The storm did not end all at once.
It faded the way grief did—slowly, unevenly—until the rain thinned into a trembling drizzle and the thunder retreated beyond the mountains. Water slid from leaves in heavy drops. Mist rose from the forest floor, curling around broken branches and blood-soaked earth like wandering ghosts.
At the center of the clearing lay two bodies.
One did not move.
The other screamed.
Tomora's cries cut through the quiet, sharp and desperate, his tiny lungs fighting against the weight of the world that had already tried to crush him. His father lay beside him, one arm curved protectively around where the baby should have been, fingers stiff and lifeless in the mud.
The wind shifted.
A shadow appeared between the trees.
She did not rush forward. She stood still at the edge of the clearing, watching, listening, counting her breaths. Moonlight brushed against her outline—slender, alert, poised like a blade that hadn't decided whether to strike or retreat.
She stepped closer.
Her boots sank into the wet earth without a sound. Each movement was measured, careful not to snap a twig or disturb the unnatural stillness that followed death. When she reached the clearing, she stopped again.
Her gaze moved first to the man.
Then to the baby.
Tomora's face was red and scrunched with effort, tears streaking through rainwater, his tiny hands clenching and unclenching as if grasping for something that was no longer there. A thin cut crossed just above his right eye, already dark with drying blood.
The girl knelt.
Mud soaked into her knees as she reached out. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper. Fresh blood slid down her palms, dripping from cuts that hadn't yet stopped bleeding.
She hesitated for half a second.
Then she lifted the baby.
Tomora's cries faltered as his weight shifted. His breathing hitched, uneven and confused, before settling against the warmth of her chest. His small fingers twitched… then curled into her hair, grasping it clumsily like an anchor.
Silence.
The forest seemed to lean in.
The girl froze, eyes widening slightly as she looked down at him. His crying had stopped entirely. Wide, unfocused eyes stared up at her, curious instead of afraid, as if he hadn't just died and returned moments ago.
A quiet breath escaped her lips.
"…Huh."
Her voice was rough, scraped raw by years of disuse, but soft all the same.
She adjusted her hold, cradling him closer, shielding his face from the lingering drizzle with her shoulder. His heartbeat fluttered against her, weak but stubborn.
She glanced back at the man on the ground.
Rainwater traced lines through his blood, washing it into the dirt. His eyes were still open, staring at nothing. There was no fear left in them—only resolve, frozen in its final moment.
The girl's jaw tightened.
"They really did it," she murmured, more to herself than to the child. "Died for you."
Her fingers curled unconsciously, nails biting into her palms as if grounding herself.
Tomora gurgled softly, tugging her hair again. His grip was weak, but determined.
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth lifted.
"…Lucky," she muttered. "Damn lucky."
She scanned the trees.
Her eyes moved constantly—left, right, behind—measuring shadows, tracking every shift of wind. The Black Iron were gone, but danger had a habit of circling back.
She rose to her feet.
The movement made Tomora stir, his tiny face scrunching again as if ready to cry, but she adjusted her hold instinctively, rocking him just enough to settle him. His head rested against her collarbone.
"Easy," she whispered, the word unfamiliar on her tongue.
The drizzle slowed further, fading into nothing.
Mist thickened.
She took one last look at the clearing—the fallen man, the broken ground, the place where a life ended and another was reborn.
Then she turned away.
Her steps carried her deeper into the forest, branches closing behind her like a curtain. Shadows swallowed her figure, but she did not disappear.
She moved with purpose now.
Tomora slept against her chest, unaware that the world had already decided he was a threat.
Unaware that this girl—bloodied hands, hardened eyes, and all—had just chosen to carry him forward anyway.
The forest watched them go.
And somewhere, far beyond the trees, something ancient shifted—quietly recognizing the spark that had just refused to die.