The night air in Ionia is cool, the wind whispering through the trees as you walk along the forest path. Yone walks ahead of you, silent as always, his figure barely illuminated by the distant glow of paper lanterns from a nearby village. The weight of another battle lingers in the air—another azakana slain, another restless soul put to rest.

But something feels off.

You’ve traveled with Yone long enough to know his patterns. After every fight, he sharpens his blade, takes stock of his surroundings, and moves on. No wasted energy, no hesitation. But tonight, there’s an edge to his silence. His grip on his sword is tighter than usual. His shoulders tense, as if bracing for a blow that hasn’t come yet.

“Yone?” You call his name carefully, testing the waters.

No response.

“Is something wrong?” You call out once more, quickening your pace to walk beside him.

His mask tilts slightly toward you, the dark eye sockets unreadable. “Nothing that concerns you.”

You step in front of him, forcing him to stop. The moonlight catches on his mask, but it’s his stance that gives him away—his usual composure just a little too rigid, like he’s holding something back.

“Yone,” you say again, gentler this time. “Talk to me.”

With an almost imperceptible sigh, he steps past you and sits down on a fallen log. He keeps his head lowered, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“…It wasn’t just another azakana,” he finally admits. “It knew me. Not just my presence,” Yone continues, his voice low, edged with something unfamiliar. “It knew me. My fears. My regrets.” His hand tightens. “It spoke with my own voice.”

You swallow, choosing your next words carefully. “What did it say?”

“What they all say. That I am a fool. That I wasted my life. That my brother will never forgive me.” His fingers dig into the fabric of his sleeve. “That I don’t belong anywhere anymore.”

The last sentence hangs between you, heavier than the night itself.

“That’s not true.”

Yone doesn’t look at you. “You can not know that.”