The storm has not ceased for days. The ocean hungers, rising ever higher, swallowing the land piece by piece, drinking the rivers, licking the roots of trees. The jungle drowns, yet you do not waver. You laugh as the winds howl. You grin as the lightning shatters the sky. It does not matter to you that the world is ending—only that there is more of it to explore.

  And so, you do.

  Every day, you descend into the ship, past the rusted trapdoor, past the darkened corridors, past the hum of dying machines, to the boy who hides within. The timid one. Ail.

  "Come," you say to him. "Let’s go outside."

  And every day, he shakes his head.

  You try to pull him, but he is like a root clinging to stone. You do not understand fear, so you do not understand him. But you are patient. When your strength fails, you change your approach. You play.

  One day, it is a game of reflexes—you throw nuts at him, one after another, faster and faster, until he starts catching them without thinking.

  Another day, you tell him to close his eyes, to listen for your footsteps, to follow your voice through the echoing halls.

  The next, you chase him in circles, laughing as he stumbles and trips, until, at last, he smiles.

  Yes, that is your way. To break through fear with laughter. To wrestle despair until it surrenders to joy.

  And so, after months of your relentless visits, Ail finally steps outside.

  You drag him through the ship, through the drowned jungle, through the roaring wind and slanted rain. He grips your arm, shrinking at the storm, but he does not retreat.

  He says, "I’ll come only when it’s time to eat. That’s it."

  You squint at him, then tilt your head up. The branches above sway wildly, rain cascading down their heavy leaves. But your gaze is not on the branches. It is on the fruit.

  "Do you want one?" you ask, nodding toward the largest hanging prize.

  Ail scratches his head, eyeing you warily. "How are you going to get it?"

  But you do not wait.

  You leap, gripping the trunk, scaling it with ease, the storm howling against your back. Up, up, up—you move like you were born for it. Rain slicks the bark, but your hands do not slip. When you reach the top, you find the fruit, larger than your grip, swollen with juice. You grin, yank it free, and call down:

  "Catch!"

  Ail looks up, startled. "Wait—!"

  Too late. The fruit smashes into his forehead, exploding into a mess of pulp and juice. He stumbles, blinking, mouth open. You lean down, laughing.

  "You okay?"

  Ail touches his face. Sticky nectar drips down his cheek. And then—he laughs.

  Not a nervous chuckle, not a quiet snicker, but a real laugh. A sound like the sky breaking open. You grin wider.

  You grab another fruit. "Again!"

  This time, Ail raises his hands. "Come on—!"

  You throw. He flinches, barely catching it against his chest. You laugh. He groans.

  And before either of you know it, the game begins.

  You vanish into the jungle, an ossuary of drowned beasts and shattered trees, their bones tangled in the roots of the earth. You duck beneath the thick trunk of a fallen tree. Small creatures scurry away as you squeeze in, their eyes wide with terror at the storm-child invading their shelter. You press against the damp wood, listening as the tempest exhales.

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  Ail’s voice calls through the jungle. "I’ll find you!"

  You stifle a chuckle. He is looking for you, searching for you. This is new. You have made him move.

  But then—

  A scream.

  Your breath catches.

  The jungle falls silent except for the rain, hammering down in endless fury. You move without thought, throwing yourself out of your hiding place, sprinting through the drowning trees. You see him.

  Ail is running.

  And behind him, the hunter.

  A jaguar, its coat drenched, its muscles rippling beneath the storm’s gloom, its eyes locked onto its prey.

  Your hands tighten into fists. You charge.

  But you are late.

  The beast leaps, landing upon Ail, claws sinking into his legs. Ail’s scream is torn away by the wind.

  You strike.

  Your fist collides with the jaguar’s ribs. It screeches, rearing back, eyes flashing toward you. The wind howls. You and the jaguar stand still, facing each other.

  It moves. Low. Slow. A predator’s stance.

  And something in you—something deep, something primal—stirs.

  You lower yourself. Four limbs. Your fingers press into the wet earth. You move as it moves. You crawl as it crawls.

  Ail stammers, "W-What are you doing?"

  You do not answer. You leap.

  The jaguar lashes out, but so do you. Your hand meets its paw, knocking it aside. Your teeth find its flesh. You bite. Hard.

  The jaguar roars. Not in pain, but in recognition.

  You are not prey.

  You are something else.

  You circle the beast, lips peeling back in a crimson-stained crescent.

  The jaguar’s ears twitch. It watches you with a tenebrous gloom. Weighs you. And then—it backs away. Growling. Slipping into the storm.

  You throw back your head and laugh.

  Ail, lying on the ground, stares up at you, eyes wide. Then he smiles. "That was insane. You’re crazy."

  You grin and kneel beside him. "You’re hurt."

  He looks down at his legs. Blood soaks his pants. But there are no wounds.

  You frown. "I thought—"

  "I heal fast," Ail says anxiously.

  You blink. Then shrug. "Me too."

  Ail smirks. "I don’t doubt it.”

  The storm rages above, thunder cracking like the laughter of Zeus. You walk. He follows. The wind pulls at your clothes, the saltwater clings to your skin, but you do not care. You never care.

  “I gotta go,” you say, stretching your arms behind your head. “Cherry’s gonna kill me.”

  Ail nods. Silent. His presence is like the shadow of something once broken.

  The two of you walk toward the shore, your footprints washed away before they can settle.

  "Watch out for the cat," you say, grinning.

  Ail, wary as a fawn before the hunt, rubs his head. "They don’t attack the same prey twice."

  You grin, because that is something you understand. If you beat something once, it should know not to come back. It should know you are stronger.

  And then you leap into the ocean.

  The lightning fractures the sky, a vitreous web of light splitting the heavens apart for but a moment.

  The storm does not stop. It never stops.

  You swim with the recklessness of a beast unafraid of drowning.

  For when you did, you leapt again.

  Ail watches from the shore, as he always does.

  And I watch him from your eyes.

  Who is Ail?

  I have seen many creatures in my time, many souls flickering like dying embers. But this boy—I see nothing in him. No fire. No force. No beast waiting to be unchained. If he is like you, why can I not see it?

  And then the ocean takes you.

  Violently.

  A force rips you downward, pulling you into the abyss. The water floods your lungs, your body twists in the blackness, and when you turn, it is there.

  A red-scaled Navorian. The spiked one.

  Its appendages curl around you, its claws gleam in the darkness. It does not need to speak. Its eyes tell you all you need to know.

  You are prey.

  You thrash. You kick. You are strong, but you are not fast enough. The Navorian spins you like a ragdoll, tossing you into the currents. You fly, thrown out of the ocean, gasping for air before gravity yanks you back.

  But it leaps too.

  Spiky’s jaws open midair, ready to snap you in half.

  You twist. You move. You land back into the water. You swim for the island, but it is faster.

  The Navorian pulls you back.

  Water fills your lungs.

  Its claws sink into your arms, slow, deliberate. Pain. Real, searing pain. The storm rages, but you are too deep to hear it. You are alone.

  Until he comes.

  Ail.

  The coward. The wimp. The fragile thing that barely speaks above a whisper.

  He lands on Spiky’s shoulder, pulling at its limbs.

  The Navorian does not care.

  Its appendage spears through Ail’s chest.

  And I see you break.

  You stare, wide-eyed, as his blood stains the ocean red.

  This is not happening.

  This is not—

  But the Navorian does not hesitate. It turns back to you. You are all it wants.

  No.

  The ocean shifts. The water darkens.

  Ail twitches.

  The fragile boy, the wimp, the shadow of a broken thing—he is not that now.

  His veins pulse black, his irises a burning vermillion, glowing like embers beneath the abyss. His skin steams in the water.

  He growls.

  The sound is deep. Inhuman.

  The Navorian’s appendages loosen.

  And then—Ail moves.

  Fast.

  He bites into Spiky’s limb. A clean tear. Flesh rips. Bone crunches. The Navorian screeches, but Ail does not stop.

  He devours.

  He claws.

  He is not a being. He is carnage.

  You, boy, have always fought with your fists. But what you see now is no fighter. No warrior. It is a demon.

  And you flee.

  You break for the surface, gasping, choking on salt and blood. When you turn back, the water is still. The Navorian floats, torn apart.

  Ail floats too.

  Black blood spills from his lips. His eyes are barely open.

  You do not hesitate.

  You swim to him. Drag him to the shore. Shake him, slap him, force him back to life.

  And he coughs.

  He looks at you, those terrible eyes fading back to white. And then—he cries.

  “I’m sorry." He says. "I—I never—

  Words choke him.

  “I never wanted this."

  You do not understand.

  “What do you mean?”

  And so he tells you.

  When he is injured—fatally injured—he turns.

  He does not know what he is. Only that he kills.

  He killed his family.

  He killed those who helped him.

  He ran. Hid. Stayed alone, because if he was alone, no one would know him. No one would like him. No one would die because of him.

  And you, boy—you are silent.

  And I, Elthraa, who called him weak, who thought him lesser than you—I see now that he is stronger than most.

  Not because he fights.

  But because he chooses not to.

  He chooses others' lives over his own.

  He chooses to be hated. To be feared. To be alone.

  He looks at you, still crying, and says, "Leave."

  And this time, never come back.

  Because if you do—he may kill you.

  You, who has never known hesitation, who has never known fear—tighten your fist.

  And you punch him.

  Hard.

  Ail staggers back, wide-eyed, spitting red into the sand. "Wha—why—?" He grips his face, voice breaking. "Why did you do that?!"

  "Because I’m leaving," you say.

  And you smile.

  "Until tomorrow."

  Ail breaks.