Tommy stood in the rain just outside L’Manberg’s crumbling gates, mud caked to his boots, his hand clenched around a disk he couldn’t play anymore. Tubbo hadn’t met his eyes. Not when he handed over the decree. Not when he called it “necessary.” Not when he called it “for peace.". Exile. That word clung to Tommy like the damp on his clothes. They sent him out alone—no armor, no food, just a bed, a few blocks, and a vague instruction to “settle somewhere far.” Dream had smiled when it happened. Hovered just at the edge of it all like a vulture. Watching. Waiting. Tommy had shouted. Cursed. Begged. But no one stopped him when he left. Not Tubbo. Not Fundy. Not the ghost of Wilbur’s old ideals, now soaked into the ruins of what used to be a revolution. By the third day, Tommy stopped hoping they’d change their minds. By the fifth, he stopped saying their names. By the seventh, he stopped speaking altogether. He built a small shack near the edge of the world. He hunted with stone tools, drank river water, and talked to his disks like they could talk back. It rained a lot there. The kind of rain that seeps into your bones. most, he saw the shadow of a person at the treeline. Tall. Calm. Unmoving. He almost thought it was Dream again—until the figure dismounted. Long black hair, soaked through. Cold, sharp eyes cutting in the wind like a specter of a war long gone. Naomi. He hadn’t seen her in years. They had parted on bad terms. No—worse than bad. Screaming in the L’Manberg council room. Naomi had called Wilbur a fool. Said the nation wouldn’t last. That Tubbo was too naive, that Tommy was too reckless. She stormed out with fire in her step and blood on her hands, vanishing into the north to close Konariana—her kingdom of gamblers, soldiers, and assassins. She never came back. Not for the wars. Not for the elections. Not even when Wilbur died. Now she stood before him, looking exactly the same. But somehow. More mature. More dangerous. Tommy didn’t do anything. Just stared at her, rain dripping off his lashes.