It feels like yesterday—footsteps, fire, his cold hands.
The scent of smoke still lingers in the corner of my memory, thick and suffocating. Flames licked the night sky, turning our once-proud home into a silhouette of ruin, split in two like a torn photograph. The right side, my sanctuary, crumbled beneath roaring heat and fury. The left—barely standing—crackled with defiance.
I was just a child.
Arms wrapped around me—firm, urgent, and sure. My world tilted and blurred as he ran, swift like a ghost in war, his steps measured, tactical. Trees and burning beams flew past in streaks. But his face... his face never faltered.
It was calm. Comforting.
Even as the world burned, his gaze told me I was safe.
Behind us, something hunted. I could hear it—boots crashing against the splintered earth, the rumble of rage. But he didn't slow. He didn't flinch.
Through the trees, he slipped between shadows and smoke until he reached the dense thicket. He crouched low and pressed me gently into the brush, shielding my body with his coat and fingers firm against my lips.
Stay hidden.
Then came the whisper of death through the air—an axe, gleaming and monstrous, slicing toward us with unholy speed. He caught it. He caught it.
His hand bled as the metal quivered in his grip.
Still no words. Just his eyes.
Then he stepped forward—away from me—into the clearing where the enemy awaited. The figure in black emerged slowly, silent and seething, hood masking any hint of humanity. The air thickened with tension, as if the forest itself held its breath.
The axe was raised again, and their dance of death began.
Steel met steel—no grace, just fury. The hooded figure struck with savage force, his weapon a blur of violence. My protector, with only a dagger, moved with instinct and desperation, each block and parry keeping death at bay for one second longer.
But it wasn't enough.
Another figure stepped from the shadows—another hood, another executioner.
He knew.
He turned.
And then he ran—toward me.
Before I could cry out, his hand gripped my collar. One swift motion and I was airborne, eyes wide as he chanted something ancient, something divine. A spell. A farewell.
I reached for him, heart pounding, but the world blurred.
Below me—his face. Smiling.
And then it happened.
A blade, massive and cruel, burst from his back. Blood sprayed against firelight as he turned with it lodged in him—still standing, still smiling. His hand never left the hilt, holding the blade back, buying a single second more.
For me.
Then darkness.
---
A faint click echoed as the diary shut.
Steam rose gently from the milk coffee in his hand, wisps curling like the remnants of memory. He took a slow sip, eyes tracing the grain of the table beneath his fingers before lifting to the man across from him.
That face.
Too familiar.
It mirrored his own—a young man with eyes hollowed by sorrow, yet as striking as the setting sun. Smooth, regal. Hair black and soft, falling in perfect disarray over a pale brow.
They smiled at each other.
And somehow, it didn't feel like comfort.
It felt like fate.
"After all," the man holding a diary close to his chest said quietly, "after all, we share the same story... and cannot fight against the tides of time."