed, then fading again, like embers refusing to die.
He opened and closed his right hand slowly.
Nothing.
No crackle. No heat. No answering hum beneath his skin.
His jaw tightened.
The fire popped, sending a spark spiraling upward. Tomora followed it with his eyes until it vanished into the dark sky. For a moment, his reflection in the flames looked older than he was—sharper, harder, like something forged too early.
Footsteps crunched softly behind him.
He didn't turn.
Yora lowered herself beside him, careful not to disturb the log. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the firelight tracing the edges of her face. She didn't speak at first. She just watched the flames with him, letting the silence breathe.
After a while, she broke it.
"Why do you fight, Tomora?"
The question drifted between them, light but heavy at the same time. Tomora's fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the shifting coals.
He said nothing.
The fire sighed as a log shifted inward.
Yora didn't push. She waited. Then she spoke again, quieter this time.
"Not the easy answer," she said. "Not the one you throw at people so they stop asking."
She glanced at him. His shoulders were tense, pulled tight like a bowstring.
"What's your reason?" she asked. "What keeps you moving?"
Tomora's breath came out slow through his nose. The night wind brushed past them, carrying the smell of smoke and steel. Somewhere deeper in the village, someone turned in their sleep.
"…You really wanna know?" he muttered.
Yora nodded.
He leaned forward, elbows pressing harder into his knees, and stared into the fire as if it were a window instead of a flame.
The noise of the camp faded.
The shouting voices, the crack of thunder, the screams—memories rose uninvited, stacking on top of each other like bodies. His throat tightened.
When he spoke, the anger wasn't loud.
It was sharp.
"This world's a joke," he said.
The words dropped flat, heavy. Yora's breath caught.
Tomora didn't look at her.
"The government decides who deserves power," he continued, voice low and steady. "They build walls around the rich and call it order. They crush villages and call it stability."
The firelight danced in his eyes, reflecting something colder than rage.
"I've seen what happens when you don't kneel," he said. "They don't just kill you. They erase you. Burn your name. Bury the truth with your body."
His fingers tightened, knuckles whitening.
"They killed people I knew."
The words came out rougher than the rest.
Faces flashed behind his eyes—Patricia's crooked grin, blood staining her hands. His father's back disappearing into the trees. His mother's voice breaking as she spoke his name for the last time.
"They hide everything," he went on. "Every crime. Every lie. They dress it up and shove it down people's throats until everyone forgets what's real."
Yora stared at him, unmoving.
Tomora finally inhaled deeply, chest rising, then falling.
"So I'm not gonna let them," he said.
The fire flared, as if listening.
"I'll tear it all out," he continued. "Every secret they buried. Every name they tried to erase. I'll drag it into the light where everyone can see it."
He lifted his gaze from the flames, looking past the treeline toward the distant stars. His eyes burned—not with lightning, but with something heavier.
"They act like gods," he said quietly. "So I'll show the world they bleed."
The night seemed to hold its breath.
Tomora swallowed. His voice dipped, softer now—not weaker, just stripped bare.
"I don't care about glory," he said. "I don't care about peace."
He exhaled slowly.
"If I die," he added, "I want it to mean something."
The fire crackled again, sending sparks into the sky.
"I want a meaningful death."
The words settled like ash.
Yora didn't answer right away. She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his arm. Not a confession. Not a promise. Just presence.
After a moment, she leaned against him, her weight light but certain, like someone choosing where to stand.
"Then you won't die alone," she said softly.
Tomora stiffened.
For a heartbeat, his expression faltered. The lines in his face eased, just a fraction. His shoulders dropped, barely noticeable, like a weapon set down for half a second.
Then he scoffed.
"Tch," he muttered, turning his head away. "Don't get the wrong idea."
Yora smiled faintly, but said nothing.
Above them, the moon slid out from behind a cloud, pale and watchful. Its light washed over the village—over the sleeping warriors, the quiet fires, and the boy sitting at the edge of everything, staring into flames that refused to die.
The camera pulled upward.
The fire burned on.
And somewhere beyond the trees, unseen eyes watched the glow, waiting for the moment it would become a blaze.