The scent of fish stew lingered in the cozy wooden kitchen, mingling with the salty breeze drifting in from the open windows. A candle flickered lazily on the table, its soft glow wrapping the room in a gentle warmth.
Hazard sat cross-legged on the floor, bowl in hand, spoon lazily stirring the broth. Across from him, Eldra slurped with enthusiasm, his cheeks puffed from the heat.
"Still too much pepper," Hazard murmured, squinting playfully.
"Nope," Eldra said between bites. "It's perfect. You're just dramatic."
Hazard chuckled. "Says the kid who nearly cried over onions last week."
Eldra pouted. "They betrayed me. They looked sweet."
A moment passed. Then they laughed—easy and loud. The kind of laughter that echoed through the old walls and made the house feel less empty.
They sat together on the floor, their bowls resting empty between them. The quiet hum of the sea filled the silence, mingling with the distant cry of gulls. A warm breeze passed through the window, tousling Eldra's hair as he leaned back against Hazard's side.
Hazard's gaze drifted to the horizon through the wooden slats of the window. His jaw tightened.
"I've been thinking," he said, voice low.
Eldra tilted his head, glancing up. "About what?"
Hazard reached out and took Eldra's hand—gently at first, but then he gripped it tightly, as if grounding himself through the touch. His hand was warm, rough with callouses, and it wrapped protectively around the smaller one in his.
"I want to find him," Hazard said, his words cutting the quiet like a blade.
Eldra froze.
Hazard turned to him, eyes hard with something deep—older than twenty years should carry. "The man in the dark robe."
Eldra's fingers twitched in his grasp, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his other hand came over Hazard's, clutching it back.
The air grew heavy.
"I still see him in my dreams," Hazard whispered. "The fire. The way Dad screamed. The way he didn't even look at us afterward. Like we were just… nothing."
Eldra's lips parted, but no words came.
Hazard bowed his head, voice tightening. "I need to know who he is. Why he did it. If he's still out there, hurting others."
He looked at Eldra—really looked at him. "And I want you with me. Not just because I need to protect you... but because you're the only reason I still have something worth fighting for."
Eldra's eyes shimmered, but he didn't cry. Instead, he nodded slowly—firmly. "Then let's go find him. Together."
Hazard pulled him into a sudden, tight embrace, clutching Eldra like he was afraid to let go—as if the world might take him away at any moment. His fingers trembled slightly against Eldra's back, his breath catching.
"I need you," he whispered, voice raw. "Not just out there, not just for this… I need you, Eldra. I don't know who I am without you anymore."
He pressed Eldra's head to his chest, as if needing to feel his heartbeat. "When you're not around, everything feels off. Even when I'm strong, I feel… lost."
Eldra's arms slowly wrapped around him in return, quiet but steady.
Hazard's voice cracked. "Promise me you'll stay. No matter what."
And Eldra, with a small nod against his chest, whispered back, "Always."
Outside, the waves crashed louder. The wind shifted.
Something was changing.
And the quiet little island no longer felt like the edge of the world.
It felt like the beginning.
Hazard finally loosened his grip, but his hands stayed on Eldra's shoulders, steady and trembling all at once.
"We can't stay here forever," he said, voice low, almost hesitant. "I've been feeling it for a while now. This place… it's a memory, not a future."
Eldra looked up at him, eyes wide and searching. "So what do we do?"
Hazard hesitated, then turned and walked over to the table drawer. He opened it and pulled out a crumpled, hand-sketched map—weathered, edges burned slightly from an old accident. He laid it between them.
"We find a ship first. One that won't ask too many questions. Then we start with the southern archipelagos. That's where I last heard whispers—people who've seen someone like him."
Eldra slowly stepped closer. "You've been planning this already."
Hazard gave a faint smile. "Not planning. Just… hoping."
A silence passed between them. Then Eldra touched the map and traced a finger along a faded trail. "Then let's stop hoping. Let's go."
Hazard's breath hitched. The weight in his chest shifted—not gone, but lighter. "We leave in three days. Pack only what we need. I'll start gathering supplies tomorrow."
Eldra's eyes stayed locked on the map, but his hand found Hazard's and held it tightly.
"So…" Eldra whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, "we're really gonna abandon this house? The one we made together...since the beginning?"
Hazard looked at him—at the boy who had grown up beside him, laughed, cried, and survived. His fingers tightened around Eldra's.
"We're not abandoning it," he said, soft but firm. "This house… it's home. After our mission—after we find the truth, after we make it right—we'll come back here."
He looked out the window where the ocean shimmered in the dusk light, its waves brushing the sand like a lullaby.
"Together."
The word lingered in the air like a promise.
Eldra nodded slowly, eyes glassy but determined. Then, with a breath, he pulled away from the map and stood up. "Okay," he said. "Then we should get ready."
They moved through the house with quiet purpose. The warmth of the evening sun filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. Every object they packed held a story—a chipped bowl from the first meal Eldra ever cooked, a hand-stitched blanket Hazard had made when Eldra got sick that one winter, an old photograph Grenn had kept folded in his journal.
Hazard folded their clothes tightly and packed them into worn satchels. Eldra went through the food storage, setting aside dried fish, smoked meat, and jars of fruit preserves. When they both reached for the same bag of herbs, their hands brushed—and neither pulled away.
"We'll need these for the road," Eldra murmured, not meeting Hazard's eyes.
"Yeah. Wouldn't want your stew to taste like boiled socks."
Eldra snorted. "You like my stew."
Hazard gave him a sideways grin. "That's the dangerous part."
They worked well into the evening, saying little, but everything between them spoke volumes. Their movements were synchronized—like the rhythm of two hearts that had grown side by side for years.
When at last their bags were lined up by the door and the house stood a little emptier than before, Eldra leaned against the wall, his arms folded.
"I guess this is really happening."
Hazard looked around the dim, familiar space—walls they painted together, corners they once hid in during storms, memories packed in every creak of the floor.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Tomorrow, we start chasing the future."
That night, the island wind carried the scent of salt and jasmine through the open windows. The beach house felt quieter than usual, as if it too was holding its breath for the morning to come.
Hazard stood by the small oil lamp beside Eldra's bed. He extended a finger, and a pinpoint of glowing magma flickered at the tip—just enough heat, just enough control. With a quiet sizzle, the wick caught flame, casting a warm, amber glow across the room.
The firelight danced over Eldra's face as he tucked the last of their belongings beneath his blanket for safekeeping. Hazard watched him for a moment—how the flickering glow softened his features, how his lashes trembled though his eyes stayed brave.
Eldra looked up. "You're not going to sleep?"
Hazard stepped over, sitting beside him. "In a minute."
They sat in silence, side by side on the edge of the bed. Outside, the waves whispered against the shore like a distant lullaby. Eldra leaned his head lightly on Hazard's shoulder, and Hazard didn't move—afraid that if he did, the moment might break.
"It's scary," Eldra whispered.
"Yeah," Hazard replied. Then, after a pause, "But not as scary as the thought of going without you."
Eldra smiled faintly. "Idiot."
Hazard chuckled, low in his chest. He reached over and gently pinched the wick of the lamp, the flame hissing out between his calloused fingers. The room dimmed to a soft darkness. But before pulling away, he turned slightly, their shoulders still touching.
"Goodnight, El," he said softly. "Don't disappear on me again."
"I won't," Eldra replied, voice barely above a breath. "Not unless you do first."
And with that, the room fell into quiet—two hearts, one roof, and the promise of a journey waiting just beyond the tide.