Morning crawled over the village like smoke after a fire.
The storehouse, their so-called refuge, still bore the scars of the night before. The beams overhead were scorched black where Yoshiki's fire had lashed out. Hikaru's shadows had left oily streaks across the walls, as if the darkness itself had burned into the wood. And on the floor, faint blue stains marked where Yuzuriha had collapsed, her veins still faintly aglow.
The four of them sat scattered across the room.
Yoshiki sat near the wall, hands wrapped in bandages, hair now streaked red as if embers had threaded through his black locks. His jaw was set hard, though the tremor in his hands betrayed his fatigue.
Hikaru leaned in the corner, arms crossed, shadows twitching faintly in the sunlight that cut through the roof cracks. His silver-flecked eyes tracked everything—the dust in the air, the shifting of his friends—like he no longer trusted stillness.
Yuzuriha sat hunched over parchment, her breathing shallow, veins around her temples still shimmering faintly with blue light. She looked fragile but determined, her hands dragging shaking lines of notes across the paper as though every second wasted was another life lost.
And Daichi.
He stood apart, near the broken doorframe, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the villagers outside as they carried on under soldier patrol. He hadn't spoken since the chaos in the square, since Hikaru's shadows and Yuzuriha's collapse. His silence carried weight—steadier than Yoshiki's fire, heavier than Hikaru's darkness.
Finally, Yoshiki broke it. "We can't keep hiding." His voice was rough, edged with guilt and stubbornness. "Every time they line us up, every time they drag someone away… I feel it burning hotter. If I don't use it—"
"—you'll destroy yourself," Hikaru cut in flatly, his eyes narrowing. "You nearly did last night. If Yuzuriha hadn't stopped you, you'd have blown half this storehouse apart."
Yoshiki turned, anger flashing. "So what do you want me to do? Watch while they take us apart piece by piece?"
"They'll take more than that," Hikaru said, shadows flexing behind him. "They'll take the village with you if you lose control."
"Enough."
Yuzuriha's voice was thin but firm. She didn't look up from her parchment, though her hand trembled as it wrote. "We can't afford this argument. Not now. Not when every moment we waste, they tighten the net around us. Yoshiki, your fire frightens them. Hikaru, your shadows can move where soldiers can't. And me—" Her hand paused on the ink-stained page. "I can see pieces of what's coming. But only if we don't tear each other apart first."
The words settled heavy in the dust.
For the first time, Daichi stirred. He shifted his weight and spoke, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a stone grinding loose from a cliff.
"She's right."
Three heads turned toward him.
He unfolded his arms, stepping closer, his eyes dark and unwavering. "I've watched you all since we were kids. Yoshiki, always rushing headfirst. Hikaru, always calculating. Yuzuriha, always seeing further than the rest of us. I thought if anyone would be caught up in this storm, it would be you three."
He paused, his hand curling slightly at his side, as if even he felt something stirring beneath his skin. "But after last night… after what I saw… I can't just stand in the fields anymore, pretending it won't come here. Pretending I won't be dragged in too."
Yoshiki blinked, caught between relief and confusion. "Daichi…"
"You want to fight?" Daichi's voice hardened, though not unkindly. "Then I'll fight with you. But don't mistake me for a follower. If I'm in this, I'll carry my own weight. I won't just stand behind your fire."
For a moment, silence held them again. But this time, it wasn't broken—it was shared.
Yoshiki lowered his head, the faintest ghost of a smile flickering beneath his exhaustion. Hikaru gave a single, silent nod. Yuzuriha's hand stilled on the parchment, her expression softening.
Four of them now. Each carrying something dangerous. Each already too far to turn back.
Outside, soldiers rotated through the streets, rifles glinting in the daylight. One lingered near the storehouse, scribbling into a log before moving on.
The net was tightening.
And in its shadow, the rebellion was drawing its first true lines.