Location: Kürdiala, Black Peaks Region, | Year: 8002 (A.A.), The Hour of the Silver Moon
Kürdiala did not simply exist in the desert; it was a secret kept by the sands, a breath held against the tyranny of the world. It stood still and serene beneath the vast, star-strewn vault of the night sky, its graceful structures of golden sandstone glowing with a soft, inner light, now silvered by the moon's gentle blessing. It was a city that felt less built and more dreamed into being, a place where the very stones seemed to hum with a quiet, ancient peace. In the dry, cool wind that wandered its empty streets and whispered through its arched colonnades, old stories moved—tales of joy, of loss, and of a hope that refused to die, all swirling through the air like the timeless grains of ancient sand, each one holding a fragment of history.
At the main gate, a great archway carved with runes of welcome and warding, stood Ekene Çelik. He was tall and silent, a figure of such profound stillness he might have been mistaken for part of the city's fortifications, another guardian carved from the living rock. His robes, of a deep, starless obsidian-black, were woven through with intricate protective sigils in gold thread that caught the moonlight with every faint stir of the air. A crimson sash, bright as spilled wine, was cinched tightly at his waist, the only spot of vivid color against the night. His tall, lean form held its watchful posture without a hint of weariness; he was a Tracient of Leopard blood, and his very essence was one of patient, poised readiness—quick of thought and swifter still in spirit should the need arise. His golden eyes, calm and endlessly watchful, swept across the endless expanse of the desert beyond the gates, reading the patterns of the dunes and the shadows as another might read a book.
And it was from that vast, sleeping desert that the procession came. It was first a smudge on the horizon, a darker thread of movement against the silvered sand, then a slow, determined flow of weary souls emerging from the embrace of the night.
Leading them was Kon Kaplan, his usual aura of contained violence softened by the grind of the long journey. His orange fur was dulled by a fine layer of ash and dried sweat, and the terrible scar on his face seemed deeper in the moonlight, a trench of shadow. Yet, even in his exhaustion, his eyes—the one gold, the other hidden—remained fierce, burning with a banked fire that hardship could not quench. Beside him walked Kopa Boga, a pillar of strength next to Kon's blade-like intensity. The great Stag moved with a solid, grounding presence, as steady and reliable as the sun's return, his magnificent antlers a branching forest against the sky, his green eyes holding a deep, weary compassion for those who followed.
And behind them came the reason for their weariness, their prize and their burden: a long, trailing line of rescued souls. Men, women, and children—some with the cloven hooves and fur of Narn, others with the weary but resilient bearing of ArchenLanders. They moved slowly, their steps shuffling with a fatigue that was more than physical. They were wounded, not always in body, but in spirit, each carrying the invisible scars of captivity and fear. Their clothes were rags, their faces were smudged with dirt and etched with the memory of suffering, and yet, in their eyes, even the eyes of the smallest child, there was a quiet, unmistakable light. It was the light of survival, a fragile but stubborn flame that had been shielded on the long march home, and now, seeing the silvered walls of the hidden city, it burned a little brighter, fed by the oxygen of hope. They were a living tapestry of loss and redemption, walking out of the desert and into the promise of the moonlit gate.
Ekene Çelik watched the ragged procession approach, his golden eyes missing no detail—the slump of a small child's shoulders, the way a mother's hand never left her son's back, the hollowed-out look in the eyes of the eldest, who had long since given up hoping for a night such as this. His own stillness was a balm against their ragged energy, a calm shore receiving a storm-tossed sea. As Kon and Kopa drew near, he stepped forward, a single fluid motion that spoke of his lineage, and bowed his head slightly, a gesture of deep respect that was due not to title, but to deed.
"Welcome home, my Lords," he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble that carried easily on the quiet night air. It was a voice used to command, but now softened into a tone of reverence. "The winds carried whispers of your return long before your feet touched the sand. The city has been waiting, holding its breath."
Kon, a storm contained within a weary body, barely acknowledged the greeting. The words seemed to slide off him like water off stone. He offered the barest tilt of his head, a motion so slight it was almost insulting, were it not so clearly born of an exhaustion that went far beyond the physical. He did not break his stride, brushing past Ekene without another glance, his focus turned inward to the city's welcoming shadows, as if he could outpace the memories that dogged his steps.
Kopa, ever the steady hand, paused. He offered Ekene a more restrained but genuine gesture of greeting, a slow dip of his great antlered head. His voice, when it came, was a tired but warm rumble, like distant thunder on a summer night. "The refugees are safe. Thanks to… timely intervention." A flicker of something unreadable passed behind his green eyes, a memory of crystalline mist and deadened magic. "They'll need food. Rest. Their spirits are more bruised than their bodies."
Ekene gave a short, efficient nod, his leopard's eyes already assessing the needs of the group. He made a subtle motion with one hand, and several guards stationed just inside the gate moved forward with a quiet efficiency, their manner gentle and their voices low as they began to guide the refugees inward, toward the warmth and safety of the city's heart. "They will want for nothing. Kürdiala keeps its own." It was more than a promise; it was a fundamental law of this hidden place.
As the last of the weary souls passed through the great archway, the immediate tension of the moment eased. The gate, for now, had done its duty. It was then that Ekene turned his gaze from the retreating refugees to the Stag-Lord beside him. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a lower register, meant for Kopa's ears alone.
"What's up with him?" he asked, his eyes flicking in the direction Kon had gone. His concern was practical, but not unkind. "He burns hotter than he shows. I have seen him return from a dozen raids, weary and bloodied, but never… like this. It is as if a cold fire eats him from within."
Kopa did not answer immediately. His own great head turned, his profound green eyes following the path of his brother-in-arms, watching until the familiar figure with the yellow ponytail was swallowed by the familiar streets. A profound sadness settled over the Stag's features, a weight that seemed to make the very air around him heavier. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, yet the two words carried the weight of an avalanche.
"He saw Adam."
The name hung in the air between them, not as a simple statement, but as a key to a terrible lock. It was an explanation that explained everything and nothing all at once, a truth so vast and fraught with history that it required no further elaboration for one who knew the stories. Ekene's own calm demeanor fractured for a single, unguarded moment, his golden eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He said nothing. He merely looked from Kopa's weary face back into the depths of the city where Kon had disappeared, and a new, graver understanding settled upon him. The night felt colder for it.
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Location: The High Chamber, Kürdiala
Within the mountain-stone halls of Kürdiala, Kon moved like a storm untethered, a vortex of silent fury and unresolved dread. The usual serene hum of the hidden city was, to him, a grating buzz. The polished obsidian floor beneath his feet, usually a comfort, seemed to sing a high, sharp note with each heavy, purposeful step he took, a sound of warning. The violet veins of raw mana that ran through the walls like luminous circuitry throbbed with a palpable tension, their gentle pulse quickening as he passed, as though the living stone itself sensed the tempest in his heart and feared what was coming.
He did not pause at the immense, rune-carved doors of the High Chamber. He did not announce himself. With a raw thrust of his will, the doors slammed open, the sound a thunderclap of protest that echoed through the quiet corridors behind him.
The throne room opened before him—a space both grand and austere, a testament to a lost kingdom's dignity. Banners of the old Narn Empire, faded but proud, hung from every wall, each one bearing the vibrant image of a red lion mid-leap, forever captured in an act of fearless courage. And there, upon a throne of carved basalt and living root, sat King Darius Boga. The great bull was a mountain of quiet strength, his presence the very anchor that held the fragile alliance of nations together. His fur, once a uniform light brown adorned with a magnificent Golden Milk mane and hair, now bore dignified streaks of noble silver at his temples and muzzle, a map of the long, weary years of resistance. The glyph upon his chest—the Hazël #4, the ancient symbol of strength and hierarchy—glinted in the combined light of flickering torches and the soft, inherent magic of the chamber.
He stood at once at Kon's violent entrance, his great form unfolding with a surprising, inherent gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the Ronin's rage. His deep green eyes, wise and weary, took in the state of his returned warrior—the ash, the sweat, the fury thrumming beneath the surface.
"You've returned," Darius said, his voice a low, warm rumble that filled the vast space, a sound of profound relief. "By Asalan's own breath, I am glad to see you whole." He opened his arms wide, a gesture of brotherly welcome, of a king greeting his most valued kin.
Kon crossed the space and accepted the embrace, but it was a stiff, perfunctory thing. His body was a bowstring pulled too tight. He endured it for only a moment, a single heartbeat of contact, before he pulled away sharply, putting distance between them as if the comfort burned him.
His gaze, fierce and unblinking, swept past the King, scanning the shadows of the chamber as if hunting a ghost. "No more hiding," he said, his voice low, flat, and crackling with suppressed energy. It was not spoken to the King. It was a challenge thrown into the very air of the room. "I know you're in here. I can feel it. The silence. The cold. Come on out."
For a long moment, nothing happened. The chamber seemed to hold its breath, the banners hanging motionless. Then, the air itself began to sigh. It was a soft, exhalation of profound stillness. And from the very center of the room, the mist came.
It did not pour from a door or a window. It rose like a breath from the earth itself—cool, crystalline, and glowing with its own faint, internal luminescence. It coalesced, swirling into a defined form, and from it, as if stepping through a veil between worlds, stepped Adam Kurt.
He walked barefoot upon the cold obsidian, making no sound. His deep blue fur was a twilight sky, kissed with intricate streaks of gold that pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light, like veins of liquid sunlight. A simple, stark yellow blindfold of silk hid his eyes from the world, but from beneath its edge, a faint, cold steam seemed to rise, hinting at the power held in check. His robe, a simple garment of greenish-blue, rippled and flowed around him unnaturally, as if moved by something more than mere wind—by the currents of reality itself. The Arya of Creation, a gem of impossible depth and complexity, rested at the base of his throat, pulsing with a light that was both beautiful and terrifying. And there, on his shoulder, the Hazël #1 mark burned not with ink, but with a light of its own, a stark white sigil against the blue fur— prophecy made flesh, and a promise of power absolute.
"You," Kon snapped, the word a blade thrust into the silent tension. He stepped forward, his entire body coiled, the air around him shimmering with the heat of his anger. "Why the hell did you interfere?"
Adam did not turn. He did not raise his voice. His words were chips of ice falling into a still pool, each one precise and chilling. "Sahira had them. Her will was wrapped around their minds. You were compromised. The mission parameters shifted."
"I had it under control!" Kon's voice cracked through the chamber like a whip, echoing off the frozen banners. It was the rage of a warrior whose calculated risk had been overruled, whose competence had been questioned at the most fundamental level.
Slowly, Adam turned his back, a gesture of dismissal so absolute it was more insulting than any shouted curse. "You weren't supposed to be spotted. Your presence alone escalates every situation into a potential catastrophe." The cold steam from beneath his blindfold seemed to intensify. "Besides," he added, his tone dropping into something colder, sharper, "this mission was supposed to be given to more capable hands. To those who wouldn't endanger the very lives under their care with personal vendettas."
Something in Kon snapped. It was not a slow unraveling, but the catastrophic failure of a dam holding back a millennium of pain, regret, and bitter frustration. The carefully constructed walls he maintained, the stoic silence, the acceptance of his fractured standing—it all shattered.
"I'VE HAD IT WITH YOU AND YOUR TRUST ISSUES!!" The roar was raw, torn from a place so deep within him it seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. "I'VE BLED FOR A THOUSAND YEARS! FOR A THOUSAND YEARS I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO GAIN YOUR TRUST BACK! FOR A THOUSAND YEARS I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO ATONE FOR MY OWN WRONG DOINGS!"
His chest heaved, each breath a ragged thing. The golden eye blazed with a pain so acute it was physical. "AND STILL, YOU TREAT ME LIKE AN OUTSIDER! LIKE A TRAITOR! MAYBE THE PROBLEM ISN'T ME! MAYBE IT'S YOU! YOU NOT BEING CAPABLE OF ACCEPTING THE REALITY THAT WE ARE IN NOW! I WILL NOT LET YOU TRANSFER YOUR OWN MISGUIDED EMOTIONS ON ME ANYMORE!!"
Adam stilled.
The mist, which had been a passive presence, suddenly coiled tighter, becoming a vortex of silent, deadly intent. The air in the chamber turned bitterly, bitingly cold. Frost spiderwebbed across the walls with an audible crackle. The historic banners of Narn froze solid where they hung, the leaping lion immobilized in a shroud of ice.
Adam's head tilted a fraction. The word that left his lips was whisper-soft, yet it carried the weight of an avalanche.
"What did you say?"
"ENOUGH!" Darius roared, his voice a thunderclap of royal command, his great hands gripping the arms of his throne as he made to rise.
But he was too late.
A shard of pure, glistening crystal, sharper than any diamond and cold as the void between stars, erupted from the coiled mist of Adam's aura. It shot toward Kon, not to kill, but to punish, to silence.
Kon moved. Not away, but into it. A flicker of displaced air, and his forearm, sheathed in a sudden, concentrated shell of golden mana from Interuim, slammed into the shard, deflecting it. The collision was soundless for a heartbeat, then a huge explosion of crystalline fragments erupted against the far wall, embedding deep into the stone and ice.
In the same motion, the whisper of steel leaving its scabbard was the only warning. Kon's sword was in his hand, its edge a line of pure yellow in the frozen air. He closed the distance—that impossible, heart-stopping speed—and the tip of his blade kissed the fur of Adam's throat, a promise of death held by a thread.
Another shard, longer and deadlier than the first, hovered motionless a hair's breadth from Kon's golden eye. Neither had truly moved, yet both stood at the precipice of mutual destruction.
Then—
CLANG!
A sound not of crystal or steel, but of solid, undeniable authority. A golden staff, intricately carved and humming with immense power, crashed down between them. The impact was a physical wave of force, dispersing the concentrated energy of their standoff, pushing the mist back and making both combatants stagger a step.
"Gözkıran, grow!" he commanded, his voice sharp.
The staff in his hands obeyed. Mana, rich and golden, burst outward as the staff grew in length and girth, its power asserting a tangible boundary, a line drawn in the sand of the frozen throne room. It was a barrier not just of force, but of reason, demanding the madness cease.
Trevor Maymum now stood between them, his chest heaving not from exertion, but from a furious, exhausted disbelief. His brown fur was dusted with the grit of the desert, as if he had run the entire way without pause. The signature muffler of the Maymum Clan was wrapped tightly around his neck, and his headband, with its three proud spirals—the symbol of the Arya of Derision—was slightly askew. Behind his smudged lenses, his amber eyes burned with a fury that was hot where the others' was cold, a protective, exasperated rage.
"ARE YOU INSANE?!" Trevor's shout was not merely loud; it was a lance of pure, exasperated reason thrust into the heart of their madness. His voice, usually so dry and measured, cracked with a raw, protective fury that seemed to vibrate in the frost-laden air. "You think this helps?! You think drawing blades on your own kin in the heart of our only sanctuary is the way forward?!" His amber eyes, blazing behind his smudged lenses, swept from Kon's enraged face to Adam's impenetrable silence. "What were you trying to do, kill each other? Prove Carlon right for us?!"
The sound of his fury, so different from the cold hatred and hot rage that had filled the room, acted like a douse of cold water. The spell of mutual annihilation broke. Kon's sword arm trembled, not from fear, but from the Herculean effort of reining in a millennium of pain. With a sound of utter disgust, he lowered his weapon reluctantly, the tip scraping against the obsidian floor with a grating shriek. His shoulders heaved with ragged breaths, the anger draining from him to leave a hollow, weary shell. The protest that erupted from him was stripped of all its former grandeur, reduced to the raw, wounded cry of a child. "He started it!!!" The words were pathetic, and he knew it, but they were all he had left.
Adam didn't flinch. He offered no defense, no counter-accusation. The shard of crystal aimed at Kon's eye dissolved into motes of fading light. He said nothing. He simply… receded. The mist that formed his body coiled inward, swallowing him whole, until there was nothing left but a faint, cold shimmer in the air where he had stood, and then not even that. He had withdrawn, not in defeat, but in a silence more condemning than any outburst. He had left them with the wreckage, a problem beneath his concern.
The silence he left behind was heavier than the violence. Kon stood for a moment longer, the emptiness where his rage had been now filled with a shame so profound it was a physical ache. With a hard, final click that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room, he sheathed his blade. He did not look at Darius. He did not look at Trevor. He turned on his heel, his movements stiff with bottled emotion, and strode from the chamber without another word, leaving the frozen banners and the fractured trust behind him.
The great doors swung shut with a soft, definitive thud.
In the ensuing quiet, King Darius Boga let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all their lost years. It was a deep, weary exhalation that spoke of a king who had built his kingdom on hope, only to see its foundations cracking from within. He lowered himself slowly back onto his throne, the ancient stone groaning softly in sympathy. "What now?" he asked the empty, frost-rimed air. The question was not for strategy or tactics. It was a plea for the soul of their resistance.
Trevor seemed to shrink. The furious energy that had propelled him between two living weapons fled, leaving behind only a profound exhaustion. He slumped against the side of the great basalt throne, sliding down to sit on the cold floor as if his legs could no longer hold him. He placed the staff, Gözkıran, across his lap, its golden light dimmed to a soft pulse. With trembling fingers, he removed his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, wiping away the grit of the desert and the frustration of a watchman who had arrived almost too late. When he lowered his hands, his face was lined with a despair that no lens could correct.
"I don't know," he whispered, his voice hoarse. The admission hung in the air, more terrifying than any enemy prophecy. "Now we either find a way to rebuild the trust that just shattered…" He looked toward the doors through which Kon had vanished, then to the empty space where Adam had been. "...or we fall apart. And if we fall apart, then everything—Kürdiala, the resistance, every soul we just brought in from the desert—it all meant nothing."
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Location: The Hakikit Oasis, True Kürdiala
Later, when the high tensions of the chamber had bled away into the sleeping city's stones, the Hakikit Oasis held its breath. This was a place of older magic, a secret spring hidden within the mountain's heart where water, clear and sweet, lapped gently at moss-laced stones worn smooth by centuries of quiet flow. The sacred waterfall, a veil of silver in the dim light, murmured its ancient, endless lullaby, a sound that usually spoke of peace and forgetting. Here, the very air felt softer, kinder, a balm for spirits rubbed raw by the world's cruelty.
Adam sat alone on a flat, damp rock at the water's edge. The violent, crystalline mist from the throne room was gone, reduced now to a faint, shimmering halo that clung to him like a sigh. His yellow blindfold was pulled loose, hanging around his neck. In the darkness, his eyes were closed.
Soft, careful footsteps approached, disturbing the sacred quiet. They were not the steps of a warrior, but of a friend who had walked a long, weary path.
Trevor.
He carried no weapon. His travel-stained robe was half undone, and his ever-present scarf flapped slightly in the cool night breeze that wandered down from the waterfall. He looked as tired as Adam felt, but his exhaustion was etched with concern, not anguish.
"Still here, huh?" he said, his voice gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal poised to flee. He came to a stop a few paces away, not presuming to sit, but not willing to leave.
Adam didn't move. He didn't acknowledge the words, but the faint halo around him flickered, a tell that he had heard.
Trevor took a slow breath, steeling himself. "What were you trying to do back there, Adam?" The question was not an accusation, but a plea for understanding. "You almost killed him. You almost killed Kon."
"Let me be, Trevor." The words were flat, drained, a door attempted to be closed.
"No." Trevor's voice firmed, infused with a resolve that had held fast against empires. "Not this time. We are sick and tired of you always pushing us away. You think sitting alone in this Oasis will bring you peace when you keep lying to yourself? It won't. Not this time. I'm not leaving until you give me an answer. A real one."
"Trevor..." Adam's voice was a low growl now, a warning spoken through gritted teeth. The air grew colder, the water at their feet beginning to still, as if freezing in sympathy.
But Trevor stood his ground, his own weariness forging a stubborn courage. "Who exactly are you so angry at," he demanded, his voice rising, "that you would push all of us away?! That you would risk destroying the only family you have left?!"
The words hung in the air, a challenge thrown down before a king of sorrow.
And the dam broke.
"I'M ANGRY AT MYSELF!!!"
The outburst did not just come from his throat; it erupted from his very soul. It was a raw, torn scream of agony that shook the oasis. The very ground trembled, and the sacred waterfall itself stuttered in its flow, its gentle murmur silenced for a heart-stopping moment as the rocks around it shuddered. Ripples radiated violently across the once-placid pool, sloshing against the stones.
The crystalline fury vanished. The cold aura snapped away. What was left was a figure crumpled in on itself, shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs that seemed to tear him apart from the inside.
Adam was crying. Not with the quiet tears of sadness, but with the wrenching, unbearable sobs of a grief held back for a thousand years. The mighty Hazël #1, the Legacy of the White Witch of legend, the being who could silence Arcems with a thought, was reduced to the most human of pains, utterly broken and finally, finally honest.
Trevor's eyes widened, not with fear of the tremor that shook the stones, but with a dawning, horrified realization that cut deeper than any blade. The raw, unvarnished truth of the scream laid everything bare, stripping away the layers of cold power and ancient legend to reveal the shattered soul beneath.
"By the Lion's Mane..." Trevor breathed, the oath a whisper of profound revelation. The pieces clicked into place—the coldness, the distance, the relentless, unforgiving standards. "You're not angry at Kon," he continued, his voice soft with the weight of understanding. "You never have been, not truly. You're angry at yourself. And you're drowning in it."
Adam's fists, clenched at his sides, tightened in the soft grass, pulling up clumps of earth and roots. His head remained bowed, his body a taut bowstring of shame.
"You think you're the reason we lost ArchenLand," Trevor said, the words not a question, but a gentle, heartbreaking statement of fact. He was speaking the unspeakable pain aloud, giving it shape in the air between them. "You carry that. Every day. You think if you'd been stronger, faster, wiser... if you'd been more, then none of this would've happened. The fires, the fall... all of it."
A ragged, broken sound escaped Adam's lips, a sob that was also a confession. His voice, when it came, was cracked, stripped of all its former power, reduced to the raw, trembling tone of the young man he had been when the world ended. "I couldn't stop it. I was there... and I watched it burn. I heard them... and I... I couldn't do anything." The admission was a torrent of agony, each word a shard of glass torn from his heart. "And worse... I am so petty... so weak... that I am sad that Kon didn't regard me enough as family to stay. That he left me there to watch it alone. And still... still I tried to kill him for it. By Aslan's own name... I almost killed Kon, Trevor. My anger... my pride... it almost made me a monster."
Trevor's own eyes, behind their smudged lenses, filled with a sorrow so deep it threatened to overflow. They became teary, not for the lost kingdom, but for the friend who had shouldered its ghost for a millennium. Without another word, he moved. He knelt in the damp grass beside the crumpled form of the most powerful being he knew, and his two arms, strong from wielding Gözkıran but gentle with compassion, wrapped around Adam's shaking shoulders. It was not the embrace of a subject to a sovereign, but of one brother to another.
"You did everything you could," Trevor whispered, his voice firm with a conviction that brooked no argument. "You fought until you could barely stand. You saved who you could. And you're still doing it. Every day. You saved lives yesterday in that courtyard. You saved us. That matters. It matters more than any failure you think you own."
He held him tighter as a fresh wave of tremors wracked Adam's frame. "It's okay now," Trevor murmured, the words a soft litany against the torrent of grief. "It's okay to let it go. It's okay to be angry, and sad, and to have failed. It's okay to be hurt that he left. It's okay to be tracient, even now. It's okay."
Adam trembled, the last of his defenses crumbling away. His tears, no longer of rage but of a grief finally acknowledged, fell freely into the still waters of the oasis. They did not sizzle or steam; they were just tears, salt and water and pain, accepted by the ancient pool.
And still, the world did not break. The waterfall resumed its gentle murmur. The stars above did not fall. The mountain held fast. The confession of his weakness had not unmade creation. Instead, in the quiet aftermath of the storm, something else began, fragile and new: the first, tentative step toward healing.
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Kon stood alone on a rooftop, gazing across the desert.
Trevor had set up a telepathic link with him when he went to confront Adam.
He heard everything.
He could feel it—through the bond he shared with Trevor.
Adam was crying.
Behind him, hooves clopped gently.
Daruis's cream-and-gold and brown fur gleamed, lemon-green eyes gentle, bare hooves steady. He opened his arms without a word.
Kon held his gaze for a while, hesitant, then stepped forward, burying his face in Daruis's chest.
Silent tears soaked the bull's fur, claws retracted.
"We'll be fine, Kon," Daruis murmured, voice a low rumble. "We'll be fine."
Above them, the moon bore witness as the desert wind carried their grief. Kürdiala stood—broken, perhaps, but still whole.
A family fractured.
Yet not beyond healing.