The sea has turned my bones hollow.
Everyone else sleeps—Rose, the couple, the passengers—yet I stand alone at the bow, gripping the cold railing as if the ocean might swallow me if I loosen even a finger. Three nights of pointless waves… exactly the kind of emptiness I used to drown in back then.
A shape flickers in the distance.
For a moment I'm convinced I imagined it—just another mirage on this dead horizon—but then it sharpens: a curve of land rising from fog.
My chest tightens.
Not excitement—just the relief of something finally changing.
---
Morning forces itself onto the deck. People start waking, eating, talking. I move through it all like a ghost, finishing my preparations quickly.
"I saw it first, Rose," I say as I secure my pack.
Rose smiles in that warm, thoughtless way she always does—too close, too soft. "Yes. And this voyage was unbearable, wasn't it?"
I don't answer the smile.
I only shake my head. "I'm done with this kind of journey."
Her gaze lingers a bit too long, reading me again. I look away.
When land grows near, I stand immediately. "Let's go. I want solid ground."
But her expression shifts—tightening with something she clearly doesn't want to say.
"Hiro…"
"What now?"
"The trip to my uncle's home… two more days and two more nights."
It hits like a blow to the gut.
---
The carriage ride is worse.
Everything shakes—the road, the wheels, my patience. Rose tries to carry the mood, answering the rider politely, but even her voice has grown tired. She's close enough that our shoulders brush when the cart tilts. I move away; she notices but pretends she didn't.
The rider laughs at us. "Look around. That will lift your spirits."
And it does—mountains sprawling like a kingdom untouched, rivers threading silver between forests. Even I pause; the scene strikes with a quiet force.
Rose lights up beside me. "Hiro… do you see? I've been trying to remember this place for years."
Her joy is real, unguarded.
Too unguarded.
Moments like this are dangerous.
People who look at me like that—expecting something from me—are dangerous.
---
So I turn my eyes back to the trail before she can say anything else.
Two days blur past.
We reach Quenstown under a sky the color of dying embers. Houses stand directly above the sea—closer than the place I grew up. My stomach twists at the sight; memories claw up when I don't want them to.
The coachman stops before a crowded bar. The villagers celebrate something, loud and bright.
"Lord Oliver is well-loved," the coachman explains. "Everyone knows him."
Rose surprises herself at that. "My uncle? Loved?"
Something in her voice trembles—hope, searching, longing.
I feel it brush against me, and immediately I step back from it.
They speak. She offers coins, he refuses with reverence. The farewell is warm, almost ceremonial.
And then the cart leaves.
I breathe out slowly, finally, the long journey ending.
But Rose looks at the village with that same spark—expectation, connection, belonging.
A direction I can't follow.
"We're here," I say, the words falling flat between us.
And even now—even with her goal so close—she stands beside me as if she's waiting for something from my presence.
Something I can't give.
Something I won't let myself give.
---
Rose walks toward the bar—slow, steady, too composed for someone who keeps reaching for me. "Let's go inside," she says, offering her hand again.
I ignore it. I stay a step behind, where it's safer.
The moment the door opens, noise floods out—laughter, clattering plates, drunken shouting. Faces turn toward us, then turn away. We're nothing to them.
Rose questions a man. "Where is Lord Oliver?"
"Back courtyard."
She returns, palm extended once more—instinctive, invasive.
"We'll meet my uncle."
I brush past her without a word.
Outside, smoke coils around a man sitting alone. Rose stops. "Uncle?"
Oliver turns as if someone resurrected the dead. "My lady…?"
She runs to him and embraces him. He laughs, loud, warm, careless.
They whisper. Then his attention shifts to me.
He stands. Walks closer.
Too close.
His hands rise to my face—cupping my cheeks gently, but it feels like a cage.
"Is it truly you?"
My body locks. Old reflex. Old fear. Before I can step back, he bows deeply at my feet.
"Allow me to join your journey, young master."
Rose watches—smiling. She enjoys how tense I become.
"Stand, Lord Oliver," I say, cold. He obeys.
In the carriage, on the way to his village, Rose lowers her gaze. Something heavy sits in her expression. But it's not about me—it never was. It's about her goal.
Oliver talks routes. Rose hands him the map.
"He's being searched for," she says, eyes flicking to me—too hopeful, too close. "Hiro's magic awakened again."
Her words hit harder than she realizes. I hate how easily people say it—as if it's theirs to name.
They discuss her childhood weapon, the sea, Zepharia, danger.
I stay silent.
Silence is distance.
Distance is safety.
At Oliver's hilltop home, Rose jumps down from the carriage with childish excitement. "It's beautiful!"
Her joy fills the air—too bright, too intrusive. I stay at the threshold.
Inside, moonlight mixes with an oil lamp, carving sharp shadows.
Rose demands her weapon. Oliver points upstairs.
"It's there. You two sleep there. One room."
She sprints before he finishes.
I inhale. Follow slowly.
I open the door—
A bow snaps past my face.
Rose flails. "I—I didn't know you were already—"
I enter, set our bags down, collapse on the bed. I need space. Even shallow space.
"Hiro," she whispers, stepping closer, always closer. "With this bow… I'll protect you. I'll kill anyone who goes after you."
Her devotion hits like a blade to the ribs.
I don't want anyone depending on me.
I laugh—quiet, dry, because this is absurd.
She bristles. "Are you mocking me?"
She sits beside me—way too near. Her body radiates heat; her emotions spill everywhere.
I look at her with one eye.
Her face reddens—anger, embarrassment… and something more dangerous.
She lifts her hand. "Want me to slap you again?"
"NO!"