"I... I can only pretend not to notice."
Zephyr's voice was a whisper now—hoarse, brittle.
"I act like I don't hear it when she muffles her sobs at night. I act like it doesn't tear me apart. Because if I show even a hint of weakness… she'll break. And if she breaks…"
He trailed off, eyes distant, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.
"…then we both fall apart."
Aman remained silent, every instinct screaming to offer something—comfort, a joke, even just a curse to spit at whatever twisted force hunted them—but nothing came. Not when faced with that quiet, naked grief. Not when the scars ran deeper than words could reach.
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind whispered between the shattered training dummies, the scent of scorched wood and poison still lingering. Aman let the silence stretch, honoring the weight of what Zephyr had just admitted. But Zephyr wasn't done.
His voice came again, quieter than before, like something unearthed from the coldest part of memory.
"She counts every death. Every pain. Every injury. Every burned village. Every incident. As if her mere existence summoned the darkness."
Aman saw it then—the memory flashing behind Zephyr's eyes like a wound ripped open: Luna curled in some moonlit corner, her small frame shuddering with silent sobs, fingers clawing at her own arms as if she could scrape away whatever mark they believed she carried.
"Last winter," he whispered, "she tried to walk into a blizzard. Said the monsters would stop hunting if they had her."
Aman's eyes widened, but Zephyr didn't look at him. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt.
"I had to tie her to the bedroll for three nights straight. She just kept saying… 'It should have been me instead.'"
The pillar beneath his grip groaned as his fingers dug in harder, stone dust crumbling beneath his touch.
"But she did nothing wrong! None of this is her fault!" The words tore out like shrapnel—barbed, jagged, edged in guilt and fury. "It's all because of those—"
He cut himself off with a shuddering breath that sounded more dangerous than any shout. When he spoke again, it was with the precision of a blade being sharpened:
"Once I'm strong enough…"
"I'll make them pay for everything."
Aman watched as Zephyr's shoulders trembled - not from the cold, but from the weight he'd carried alone for years. The pieces clicked together with sudden, painful clarity.
It wasn't just Luna bearing this guilt.
Every word Zephyr spoke, every crack in his normally controlled voice - they weren't just about protecting her. They were the confession of someone who'd been drowning in his own failure, who measured his worth in the villages he couldn't save, the nights he couldn't stop her tears.
He's just a boy who blamed himself for things far beyond his control.
They're the same, Aman realized. Both are carrying guilt they don't deserve.
"..."
He could've said something reassuring. Could've pointed out that none of this was their fault, that they'd done everything they could. But platitudes wouldn't reach Zephyr—not now, not when the wounds were still raw.
Silence settled between them—heavy, but no longer suffocating.
Aman didn't offer any reassurances. Didn't try to lighten the moment with a joke.
Zephyr, too, said nothing more. His breathing steadied, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He didn't regret his outburst. If anything, the weight on his chest felt… lighter.
For the first time in years, someone else knew. Someone understood.
"...Anyway," Zephyr muttered at last, his voice cooling back into its usual detached tone. "That's the situation."
Aman nodded. "We've got more in common than I thought." A smirk tugged at his lips. "Though your stalkers definitely win the 'most creative harassment' award."
Zephyr shot him a glare—but there was no real heat behind it. If anything, it was almost… fond.
Aman stretched, rolling his shoulders with deliberate casualness. "Well, if they're behind the monster attack, then we're already in this together." His grin sharpened. "Might as well make it count."
Zephyr exhaled, but the barest hint of a smile touched his lips before vanishing. "...Just don't do anything reckless."
Aman coughed awkwardly. "Uhh, about that..." He scratched his cheek. "I think I'm gonna do something like that."
Zephyr's frown returned, his eyes narrowing. He knew Aman didn't joke about serious matters. "...What's your plan?"
Aman's grin didn't waver. "Plan?"
A beat.
"I just want to die."
"..."
...What?
_____
(Present)
Above the sky, where the wind howled and the clouds churned like smoke, two figures stood suspended in the air—untouched by the chaos below.
To the west, Virion coiled in midair, his emerald-scaled body glinting in the fractured light. His serpentine form, no thicker than a man's arm but twice as long, moved with liquid grace as his eyes tracked every development—the desperate clashes at the town's defence line, the calculated strikes of his students carving through the monsters. His tail-tip flicked like a metronome counting down to violence.
They're holding their own.
Opposite him, the woman from the Eastern Isles floated effortlessly, her long silk robes rippling like liquid ink in the wind. Her lips curved into a smile that was neither kind nor cruel—just amused. Deeply, unsettlingly amused.
Virion shot her a mocking glare. "Hmph. Seems like my boy already saw through your petty tricks."
The woman chuckled, the sound like wind chimes over a grave. "Indeed. You've always had an eye for talent, Ancient One." Her gaze lingered on the academy, where Aman and Zephyr moved like twin shadows through the carnage. "They're so good… So I want to play with them even more."
Virion scoffed, his tail lashing. "Don't even dream about it."
Below, a surge of green energy erupted as another portal tore open—Aman, Zephyr, and Aeron vanishing into it, reappearing where the battle was thickest.
Virion's smirk widened, fangs glinting. "Look. They're going to end your little game soon." His voice dripped with smug satisfaction. "So why don't you scurry off before you're embarrassed any further?"
The woman didn't react to his taunt. Instead, she tilted her head, her smile deepening into something quiet and cold.
"No one knows what will happen," she whispered, her eyes never leaving Aman. "But sometimes... the ones who fight hardest to live are the ones most desperate to disappear."
And then the wind took her words, scattering them like ash into the storm.