Chapter 25 – The Weight of Ashes
The night air stank of smoke and charred wood. Lanterns had fallen, stalls were nothing but husks, and laughter that once filled the festival was replaced by silence.
Ashura stumbled through the ruined square, his eyes darting from the broken remnants of joy to the bodies being carried away by survivors. His fists trembled.
Ashura: "If I hadn't come here… if I hadn't been so careless… this wouldn't have happened."
Temari, her arm wrapped in bloodied cloth, followed close behind. Shoto clung to her other side, his small face pale and tight.
They reached the steps of the inn — or what remained of it. Ashura collapsed against the stone, his breathing ragged. His words spilled out, jagged and broken.
Ashura: "I ruin everything! I ruined this place… I ruined my family… I ruined my—"
The artifact mark on his arm pulsed violently, glowing in sync with his heartbeat. His body shook like it was ready to tear itself apart.
Temari's eyes widened. She ignored the sting in her wound and dropped beside him, grabbing his shoulders before he spiraled further.
Temari: "Ashura, listen to me! You're not some weapon… you're human. You can break. You can fall. And you can cry."
Her voice was sharp, cutting through his storm. Then, softer, trembling at the edges:
Temari: "So cry as much as you need to… right here. On me. You're not alone anymore."
She pulled him into her chest. For a moment, Ashura resisted — his pride, his pain, his guilt — all trying to hold back. But then, the dam cracked. His forehead pressed to her shoulder, and his body shook violently as sobs tore free.
Temari didn't let go. Her blood seeped into her sleeve, her strength wavered, but she held him. Tight. Firm. As if she could shoulder the weight he carried, even if just for a moment.
Shoto stood silently beside them, his small hands curling into fists. His brother — the one who was always so strong — was crying. For the first time, Shoto didn't feel scared. He felt… closer.
---
Hours later, the fires had been put out. Survivors gathered, tending to the wounded. At the edge of town, under the pale moon, Master Iroh and Fuyuko stood together, their clothes torn but their posture unyielding.
Fuyuko lit a thin pipe, her white hair drifting in the breeze.
Fuyuko: "This wasn't random. The attack… it was meant to draw out something. Or someone."
Iroh's eyes narrowed, scanning the ruined horizon.
Iroh: "Hm. And it succeeded."
He looked back toward the inn where Ashura rested in Temari's arms. For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered across his face — pride, and worry entwined.
---
Not far from the chaos, a lone figure watched from a rooftop, the moon casting a silver edge along his blade. Renjiro.
He sheathed his sword slowly, his expression unreadable, save for the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
Renjiro: "So… the boy truly carries it. Interesting."
He turned away, disappearing into the shadows, but not before whispering to the wind:
Renjiro: "Next time, boy… I'll see if you're worth crossing steel with."
The night grew quiet again, leaving only the whispers of fire's embers and the weight of everything Ashura could not yet forgive himself for.
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