Things the Wind Won’t Explain

The small antechamber beside the throne room was empty save for a low table, two chairs, and a window where the sky played at being a painting. Blair gripped her hood with both hands as if it were a shield. The flower-jewel in her hair glowed discreetly, but her cheeks did not; they burned like live coals.

Asori stepped in, uncertain, his body still carrying the tired electricity that transformation leaves behind. Tifa had already gone, and Eryndor had left them “to breathe.” The only thing not breathing was the air between them.

—So… —Asori scratched the back of his neck—. About the kiss.

Blair coughed.
—Which… kiss?

—That kiss, you know… —he made a vague gesture that covered the whole universe and named nothing—. The one your aunt mentioned. For the mission. In case… I run out of energy.

Blair looked away, red up to her eyelids.
—It’s not… not like I want to… —the sentence tripped over itself—. I mean, if it’s needed, we do it. For… health, for logistics.

Asori blinked three slow times. His brain and heart crossed like two indecisive pedestrians.
—Speaking of logistics —he added, clumsy—. There’s something I should say. I can transform one more time before I drop. Today, I mean. I still have one “charge.”

Blair glanced at him sideways, her blush pushing her to ask even if she didn’t want to.
—How do you know?

—I asked Eryndor a few days ago to “measure” me. How long I can stay transformed, how many times a day before my body sends the bill. —He raised two fingers—. For now, my limit is ten minutes per transformation. And I can only do it twice before the lights go out. If I force a third, I’ll faint, guaranteed.

Her eyes widened a little, pride floating in her like a well-set sail.
—You asked for that yourself?

—Yeah. —He shrugged—. I don’t want to drop dead in the middle of the street. I’d rather know when the rope ends.

Blair pressed the hood to her chest and, for a moment, forgot her embarrassment.
—That’s… responsible of you. I didn’t expect that.

Asori smiled sideways, relieved by the recognition.
—So —he finished, with a lightness he didn’t measure—, the Sweet Kiss isn’t strictly necessary. I mean… if you were dying to kiss me, we could—

He stopped too late. The word crashed into Blair’s blush, and anger lit her Fire aura, brightening the room.
—Dying to? —she repeated, but with an icy voice—. To kiss you?

Asori blinked. Mistake.
—No, I… I was joking. A joke. A dumb joke. Bad joke. Joke.

Blair drew a long breath, stared at the floor, turned away. The tug of the bond handed Asori a knot in his throat: shame, anger, humiliation.
—Idiot —Blair whispered, and left without looking at him.

Asori stayed there with his hand half-raised, holding a joke he no longer wanted.
—Fantastic —he told the empty air—. Genius.

The forest greeted them with the smell of pine and a damp road. Both wore hoods, both were in a hurry. Only one carried guilt on his shoulders.

Asori walked half a step behind, dodging roots, with the exact sensation of wearing a bell only he could hear: every twig snap said you ruined it. Blair moved steady without looking back; the edge of her cloak rose and fell like a tide denying the shore.

—You haven’t said anything in an hour —Asori said at last, to her back.

Silence.

—You haven’t looked at me either.

Silence.

—Not even when I almost stepped— —his foot hovered over a ditch; he corrected by pure instinct—. That.

Blair paused just long enough to adjust her hood. Kept going. The Sweet Kiss fed Asori micro-flashes: she was flooded with self-embarrassment, angry at having shown interest, eager to burn the whole moment away. And beneath it all, a reckless tenderness.

—I’m sorry —he blurted—. I was an idiot.

Nothing.

—Blair, really. I didn’t mean—

—Quiet —Blair said without looking at him. And walked on.

The warning came first from the birds: they stopped singing. Then from the wind, which drew in as if something bigger were breathing in its place. Finally, from the eyes: a brownish, bony bulk rising from the brush, as tall as two men, with a back like an insect’s armor and a crooked jaw. Its eyes were soulless glass. Its skin wasn’t skin; it was wet leather that smelled like a sick river.

—It’s a Megalo —Blair said, clutching her cloak to her chest. The blush lingered, but her voice came out cold—. And an ugly one.

The creature let out a hollow growl. The air vibrated. Asori stepped back twice on reflex.

—There are categories —Blair explained, eyes never leaving it, still annoyed—. From F to S. F are trash with teeth. A can topple walls if you let them, and S are formidable fighters. —The Megalo’s jaw clicked—. And then there’s the legend: Z-class. You don’t just see those. You remember them. There are stories of monsters like that fighting gods when Ventos was young. Neither I nor Zeknier would pick a fight with one.

Asori swallowed.
—This one…?

—This one smells like F. —For the first time in an hour, a smile slipped out—sharp, a little mocking—. Or weaker. You might handle it.

—Oh, now you laugh at me… —Asori stepped left, then right—. Glad to be your comic relief.

The Megalo charged. Asori rolled, rose with awkward grace and, without thinking much, opened the spout. White light ran his skin. He transformed. Blue eyes. Living aura.

—Hey! —Blair protested, cheeks still aflame—. You already transformed this morning…

—I’ve got two charges —he planted his feet—. I’d rather use them than get chewed by a wardrobe on legs. And it’ll double as training.

The Megalo slashed. Asori slipped past by a hair, felt the air ruffle the beast’s mangy pelt, slid his body and avoided the first swipe, the second, the third. But each dodge cost him: Astral burned like coals fading too fast, and worry crept in.

—A little help wouldn’t hurt —he said through his teeth.

—Oh, now you need help, do you? —Blair folded her arms, pride smarting in a way she hated—. And what about “no need for a Sweet Kiss”?

The Megalo roared, ripped up a root with its claws, and whipped it like a lash. Asori dodged by half a beat; the next one grazed his shoulder and his white shirt tore with an ugly hiss. A thin line of blood crossed his chest. His vision shivered.

—Blair —he said, jaw set—. Please.

The exact word. The exact tone. The bond loosened a notch. Anger yielded to urgency.

Blair took a single step. She raised her hand. A thrust of fire was born in her palm—clean, narrow, exact: an incandescent line that stitched air and the Megalo’s chest as if hemming a curtain. The monster froze, stared down at the smoking hole, clicked, and fell like a tree.

Silence returned with a slap of air.

Blair lowered her hand. She shot Asori a sidelong look.
—F-class —she said, dry. The blush remained. So did the pride.

Asori meant to answer with a joke, but the light around him flickered. He’d run, dodged, held too tight for too long. The white aura went out like a candle. Back in base, he took two steps toward Blair.
—Thanks, Silver-Haired Princess —he said. And collapsed.

The world kept going without him for a while.

When he returned, there was fire. Not battle-fire—home-fire. Between blinks, the first thing he felt was warmth on his lips, faint, like the memory of a sun had kissed his mouth. The second was the soft weight beneath his head: a cloak turned pillow. The third, a cave ceiling with stalactites fine as glass teeth and, beyond, rain falling into the black mouth of the entrance.

A branch popped in the flames. Across from him, Blair sat with her back to him, hood up, silhouette cut by firelight. She glanced over, then back to the fire.

—…What happened? —Asori asked, his voice kicking itself into shape.

—You fainted —Blair said without turning—. And a bunch more Megalos showed up. I used you as a human shield until we reached the cave.

Asori blinked.
—You used me as what?

—A shield —she repeated with royal dignity—. You’re sturdy. —A beat—. It worked. We made it here for the night. I handled the rest. Lit a fire and waited for the air-genius to wake up.

Asori opened his mouth to retort, but the bond handed him something muddled: pride at having carried him, fear of losing him, anger at herself for being angry with him… and that blush again, warming even in shadow.

He pushed up onto an elbow.
—And… I felt… something warm. Here. —He touched his lips, still half numb with sleep—. Did we…?

Blair’s shoulders went taut. The fire crackled like laughter.
—I… —she began, swallowed—. You wouldn’t wake. You were pale from that cut on your shoulder. I had to… —She broke off, turning just enough for him to see her profile crimson, the jewel bright.

Asori waited. Rain thickened, drumming the stone like a far drum.
—Did we kiss? —he ventured, barely above a whisper.

Blair didn’t answer. Her blush did: it climbed, burned, turned to ember. Then, as if the sky had chosen its cue, thunder stitched the night. From the cave mouth, the rain fell in sheets.

—It’ll rain all night —Blair said, still turned away—. We should rest. Tomorrow there’ll be more Megalos. And more mouths to keep shut.

Asori smiled, lying back. The fire mirrored the smile in his eyes.
—Thanks for saving me. —A beat—. And for… using me as a human shield.

Blair snorted. It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t anger. It was the sound two people make when the heart can’t decide whether to burn or hide.

The wind explained nothing. The rain didn’t either. The fire did its part, warming them into weariness. Sleep came halfway, glued together with smoke. Outside, the forest rinsed its guilt; inside, two hoods dried on stones, and two pulses—hers and his—unknowingly counted down the distance to the Capital City.