The forest slept uneasy.
Tents formed a loose ring around the dying campfire, their fabric stirring softly as the night wind passed through. Somewhere deeper in the woods, an owl called once, then went quiet again. The purple moon hung low, casting strange light across the clearing—just bright enough to stretch shadows long and sharp.
Everyone else was asleep.
Everyone except Tomora.
He sat at the edge of the firelight, knees bent, elbows resting on his thighs. A short blade lay in his hands. Slow. Precise. The whetstone slid along the metal with a steady rhythm—shhhk… shhhk…—each pass deliberate, almost meditative.
Sparks jumped when the angle was just right.
His eyes never blinked.
The knife didn't need sharpening. Not really. But his hands kept moving anyway. Back and forth. Again. Again. Like if he stopped, something inside him might break loose.
The scars on his knuckles caught the firelight—faded lightning burns, barely visible now. His jaw tightened.
Footsteps crunched softly behind him.
He didn't turn.
Tala hesitated at the edge of the clearing. The firelight reached her boots first, then climbed slowly up her legs as she stepped closer. She stopped a few paces away, arms folded tight around herself, eyes fixed on his back.
"Tomora…" Her voice came out thinner than she meant it to.
The knife kept moving.
"Can we talk?"
The blade paused.
Not because of her voice.
Because he'd pressed too hard.
Tomora straightened the edge, then resumed sharpening like nothing had happened.
"If you're gonna apologize again," he said flatly, "don't."
The words were sharp, but not loud. Almost tired.
"I'm sick of hearing it."
Tala swallowed and lowered herself onto a fallen log beside him. She didn't speak right away. Just sat there, watching the fire bend and sway between them.
Seconds stretched.
Then—
"I'm not worried about that."
The whetstone stopped.
Tomora didn't look at her.
"Then say it."
She took a breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.
"My father."
That got him.
The knife lowered into his lap. His shoulders stiffened, barely noticeable unless you were watching closely.
"He's a Commander of Black Iron," Tala continued quietly. "If he finds out I'm gone…"
She glanced toward the tents, then back at him.
"He won't think I ran."
The fire popped.
"He'll think you took me."
Tomora's fingers curled slowly around the knife handle.
"He'll come for you," she said. "For Jer. For Yora. For Patricia's people."
Her voice cracked just a little.
"And he won't stop."
The forest seemed to lean in.
Tomora stood.
The motion was sudden enough to make Tala flinch. He turned to face her fully now, moonlight cutting across his face, shadows filling the hollows beneath his eyes.
For a moment, he just stared.
Then he rolled his shoulders once and cracked his knuckles—crrk—one by one.
"Good."
Tala blinked. "What?"
He stepped closer.
"Let him come."
The words weren't shouted.
They were worse than that.
They were calm.
"I don't care if he's a Commander," Tomora snapped suddenly, voice exploding out of nowhere, echoing through the clearing. "I'M NOT AFRAID OF SOME OLD SHITHEAD WHO HIDES BEHIND SOLDIERS!"
Tala recoiled instinctively.
His eyes burned—not with lightning, but with something rawer. Meaner.
"If he shows up—" Tomora wiped his thumb across his nose, slow and deliberate, like a fighter before a brawl. "I'll beat him to a pulp."
Silence.
The fire crackled loudly now.
Tala stared at him.
Waiting for the shake in his voice.
For doubt.
For fear.
It didn't come.
Something shifted in her expression instead. Her eyes widened—not with panic, but with something closer to awe.
"You're insane," she said softly.
Tomora scoffed. "And you run your mouth too much."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Short. Quiet. Real.
He turned away from her then, facing the forest, staring up at the fractured sky through the treetops. Stars scattered across the darkness like broken glass.
"I'm not running anymore," he said, quieter now. Not soft—just controlled.
"Not from him."
The knife lowered to his side.
"Not from anyone."
The wind rustled the leaves above them, brushing against his hair, tugging at Tala's cloak. The campfire cast their shadows tall against the tents—two figures standing on the edge of something dangerous.
Tala watched him for a long moment.
She saw the tension in his shoulders.
The way his fingers trembled just slightly before going still.
She stood and stepped beside him, looking up at the same stars.
"I hope," she whispered, "you can keep that promise."
Tomora didn't answer.
But his hand tightened around the knife.
And far beyond the clearing—past the hills, past the border, past the land claimed by Black Iron—something moved.
Orders were being written.
Armor was being fastened.
And somewhere, a Commander would soon hear his daughter's name spoken in fear.