Not for him—for the village. A slow, grey rot that crept up from the lowlands, withering rice paddies and stealing the breath of the elderly. The priest called it a curse. His grandfather called it a consequence of a forgotten promise with the forest spirit.

The spirit’s light dimmed. The promise was broken by your grandfather’s father. He took more than the forest could give. The price is a life. A willing one.

“The spirit lives in the heart of the Whispering Grove,” he whispered. “You must go. Not to fight. To ask.”

You brought no steel, little warrior.

Kaito looked at his empty hands. They were no longer clenched into fists. They were open.