The rain that came wasn't wet.
It shimmered—falling in thin, silvery strands that flickered and vanished just before they kissed the soil. Like memories trying to return. Hatku and Tashina sat beneath a canopy of warped branches, their fire a low whisper against the dark. The storm hadn't moved in hours—it lingered in the sky, pinned like a vulture circling the dying.
No thunder. No wind. Just that unnatural silver rain.
Watching them.
Marking them.
Hatku had seen all kinds of storms in his time—realm-walkers that bled fire, lightning beasts that screamed across the heavens, even the quiet fury of skyfire. But this… this was something deeper. Older. Something that didn't just threaten flesh, but reached for the soul underneath.
He didn't speak.
Tashina's hand drifted to her chest, to the place where the darkness had once nested. Her voice was barely a breath. "They're not done."
Hatku nodded, jaw rigid. "They're waiting."
"For what?"
He didn't answer. Because he didn't know. Because maybe it didn't matter.
He stood, reaching for the blade that had survived everything—his father's sword, etched with cracks and old fire. It felt heavier now. Not in weight, but in purpose.
"We move at dawn."
Tashina tilted her head toward him, exhaustion drawing lines under her eyes. But there was strength there too. Fire, though buried.
"Where?"
"East," he said. "Away from this place. There's a path Father once traced in his journal. I thought it was strategy. Battle lines. But he wasn't preparing for war… he was chasing something."
Her brow furrowed. "The Ultimate Being?"
"Maybe. Or maybe a place. A weapon. Something strong enough to make the Universal Gods bleed."
Tashina's gaze dropped to the earth. "I was made to destroy things like that. Beasts. Half-borns. Mutations. Now I've become one of them."
Her voice trembled slightly. "Do you really think something like me can help you fight gods?"
Hatku turned.
"You're not a thing," he said, voice low but fierce. "You're my sister. And that's what they hate—that you remembered who you are. That you broke free. That you became something they didn't shape."
He stepped closer.
"That's why they want you gone. Not because you're dangerous… but because you're free."
The fire cracked.
Then something moved behind them. A whisper. A rustle too intentional for the wind. Not thunder. Not beasts.
Voices.
Tashina straightened despite her weakness. Hatku's eyes narrowed, green flame flaring to life across his arms as he stepped forward, body coiled like a spring. Every leaf, every broken twig became part of his senses.
Then—out of the trees—came a figure.
Cloaked. Limping. Alone.
Unarmed.
Hatku's flame dimmed, but didn't disappear.
"Stop there," he warned.
The figure raised both hands slowly and spoke, voice worn by years.
"You've been marked. Both of you. They won't stop now."
"Who are you?" Hatku asked.
The figure pulled back her hood.
A woman. Her face was a shattered mosaic of scars—deep, purposeful carvings, each one a history of survival. Her eyes shimmered unnaturally gold, like they reflected not light, but memory.
"I was like her once," she said, nodding toward Tashina. "Cleansed. Or so they tried."
Tashina stepped forward, breath caught. "You survived?"
The woman nodded. "Not by obeying. By refusing."
She moved closer, her presence oddly grounded, as though she didn't just step through trees, but through worlds.
"They'll send worse next time," she said. "Not Collectors. Not Hunters."
Hatku's grip tightened on the hilt. "What then?"
The woman's voice dipped low, like the trees leaned in to hear it.
"Judges."
Tashina's eyes went wide. Her breath hitched. "They're real?"
"They aren't just real," the woman said. "They don't come to kill. They come to unmake. Erase your name. Your lineage. Your memory. When they arrive… even the Universal Gods look away."
Lightning tore across the sky above them, the silver rain hissing as it briefly turned red before vanishing again.
Hatku stared eastward—toward whatever it was his father had spent his life trying to reach. Toward something stronger than fate.
He turned to Tashina.
"We don't have the luxury to wait."
She nodded once, slowly.
The woman stepped forward again and held something out—a jagged shard of obsidian. It pulsed faintly in the stormlight, as if alive.
"This belonged to one who fought them. Keep it close. It may remember something before you do."
Hatku reached out and took it.
Before either of them could ask more, the woman stepped backward, melted into the trees, and was gone.
Tashina stared at the space where she had been.
"She was like me," she whispered.
"You're not like them anymore," Hatku said. "You're better."
They packed what little they had. Fish. Cloth. The journal. The obsidian shard.
As the silver rain finally touched the ground, whispering against the roots of ancient trees—
They vanished into it.
Together.