Genesis (Erityian Tribes Novella, #7)

The thrumming in my head was a dull ache, a relentless percussion against my skull. It had been like this since my father… since that night. Ryō lay beside me, his breathing shallow, and I knew he was just as exhausted, just as broken. The forest canopy, usually a comforting blanket of dark leaves, now seemed to press down on us, a suffocating presence. Every rustle of leaves, every distant murmur of the wind, was magnified, piercing through me. I could 'see' the individual veins on the leaves above, the microscopic movements of insects on the bark, even the faint vibrations of roots burrowing beneath the earth.

My father’s last words echoed, a phantom whisper in the back of my mind. 'Live well, Shō, Ryō. Live and prove that it is not a sin to be alive just because we are different.' Different. That word felt like a brand, a mark that had cost us everything.

Ryō stirred, his eyes, still sharp with the golden glint I now knew too well, fixed on me. "Are you still seeing things, brother?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble. I nodded, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me. The world had become too loud, too bright, too much.

We were alone, fugitives, with only the tattered remains of our family’s honor and a sword that felt too heavy, too laden with blood, to be a comfort.