I will always follow

For the fallen, for the broken

His cheek burned—red, swollen, pulsing with humiliation and resolve.

No one had ever struck him before. Violence had no place in the Ubuyashiki household. Their parents had been strict—unyielding in duty, quiet in grief—but never once had they used pain as a means to teach obedience.

And yet, Kiriya found himself grateful for Kuina's hand.

She was crying. So was Kanata. Silent tears streamed down their cheeks—one out of anguish, the other from helpless rage. Kuina's hand still trembled at her side, the echo of the blow fresh on her skin. Her eyes wouldn't meet his.

Kanata sat by her desk, her hands moving shakily across the parchment, copying down crow reports between choked gasps, tracing the everchanging map with care. She bit her lower lip hard enough to bleed, trying not to sob, trying to be useful, even as her tears blurred the ink and smeared across the paper.

Aiko hovered like a tiny moon orbiting each of them, her face pale but determined. She moved from sibling to sibling, wordlessly adjusting a blanket around Kanata's shoulders, offering Kuina a cloth to dry her hands, smoothing Kiriya's sleeve where it had bunched. She had tried to press the cool handkerchief to his cheek earlier—he had refused it, but she hadn't seemed hurt. Just... watching. Always watching. Her care was quiet but constant, a thread stitching them together.

And then there was Suki.

She sat cross-legged across from Kiriya, her posture upright, hands folded neatly in her lap. She hadn't spoken since the slap, hadn't cried, hadn't flinched. Her presence wasn't loud or commanding—but it was steady. Anchored. She watched him calmly, without judgment, without pity. Just... there. Her silence felt like something stronger than words. Something safe. Something that didn't demand anything from him but his breath.

Kiriya clung to that.

The sting in his cheek anchored him. Kept him from falling apart completely. Because the truth was, he had already lost control. And he was past pretending otherwise.

They were dying.

Aiko and Suki's family was dying too—and yet they remained, at his side, as if they believed in his ability to lead. As if they still believed in him.

Every crow that returned carried another name. Another face. Another brave soul who had followed his voice straight into hell. He had sent boys—not much older than himself—into battle against the King of Demons.

And now he saw their faces every time he blinked.

They had trusted him.

And it was killing them.

Guilt rooted itself in his lungs, blooming like something rotten and overgrown. Was this what his father had carried? Was this what leadership meant? Sending others to die for something you couldn't promise was worth the price?

His voice—once serene, almost sacred in its stillness—now felt like a stranger's echo in his own throat.

"Kanata... Kuina..." he began, but the words shriveled in his throat before they could fully form. What could he say?

That he hadn't meant for them to die?

That he hadn't wanted this?

That he was just a child?

So were they.

"...Thank you."

Kuina wiped her face with the back of her sleeve and turned away, moving stiffly behind her desk. She had struck him—and now she cried harder than either of them.