The wind dies down.
Not all at once—just enough for the silence to feel deliberate.
Smoke coils upward from the fractured ground, thin threads of gray unraveling into the darkening sky. The earth is split where lightning tore through it, stone peeled open like flesh that never learned how to heal. Heat still pulses beneath the surface, a dull reminder of what passed through here moments ago.
Connor slowly gets to his feet.
There's no lightning clinging to his skin now. No fire breathing with his pulse. No earth answering his weight. Just a seventeen-year-old boy standing alone in a field of ruin, shoulders slumped, knuckles red and split, blood drying along the creases of his hands.
He looks smaller without the storm.
He turns toward them.
"…Sorry."
The word leaves his mouth quietly, almost awkwardly, like he isn't sure it deserves space in the air. His voice doesn't shake. It doesn't rise. It just exists.
"For being a burden."
He takes a step forward. Not fast. Not cautious either. Just a simple movement, measured and open. His arm lifts, palm facing sideways—not clenched, not glowing. An offering. A truce.
A reach.
But before he can close the distance—
It happens.
Patricia stiffens first. Her shoulders pull tight, muscles locking on instinct, boots shifting just enough to widen her stance. Jer's jaw clenches, teeth grinding together as heat flickers briefly beneath her skin before she forces it down. Yora's feet move without her realizing it—half a step back, eyes narrowing as if calculating escape routes she never wanted to need.
Tala freezes.
Her body doesn't pull away, but it doesn't move forward either. She stands caught between fear and guilt, breath shallow, hands trembling at her sides.
Connor sees it.
Immediately.
His arm stops mid-air.
The silence stretches, thin and sharp.
A faint smile forms on his face—the kind people wear when they notice they've made someone uncomfortable and don't want to make it worse. Soft. Careful. Resigned.
"…Ah."
He lowers his hand.
"Yeah."
The word lands heavier than it should.
"That makes sense."
He bows slightly. Not deeply. Not dramatically. Just enough to acknowledge the distance that's grown between them.
"Really. I'm sorry."
Then he turns away.
Tomora steps forward without thinking.
"Wait—"
"You don't need to leave."
Connor stops.
He doesn't turn around.
"Yes, I do."
His fist tightens at his side. The skin across his knuckles pulls white, veins rising like cords beneath the surface.
"If I didn't see Tala crying…"
The words hang there, unfinished and sharp.
"I could've killed you."
Tomora's eyes widen. The air around him stirs, water reacting before he does.
"That's not strength."
Connor's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't crack. That somehow makes it worse.
"That's a ready to kill weapon."
He looks back—just once.
"And weapons don't walk with friends."
Tala's breath catches.
"Connor—"
He shakes his head gently.
"Don't."
The motion is small. Final.
"You were right to be afraid."
A soft crackle fills the air.
Lightning crawls over his feet, thin strands of blue-white energy wrapping around his ankles, humming low like something waking up reluctantly.
"Take care of each other."
Tomora lunges forward.
"Don't—!"
Thunder detonates.
Connor vanishes in a flash of light and sound, the air collapsing inward where he stood. The shockwave ripples outward, dust and debris skittering across the ground before settling into stillness.
Only scorched stone remains.
Silence.
No one speaks.
The road ahead lies empty, blackened and broken, stretching into darkness that feels deeper than it should.
"What have we done."
Jer's voice barely carries.
"…We messed up."
Patricia doesn't look at anyone when she says it.
"We didn't mean to."
Yora's words sound hollow, like she doesn't expect them to change anything.
Tala drops to her knees.
The impact knocks the breath from her lungs, dirt pressing into her palms as tears spill freely now, unchecked.
"He was trying to protect us…"
Tomora doesn't move.
He stares at the direction Connor ran, eyes fixed on the faint scorch marks that fade into nothing. His fists shake at his sides, water rippling outward in uneven pulses before sinking back into the ground.
He runs because he thinks he's alone.
The thought cuts deeper than anger ever could.
He closes his eyes.
"…Next time we meet," he says quietly, the words firming as they leave him, "I won't let him run."
Far away, the land blurs beneath pounding feet.
Lightning flashes intermittently, tearing across valleys and ridgelines, illuminating a lone figure racing through the dark. Each strike comes shorter than the last, weaker, more desperate—like the storm itself is running out of breath.
Connor doesn't slow.
His lungs burn. His muscles scream. Blood slicks his palms where his fists clench too tight.
He runs anyway.
Not from them.
From the moment he almost didn't stop.
From the image of Tala on her knees.
From the truth that no matter how hard he tries to be careful, the storm inside him doesn't ask for permission.
A boy runs through the night.
And no one hears him say he's sorry.