The crystal between them pulsed faintly, its glow breathing in and out like a living thing.
Tomora sat with his back against the cave wall, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely over them. The stone was cool through his clothes, grounding in a way he hadn't realized he needed. Across from him, the boy sat cross-legged, close enough that their shadows overlapped on the uneven wall behind them.
The cave was quiet—but not empty.
Somewhere deep within the stone, water dripped at a steady rhythm. The crystals hummed softly, a low vibration felt more in the bones than the ears. Outside, the wind whispered through the cliff cracks, threading its way into the sanctuary like a cautious guest.
The boy stared into the crystal's glow.
His fingers were clenched tightly in his lap.
"My clan…" he began.
The words hesitated, as if they had to push their way out. His shoulders rose with a breath that trembled despite his effort to steady it.
"They were wiped out because of me," he said. "…and my brother."
The crystal flared slightly, reacting to the shift in his voice.
Tomora didn't interrupt. He leaned forward just a fraction, eyes focused, jaw set. He had learned long ago that silence could be safer than questions.
"They were afraid," the boy continued. "Not of what we did. Of what we were."
His fingers loosened, then tightened again.
"We were born different," he said quietly. "Abnormal."
The word tasted bitter, even in the air.
"My brother…" His voice thinned. "He didn't make it."
The cave seemed to pull inward at those words. The light dimmed, shadows thickening along the walls. Tomora felt something heavy settle in his chest, familiar and unwelcome.
Before he could respond, another presence stirred.
Not in the cave.
Inside him.
A calm voice slid into his thoughts, smooth and measured, carrying the weight of something ancient.
This boy… and his late brother… Mimic said. Born in a late era.
Tomora's breath caught.
The boy's face didn't change, but the crystal flickered sharply, reacting to the sudden tension running through Tomora's body.
He looks just like Mournveil, Mimic continued. One of the Primordial Twins.
Tomora's fingers curled into his palms.
"What do you mean—late era?" Tomora asked aloud, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice cut through the quiet, sharper than intended. "How is that possible?"
The boy lifted his gaze, startled by the sudden shift.
Inside Tomora's mind, Mimic answered with the patience of something that had waited centuries to speak.
He carries the bloodline, Mimic said. But he was born generations too late. A branch that should have withered… yet didn't.
Tomora swallowed.
His power, Mimic continued, is wind.
The word sent a ripple through Tomora's veins. He felt it immediately—air stirring where there had been none, brushing against his skin, circling the crystal in slow, curious loops.
The first wind elemental in this world.
Tomora turned fully toward the boy.
The air shifted again.
Not violently. Not aggressively.
It moved as if responding to attention.
"Your elemental power," Tomora said slowly, watching the way the crystal's glow bent slightly around the boy's silhouette. "It's wind."
The boy didn't flinch.
He nodded.
"Yes," he said. "No one else has it."
A soft current curled around his wrist, lifting the loose fabric of his sleeve, playing with it like a living thing.
"I'm the first."
The wind settled again, obedient, patient.
Tomora stared.
He had seen fire tear mountains apart. Water carve valleys from solid stone. Darkness swallow armies whole. But this—this was different.
Wind left no scars.
It didn't bleed.
It couldn't be held.
The boy lowered his gaze again.
"They said it was unnatural," he murmured. "That it didn't belong in this age. That my brother and I were mistakes."
His hands shook now, just barely.
"They hunted us," he continued. "Not with soldiers. With fear. With whispers. With fires lit at night."
Tomora's jaw tightened.
The crystal brightened, reacting to the pressure of emotion filling the cave.
"They killed my clan to erase us," the boy said. "And when they couldn't control my brother… they made sure he wouldn't grow strong enough to scare them again."
The wind stirred violently this time, sweeping across the cave, rattling loose stones, making the crystals flare brighter in response.
Tomora rose to his feet without realizing it.
"Enough," he said quietly.
The word carried weight.
The wind stilled instantly.
The boy looked up, eyes wide—not afraid, but surprised.
Tomora knelt in front of him, bringing himself level. He could see it now. The resemblance Mimic had spoken of. Not in the boy's features exactly, but in the way the air seemed to orbit him, as if reality itself leaned closer when he breathed.
"You didn't destroy them," Tomora said.
The boy's lips parted slightly.
"They were already broken," Tomora continued. "They just needed someone to blame."
The boy's breath hitched.
The crystal dimmed, its glow softening.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the boy whispered, "If my brother had lived… would the world have been different?"
Tomora thought of Patricia's flower.
Of shadows swallowing soldiers.
Of a sea that looked peaceful while hiding endless cruelty beneath its surface.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know this—"
He reached out, stopping just short of touching the boy's shoulder.
"Wind doesn't exist to destroy," Tomora said. "It moves things forward. Whether the world wants it to or not."
The boy closed his eyes.
A tear slipped free, lifted instantly by a gentle breeze before it could fall.
And in the quiet sanctuary, something impossible sat between them—
A power born too late.
A survivor who should not exist.
And a future that had already begun to shift.