Night pressed gently over the forest, cool and patient, the kind of dark that felt old—older than kingdoms, older than names. Stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt, their light slipping through the branches and settling over the quiet camp.
Most of the fires had burned down to embers. Cloaks rose and fell with sleeping breaths. Steel lay beside bedrolls, untouched.
But by the river, someone was still awake.
Tomora stood barefoot at the edge of the water, toes sinking slightly into the damp soil. The river murmured beside him, slow and steady, its surface catching fragments of moonlight as it slid past stone and root. A small fire crackled behind him, low and controlled, its glow just enough to chase away the cold.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the river answered.
The water near his feet shuddered, as if a breath had been drawn beneath its surface. Ripples spread outward, not from wind, not from current—but from him. Tomora's shoulders tightened. His jaw clenched. Veins stood out along his neck as he reached inward, not with hands, but with something deeper.
The air around him cooled.
His lower body—no longer flesh in the way it once had been—shifted first. The liquid that formed him thickened, darkened, then began to rise. Slowly. Carefully. As though the water itself feared moving too fast.
A shape emerged.
His torso pulled free from the river in a smooth, spiraling motion, water climbing over itself, folding and layering until it resembled muscle and bone. Moonlight traced the curve of his chest. Shoulders formed next, broad and solid, though they shimmered faintly, never fully still.
Arms followed.
They extended outward, trembling at first, fingers stretching open like a man learning to grasp for the first time. Droplets fell from his hands and struck the river below, sending rings across the surface.
Color bled into the form—his brown skin returning in hue, though it gleamed as if polished by rain. Lines of glowing blue light threaded beneath the surface, flowing slowly, like veins made of current instead of blood. They pulsed softly, alive.
Tomora gasped.
The sound tore from him as though his lungs had forgotten their purpose. He staggered forward, one hand slamming into the wet ground to keep himself upright. The water-arm held. It did not collapse. It did not melt.
It stayed.
He breathed again. Then again.
Each breath steadied him, though his shoulders shook with the effort. Sweat—or something like it—ran down his temple, dissolving into water before it could fall.
The river's voice grew louder in his ears, not in sound, but in presence. Pressure. Weight. As if an entire sea waited just beyond his reach.
Tomora lifted his head.
His eyes opened.
For a heartbeat, they glowed blue.
Not bright. Not wild.
Focused.
From the shadows beyond the firelight, someone watched.
Azura leaned against the trunk of an old oak, arms folded, his cloak blending into the bark and darkness. The faint glow from Tomora's form reflected in his eyes, sharp and calculating. He said nothing at first, letting the moment stretch, testing whether the boy would lose control.
Tomora straightened slowly.
He rolled one shoulder. Then the other. The movement was cautious, deliberate. Water shifted and obeyed, flowing where muscle should be, tightening where bone would anchor. When he flexed his arm, the glowing lines beneath his skin flared brighter, then settled.
A small sound escaped him—not laughter, but something close to relief.
Azura finally spoke.
"You're shaping it faster now."
His voice carried easily across the riverbank, low and even. Tomora turned sharply, eyes narrowing until he spotted Azure in the shadows.
"You could announce yourself," Tomora said, breath still uneven.
Azura pushed off the tree and stepped forward, boots silent against the grass. "And interrupt this?" His gaze flicked over Tomora's form, taking in every detail. "I'd rather see the truth than the performance."
Tomora snorted softly. He lifted his arm again, this time with more confidence, rotating his wrist. Water slid smoothly, adjusting without resistance. "Then you've seen enough."
Azura's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Enough to know you won't be staying a puddle forever."
The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Tomora watched them rise and vanish. His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
"This still feels wrong," he admitted, voice quieter now. "Like I'm borrowing something that doesn't belong to me."
Azura stepped closer, stopping just short of the river's edge. "Everything powerful feels that way at first."
Tomora looked at him. Really looked. "Did it feel wrong for you?"
For a moment, Azura didn't answer.
Then: "It felt necessary."
Tomora absorbed that in silence.
He turned back to the river and lifted both arms. The water responded immediately, surging upward in a controlled arc. It wrapped around his waist, reinforcing his form, thickening where his lower body met the current. His outline sharpened. Grew more defined.
The glowing lines beneath his skin brightened again, flowing faster now, like a tide pulled by the moon.
He winced—but didn't stop.
Azura watched closely, ready to intervene, but Tomora held the shape. Held it longer than before. His breathing steadied. His stance widened, grounded.
When he finally released the tension, the excess water slipped back into the river with barely a sound.
Tomora exhaled slowly.
"This is just the start," he said.
Azura nodded once. "If you keep walking this path, you'll surpass what you were."
Tomora's lips curved into something sharper than a smile. "I'm not trying to be what I was."
Azura's eyes flickered with something like approval. "Good."
The wind shifted, rustling leaves overhead. Somewhere deeper in the forest, an owl cried out. The camp remained asleep, unaware of the quiet transformation unfolding at its edge.
Tomora looked down at his hands—hands made of water and will—and clenched them once more.
The river flowed on beside him.
And this time, it flowed with him.