A year passes before anyone dares to call it peace.
No parades. No councils.Just a slow fading of fear, the steady rhythm of people learning to live again without waiting for orders.Children grow up without knowing what a Directorate drone looks like.Adults argue about crops and trade instead of curfews.
But peace, like every living thing, begins to decay the moment it stops moving.
The Accord thrives.The Archives expand.Stories multiply faster than truth can keep up.
People tell tales of the rebellion like scripture —of the city that fell in one night,of the man who tore apart the sky and vanished into the clouds.
That last story follows me everywhere, even here, in the south.Every settlement paints it differently — sometimes I'm a hero, sometimes a warning, sometimes a ghost.They argue about whether I was real.No one asks if I was right.
In the port town of Tamasu, the markets hum with trade.A small crowd gathers in the square, surrounding a storyteller on a crate.He wears a patched cloak, his voice carrying above the noise.
"And when the storm rose, he spoke only once: Breathe. The air belongs to no one."
The crowd applauds.Coins clink against his hat.Children mimic invisible power with their hands.It should be funny, maybe even comforting.But it isn't.
They turned survival into theater.Sacrifice into myth.Truth into merchandise.
I buy a cup of tea from a stall and sit at the edge of the square.A merchant recognizes me but says nothing.He just sets the cup down and bows slightly — not in reverence, but in understanding.
When the storyteller finishes, a young girl climbs onto the crate and shouts, "Tell the part where he disappeared!"
The man grins. "Ah, yes! Some say he became the wind itself!"
The crowd cheers.
I stand, leave the cup half full, and walk toward the docks.
By evening, I find a small tavern overlooking the sea.Salt air seeps through the open windows, carrying voices and the low thrum of distant ships.The bartender pours me a drink without asking for a name.
He nods toward the murals painted on the wall — crude depictions of the Citadel's fall."You from up north?" he asks.
"Once."
"They say it was the end of an age."
"A beginning too."
He chuckles. "Aren't they the same thing?"
"Only if people remember why it started."
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs. "People don't care much for why. They care for what feels good to believe."
He's right.
Outside, the ocean stretches endless.No banners, no machines, just water and light fading into each other.I lean against the railing, letting the wind carry the noise of the city away.
Rai's last letter burns faintly in my pocket — a reminder of what I tried to leave behind.The Accord now reaches every major settlement, connecting voices across continents.And yet, the further it spreads, the more people stop questioning it.
Freedom has become comfortable.And comfort, I've learned, is just control with better manners.
A shadow moves beside me.It's Uraraka.Her clothes are travel-worn, her eyes sharp.
"I thought you'd gone east," she says.
"I did. It wasn't far enough."
She leans beside me, watching the waves."They've started schools again. The Accord funds them. History classes too."
"What are they teaching?"
"That heroes saved the world. That people like you made everything right."
"Then they're teaching lies."
She nods. "That's why I left. I can't teach children to worship anyone. Not even the good ones."
We stand in silence.The tide rolls in, erasing footprints that were never mine to begin with.
"People want symbols," she says finally."They think it makes things easier to believe in. Even if it means forgetting."
"Symbols rot," I say. "They start as reminders and end as excuses."
She looks at me, eyes tired but still kind. "Then maybe it's time to remind them again."
"You want me to speak?"
"I want you to be seen. Once. Not as a legend. As a person. Before they turn you into a god."
I stare at the horizon.The thought of it makes my stomach twist — not fear, not pride, something between both.
"You think they'll listen?"
"They already are," she says softly. "They just don't know it's you."
Night deepens.We walk through narrow streets lit by lanterns strung from wire.Children chase shadows, merchants close their stalls.The peace feels fragile — not because of danger, but because of comfort.
The kind of peace that forgets its price.
In a week, the Accord will hold its first global broadcast — a symbol of unity, they call it.One message shared by every settlement.Rai will lead it.Uraraka will speak.They've already asked me to attend.I haven't answered.
Maybe legends don't belong in peace, I think. But peace doesn't last if no one remembers how it was earned.
For the first time in years, I feel something heavy return — not anger, not grief.Purpose.
I look at Uraraka."Tell Rai I'll be there," I say.
She smiles, half relief, half disbelief."You mean it?"
"This once."
When she leaves, I stay by the docks until the lanterns burn out.The sea moves, endless, calm, and utterly indifferent.Somewhere out there, the world waits for a voice it already turned into myth.
This time, it won't get one.It will get a man.