The forest slept uneasily.
Ash clung to the remains of the campfire, glowing faint red beneath a skin of grey. Cloaks lay scattered across the clearing, swords resting close enough for instinct to reach even in dreams. Somewhere among the trees, a night creature called once, then fell silent.
The stillness shattered.
Branches cracked like breaking bones. Dark shapes burst from the treeline, boots tearing through undergrowth, steel flashing as torches flared to life. Rough voices cut through the night, sharp with hunger and confidence.
"Up!" someone shouted.
A blade caught firelight as it swung downward, splitting a tent pole clean in half. Canvas collapsed. Soldiers scrambled, half-armored, hands fumbling for weapons.
At the front of the charge strode a broad man with a scar carved across his face, axe slung loosely over one shoulder as if the camp were already his. His grin showed broken teeth.
"This ground belongs to us now," he roared. "Surrender, and you might live."
No one answered.
Water surged.
Azura moved like the river itself—fast, unyielding. He stepped between the attackers and the camp, arms lifting as the nearby stream tore free from its banks. It wrapped around his fists, thickening, spinning, hardening into whirling masses that struck with the force of stone.
The first bandit flew backward, armor screaming as he hit a tree.
Another charge met a wall of water that rose without warning, slamming down and scattering bodies across the mud. Azura didn't slow. He advanced, boots splashing, cloak snapping behind him.
Steel met water. Water won.
But they kept coming.
More poured from the trees, eyes wild, blades rusted but sharp. One leapt through a crashing wave and landed hard, rolling to his feet. Another ducked low, slashing upward. Azura twisted aside, but the numbers pressed in, surrounding him, cutting off the river's pull.
A blade struck his shoulder.
He hissed but held his ground, water surging harder, smashing two men aside. His breath came faster now. The river answered slower. Strained.
A club caught him across the ribs.
He staggered.
Someone laughed.
"Bring him down!"
The next blow hit his temple. The world tilted. Azura dropped to one knee, water collapsing into the mud around him.
A boot slammed into his chest.
He fell.
Across the clearing, Tomora stood frozen.
He had risen with the others, water already coiling around him in reflex, forming a thin shield that hummed softly. His breathing slowed as he reached for control—but something slipped.
Not outward.
Inward.
The noise faded.
The clash of steel dulled, like sound heard through deep water. Tomora's eyes drifted shut. The glow beneath his skin dimmed, then vanished entirely.
Something colder took its place.
The earth beneath him felt different—alive in a way the river was not. He felt warmth moving through the ground, through bodies. Pulses. Rhythms. Countless currents flowing beneath skin and armor alike.
His brow furrowed.
The nearest bandit froze mid-step.
His breath hitched. His eyes widened. A hand clawed at his chest as if something inside had turned against him. He fell forward without a sound, face striking the dirt.
Another staggered.
Then another.
No blade touched them.
No water moved.
Men dropped as if their strings had been cut, limbs slack, eyes glassy. One reached out, fingers twitching, before collapsing beside the firelight.
The forest held its breath.
The bandit leader turned slowly, confusion replacing his grin. "What sorcery—"
His words drowned in his throat.
He fell last.
Silence swept the clearing, thick and absolute. Torches guttered. A sword slipped from numb fingers and struck stone with a dull clang.
Tomora swayed.
Whatever held him upright released all at once. He collapsed to his knees, then forward into the mud, water spilling uselessly from his form. The glow did not return.
Azura pushed himself up, ignoring the pain screaming through his body. His gaze locked onto the fallen bandits—no wounds, no marks—then snapped to Tomora.
He crossed the clearing in three long strides and dropped beside him, hands hovering, unsure where to touch.
Tomora didn't move.
Jer arrived seconds later, sword still raised, eyes darting wildly before settling on the bodies. Her grip loosened. "They're… dead?"
No one answered.
Azura pressed two fingers to Tomora's neck. A breath passed. Then another. Weak, but there.
His hand trembled.
Soldiers gathered slowly, fear replacing exhaustion as they took in the scene. No blood spilled. No water frozen. Just stillness.
Jer knelt beside Azura, lowering her voice as if afraid the forest itself might hear. "What happened to him?"
Azura stared down at Tomora's face—peaceful now, unaware of what it had done.
"I've seen this once," he said quietly.
Jer swallowed. "Seen what?"
Azura didn't look at her. "Something ancient waking where it shouldn't."
His jaw tightened. "He reached past water."
Jer's eyes widened. "Past…?"
Azura finally met her gaze. There was no triumph there. No pride.
Only dread.
"There are powers that don't belong to elements," he said. "They belong to bloodlines long buried. Forgotten for a reason."
Jer looked back at Tomora, at the boy who had laughed beside the fire only hours earlier. "Is he dangerous?"
Azura's silence was answer enough.
The wind stirred again, carrying the scent of damp earth and extinguished torches. Somewhere deep in the forest, something moved—slow, aware.
Azura gathered Tomora into his arms.
"More than he knows," he murmured.
And in the darkness beyond the trees, something old listened.