The campfire crackled softly in the cold dusk, casting flickering shadows across Zorawar's bruised face. Smoke curled into the sky, where stars peeked out like silent watchers.
Kairav sat across from him, sharpening his blade with calm precision. His coat fluttered lightly in the breeze, hood still down, eyes steady and unreadable.
"You're strong, kid," Kairav said suddenly, not looking up.
"Not physically. But here—" he tapped his temple "—and here." His fingers touched his chest. "Mentally. Spiritually. And that's rarer than you think."
Zorawar didn't answer at first.
He looked down at the fire. His eyes reflected the flames—but not their warmth. Only memory.
"My amma," Zorawar whispered. "She died. Almost all the kids in my orphanage died too. So tell me, Master Kairav…"
His voice trembled.
"What do I even have left to protect?"
Kairav finally stopped sharpening. He placed the blade aside and leaned forward, his voice low but firm.
