Subsection: "Greenfire Dreams"
Hatku drifted through sleep like a man sinking into a sea of memory. He felt warmth—unlike the searing burn of battle, but soft, living warmth. Green flames curled around his fingers in the dreamscape. They flickered like they were alive, like they remembered him.
He saw a hand—small, childlike—grabbing his.
A laugh. A voice. A promise he once made and couldn't keep.
Then smoke swallowed the dream whole.
He woke with a gasp.
The flickering glow still surrounded him, not from a dream now, but from the real flame at the center of the cottage. It danced with the same hue—green, ancient, impossible.
The masked girl sat by the fire, silent, sharpening a curved dagger. She hadn't noticed him yet, or maybe she had and just didn't care. Her focus was surgical. Almost too calm.
Hatku shifted, pain dragging through his bones. "You've saved me twice now," he croaked. "You got a name?"
The scraping of metal paused. But she didn't look up.
"Not one that matters anymore," she said.
He narrowed his eyes. "You talk like a ghost."
She shrugged. "That's what's left of me."
Hatku grunted, shifting closer to the fire. "You've been trained. You're too good. Those men you killed—they were seasoned, brutal. And you cut through them like they were nothing."
She gave no reply.
"You don't move like someone who learned to fight to survive," he said. "You move like someone who was taught. By someone who knew war."
She said nothing.
But her hands slowed.
"I had a family once," she finally said.
Hatku leaned forward, drawn by the tremor in her voice. "Parents?"
"A mother," she said, "who broke for us. A father who died trying to protect us."
Her words were like stones dropped into deep water—rippling pain she didn't show on the surface.
Hatku's throat tightened. "Any siblings?"
She paused.
"A brother."
Her voice softened, like she was speaking to the fire itself. "He was strong. Stubborn. Always climbing where he shouldn't, always picking fights with bigger kids. I used to think he'd grow up to be one of those arrogant warriors who never looked back."
Hatku stared into the flames, heart pounding.
"What happened to him?"
"I thought he died," she whispered. "I saw... I thought I saw him die."
Subsection: "A Blade Once His"
Hatku's gaze drifted to the sword she had given him. It lay beside the fire, the glow of the embers kissing its ancient metal.
He reached for it.
Even the hilt felt familiar—etched leather, worn from years of war. He knew the shape before he even unsheathed it fully. A memory stirred—his father's hand gripping it, holding it out like a blessing the day Hatku first manifested his greenfire.
He turned the blade slightly in the firelight.
There it was—the rune.
A single mark, carved just beneath the guard. A symbol that only a few warriors across all realms would ever see in their lives.
This wasn't a copy.
It wasn't a tribute.
This was his father's blade.
Hatku looked up slowly. "Where did you get this?"
She didn't move. "It was my father's."
He exhaled sharply. "That sword doesn't pass hands. That blade is bound by blood. Only descendants of the Flame-Touched could even hold it without it burning them alive."
Silence.
Hatku stood, the pain in his limbs flaring with each breath. "What was his name?"
She looked up, and for the first time, her voice cracked.
"They took it from us," she said. "Said we weren't allowed to remember. That to speak it was to challenge the gods."
Hatku swallowed hard. "Then how did you survive?"
She looked away. "I didn't. Not fully."
Subsection: "Only Twins"
Hatku clenched his fists, green fire dancing weakly along his knuckles. His power was barely returning, but what little responded… it matched hers.
The same flicker.
The same breath.
No two siblings could ever share the same power. The Universal Gods forbade it. They locked away that possibility from birth. It was a cosmic law.
Unless—
"Only twins," he said under his breath.
She turned to him sharply. "What?"
He looked up at her, voice shaking. "No one is allowed to share the same power as a parent or sibling. That's the gods' law. It's enforced at birth. Unless…"
She stared at him, lips parting.
"Unless they're twins," she said quietly.
Hatku nodded, his world spinning. The blade. The power. The pain in her voice. The rage in her silence.
He stepped forward slowly. "What was your name… before you buried it?"
She hesitated.
Then reached up and removed her mask.
She looked different now—not just because her face was exposed, but because her eyes were no longer guarded. They were open, vulnerable, human.
"…Tashina," she said.
Hatku stopped cold. His breath caught.
That name—it hit like a lightning strike through memory. A name shouted in childhood games. A name whispered through dreams during the loneliest nights. A name he thought he'd buried.
His lips trembled. "Tashina... did you have a brother?"
Her eyes shimmered. "Yes."
He took one final step toward her.
"What was his name?"
Tashina's voice cracked with emotion. She took in a shaking breath and said, "My brother's name was—"
"—Hatku," he said at the same time.
The fire flared between them—green and brilliant—casting light that shook the cottage walls.
Tears traced down Tashina's cheeks.
Hatku's voice broke, softer than he'd ever spoken.
"It's me… Hatku."
The flame didn't die.
It roared.