Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For centuries, the Aura Guardians defended the fragile balance between humans, Pokémon, and the powers of legend. But in the modern world, the order has faded into myth—until one boy's untamed gift reignites their legacy.

At eight years old, Ash Ketchum of Pallet Town awakens his Aura in a violent burst while protecting a girl named Serena at a Pokémon Camp. Though no one else believes her tale, Serena never forgets what she saw. Soon after, Ash is taken by the surviving Aura Guardians, leaving behind his family and friend to undergo a decade of brutal training.

Now eighteen, Ash returns to the world as a hardened warrior-scholar, bearing scars from trials of fire, blood, and spirit. Gifted a Riolu descended from his Lucario mentors, he dreams not only of protecting the world but of becoming a true Pokémon Master. Seeking the girl who once believed in him, Ash journeys to reunite with Serena, who has become a gifted Pokémon Coordinator.

Together, they begin an epic journey across every known region—from the forests of Kanto to the deserts of Orre, the contested kingdoms of Ransei, and the luminous wilds of Alola. Along the way, they confront the shadow of death in every battle, clash with villainous syndicates and warlords, and uncover a conspiracy stretching back to the origins of Aura itself.

But Ash is not the only one chosen by Aura. A fallen Guardian, twisted by hatred and despair, rises as his dark reflection—an enemy who believes Pokémon should serve humanity, not live beside them. Their inevitable clash will shake every corner of the Pokémon world.

Through tragedy, betrayal, and love, Ash and Serena's bond is tested as they carve a path through war, legend, and destiny. With Serena's contests bringing beauty into the darkness, and Ash's Aura flaring as humanity's last defense, the two must decide whether the bonds of love and hope are strong enough to withstand a world teetering on the brink.

Because in the end, Aura is life itself—and life burns brightest in the ashes.

Chapter Text

Episode 0: Prologue - The Flame in the Forest

The world of Pokémon is ancient. Older than the cities of men, older even than the forests and seas. Long before Poké Balls, before badges and leagues, the world was shaped by gods that walked as beasts.

Arceus, the First Flame, gave form to all things. From its thousand arms, the gods of time, space, and shadow were born, and with them the endless cycle of creation and destruction. Legendaries roamed not as myths but as rulers—storms that could speak, dragons that could unmake the stars.

And humanity… humanity was fragile.

At first, man cowered beneath the storms. Villages were swallowed by tidal waves, kingdoms leveled by fire. But man was cunning. They learned not to fight against Pokémon, but to fight with them. Bonds were forged in fire and blood. Partnerships. Trust. And for every king or conqueror who sought to enslave Pokémon, there were those who chose to protect them.

From these protectors came the Aura Guardians. Warriors who could touch the lifeforce of the world, who could hear the hearts of Pokémon and wield their power like flame in the darkness. For centuries, they held the balance between man and monster, life and death. They were knights, sages, and executioners, sworn to protect the world from those who would twist it.

But kingdoms rose, and kingdoms fell. And with the march of centuries, the Guardians vanished, their order scattered into dust and legend. The world changed. Poké Balls replaced trust. Gyms replaced trials. The leagues turned war into sport, and battlefields into stadiums.

And yet… the truth of the old world remained. Pokémon still killed. Trainers still died. And in the shadows of civilization, the legacies of gods and Guardians stirred restlessly.

For though the Aura had faded, it was not gone. It slept in bloodlines, hidden, waiting.

Waiting for a child born with fire in his soul.

It is here, in the modern world, that our tale begins. Not with kings or gods. Not with armies or wars. But with two children at a summer camp, destined to change everything.

The campfires of Professor Oak's summer program flickered in the night, small islands of light against the vast shadows of Viridian Forest. Dozens of children from across Kanto and beyond—excited, rowdy, and buzzing about Pokémon—settled into their tents while counselors made their rounds. The tents dotted the grassy field like bright little mushrooms, their colors vivid against the looming wall of green.

Lanterns glowed along a gravel path that moved from the tents on the outskirts towards the cabins near the camp's center, each cabin marked with the sigil of a Pokémon.

A Butterfree fluttered lazily above the central firepit, helping the counselors light the flames with a gentle Gust. Beyond the safety of this clearing, the forest pressed in close, its trees older than the towns nearby, its shadows older still.

Every night, counselors would warn the same thing: "Stay in the light. The forest beyond is alive—and it doesn't forgive mistakes."

Among the campers was a boy with untidy black hair and restless brown eyes. He was only eight, yet his spirit already burned hotter than most. His name was Ash Ketchum. He was quick to laugh, quick to defend others, and quicker still to wander where he shouldn't.

That same camp was also hosting a girl from Kalos—her first trip away from home. Serena, with honey-blonde hair and a shy smile, kept close to the counselors, clutching the hem of her pink camp dress whenever the woods rustled. She missed her mother terribly, but she wanted to be brave. Little did she know, she'd get her chance.

On the first day of camp, the first wagons and buses arrived under the morning sun. Children spilled out in a rush, some giddy, some already homesick. Among them was Ash with hair as untidy as his shoelaces, who immediately tripped over said shoelaces as he bounded off the bus. He sprang up again with a grin, utterly unbothered.

"I'm Ash Ketchum! From Pallet Town!" he shouted to nobody in particular, puffing out his chest as if daring the forest to challenge him.

Serena had come later, shyly stepping down from a carriage sent from the port. She stood on the edge of the group, watching the chaos with wide eyes.

Orientation began around the central firepit. The campers sat around the pit while the counselors explained the rules and routines of camp life. During their presentation, a Chansey bustled around, handing out berry snacks, much to the delight of the young campers, while an Arcanine patrolled the perimeter. After the explanation of the rules and the eating of snacks, it was time for the campers to get to know each other with an icebreaker. The icebreaker was simple: state your name and something about yourself.

When the circle came around to him, Ash sat cross-legged, dirt already smeared across his knees. He grinned wide, unbothered by the attention.

"My name's Ash Ketchum. I'm from Pallet Town, and one day, I'm gonna be the world's greatest Pokémon Master!"

The counselors chuckled at the enthusiasm. Some kids rolled their eyes. But there was a fire in Ash's tone—not just a child boasting, but a boy who believed it.

He added, almost as an afterthought: "And I'm gonna see every Pokémon in the world. Every single one. I'll even meet the Legendary ones. Just you wait."

A hush followed, the kind only a dream spoken too loudly can bring. Serena, sitting across the circle, caught herself staring.

When Serena's turn came, her voice faltered. "M-my name is Serena. I'm from…"

"Kalos!" Ash blurted before she could finish, his voice carrying across the circle. "That's, like, way across the ocean, right? Cool!"

Laughter rippled through the group. Serena flushed crimson; she had no idea how the boy knew she was from Kalos, but when Ash turned to her with a grin, she found herself smiling despite the embarrassment. For the first time that day, she didn't feel invisible.

Once every child had spoken their piece, the counselors clapped their hands together, declaring the icebreakers finished. The circle dissolved into a tide of chatter, children comparing where they were from, boasting about Pokémon they'd seen, or complaining about how long the introductions had taken.

Butterfree fluttered overhead, scattering faint powder to calm the group as the counselors announced the evening's next activity: the campfire feast.

Logs crackled in the central pit as skewers of berries and bread were passed around. Chansey bustled from group to group, handing out rice balls shaped into little Poké Ball patterns while Arcanine, stoic as ever, continued to patrol the perimeter.

Ash wasted no time diving in, cramming food into his mouth with both hands, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. He tried to talk through the mess, declaring how much better camp food was than his mom's cooking—until the counselor raised an eyebrow, and Ash, mortified, quickly backtracked,

"Uh, I mean, my mom's food is great too!"

Laughter rippled through the circle. Serena pressed her fingers to her lips, trying not to giggle too loudly.

When marshmallows came out, the children crowded around sticks and fire. Serena lingered at the edge, hesitant to take one. She didn't want to look greedy. She didn't want to burn it.

Ash noticed. His own marshmallow was already charred black, barely clinging to the stick. He grinned and shoved it toward her.

"Here. You can have mine. I like 'em crunchy."

Serena blinked. No one had ever offered her something so simply, so casually before. She hesitated, then reached for it. Their fingers brushed, and she felt her cheeks burn. She took a careful bite.

"It's… good," she said softly.

Ash leaned back with a satisfied nod, as though he'd just solved one of the world's problems.

The counselors told stories that night—tales of Ho-Oh's rainbow wings, of a boy once chosen to wield its blessing, of heroes who could speak to Pokémon with nothing but their hearts. Most of the campers grew restless, whispering among themselves.

But not Ash. He sat forward, firelight dancing in his eyes, every word burning into his imagination. Serena kept sneaking glances at him, unsettled by how fiercely he believed, when to her they were still only stories—fragile things that couldn't possibly be real. These were just stories, weren't they?

When the story ended, the counselors started to send the children to their tents. Ash darted off laughing with a group of boys, still buzzing with energy. Serena lingered near the fire, hugging her knees, eyes watching. She wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time since arriving, she felt a little less alone, a small connection. What would come of it, she never would have imagined.

The campfire's embers burned low, red coals glowing beneath the ash. Counselors called for lights out, their voices carrying across the clearing as children yawned and drifted towards their tents.

The sounds of laughter and chatter faded. The night closed in.

Once the lanterns dimmed, the world felt different. Beyond the camp's clearing, the Viridian Forest stretched in all directions—its trees towering and ancient, their boughs blotting out the stars. The forest floor was a carpet of shadow. Every rustle of leaves, every distant cry of a wild Pokémon seemed magnified in the darkness.

The counselors had warned them: stay within the light. Most children obeyed, unnerved by the wildness pressing in so close.

Ash wasn't like most children.

Inside his tent, zipped halfway, he pressed his face against the mesh and stared into the trees, eyes wide with wonder. The chorus of nocturnal Pokémon called to him—hoot after hoot, chirp after chirp, the faint buzz of wings. His heart hammered with restless energy. This was the wild world of Pokémon, alive and untamed. He wanted to see it up close.

He wriggled free from his sleeping bag and ducked outside.

The clearing was hushed, most campers already drifting into uneasy dreams. Ash padded barefoot across the cool grass, peering into the tree line. The air smelled of damp earth and pine. His hand twitched at his side, wishing—desperately—that he already had a Pokémon partner beside him.

Something flickered in the underbrush. Two glowing eyes. Ash grinned. "A Pokémon!" he whispered.

He crept closer, crouching low… and yelped when a counselor's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Back to bed, Ketchum," the man said firmly. Ash looked up and saw a grizzled-looking man, scars twisting down his jawline showing faintly in the light of night, though there was a hint of amusement on his lips. "You want the Beedrill swarm finding you at night?"

Ash shuffled back toward camp, cheeks red. "But I almost saw one…"

"Trust me, you'll see plenty. In daylight."

He obeyed, but his eyes never left the forest edge, still glittering with curiosity.

Inside another tent, Serena lay curled in her sleeping bag, wide awake. The forest noises rattled her nerves—the creak of branches, the sharp shriek of something hunting in the dark. She squeezed her pillow tighter, heart racing.

From outside, she caught the muffled sound of Ash's voice, followed by the counselor's stern reply. She couldn't make out the words, but she heard the boy's laugh in his voice—bright, careless, unafraid.

It startled her a bit, that laugh. While she shook with nerves, he sounded… fearless.

She pressed her cheek against the pillow, closing her eyes, and tried to imagine what it would feel like not to be afraid.

By midnight, the camp was silent. Only the wind stirred the canvas of the tents. The counselors made their rounds, lantern light bobbing between rows, while far beyond, and unseen, the forest breathed. Pairs of glowing eyes blinked in the dark, watching the clearing from the safety of the shadows.

And farther still, deeper in the forest, something else stirred. A shape drifted through the treetops, silent as thought. Its body shimmered faintly in the moonlight, tail trailing like ribbon. It moved with the curiosity of a child and the wisdom of eternity.

Mew.

It watched the camp from afar, head tilted, and its great eyes narrowed with recognition of something hidden, something yet to come.

Then, with a flick of its tail, it vanished into the night.

The morning sun of the second day broke through the Viridian treeline in pale shafts, scattering light across dew-slick grass. By breakfast, the children were herded into groups, each assigned to a counselor for a rotation of lessons designed to teach them the basics of survival and Pokémon ecology. By chance—or perhaps fate—Ash and Serena found themselves placed in the same group, their paths drawn just a little closer together.

Their first stop was a shaded patch of earth near the tree line. Counselor Haruto, a broad-shouldered man, knelt and brushed his fingers through the dirt.

"Pokémon leave more than footprints," he explained. "They leave signs. Scorched bark, torn branches, claw marks. If you learn to read the land, you'll know who passed through before you."

He gestured to the soil. A line of tiny prints trailed through the mud. "What do these belong to?"

A few children guessed wildly: "Pidgey!" "Rattata!" "Dragonite!"

Haruto chuckled. "These belong to a Caterpie. Small. Notice the segmented pattern. And there—see the silk? That tells us it was feeding."

Ash crouched low, smearing dirt on his cheeks without caring. He pressed his nose almost to the ground. "So if we follow these, we'd find it?"

"Possibly," Haruto said.

Ash grinned. "Awesome."

Serena knelt more carefully, folding her dress beneath her knees. Her eyes traced the delicate marks in the soil. She wasn't sure how anyone could call them disgusting—something about their fragility was beautiful. When she glanced up, Ash was already beaming at her as though they'd shared a secret.

As Counselor Haruto brushed the soil smooth, he beckoned the children closer. "One last thing. Not every track belongs to a Caterpie or a Pidgey."

He dragged his hand across a scar in the bark of a tree, deep and jagged. "This is no accident. Ursaring. Territorial. If you see gouges like this, you leave. You do not run, you do not shout, you simply back away."

A ripple of unease spread through the group. A few kids glanced nervously at the dark wall of Viridian Forest looming just beyond camp.

Ash leaned in closer, eyes burning. "What if you didn't run? What if you stood your ground?"

Haruto's gaze hardened. "Then you wouldn't be here to ask the question."

The silence that followed hung heavy, broken only by the distant cry of a Spearow.

Serena's fingers curled tight around her dress. She had never thought of the forest as dangerous—not really. But now she imagined claws carving through bark, and the shadow of a bear watching from the trees.

And though she didn't know why, she glanced sideways at Ash. His grin hadn't faded.

The clearing was littered with piles of branches, long sticks, and broad leaves. The ground smelled of fresh-cut wood and rich, earthy soil.

Counselor Mika crossed her arms, surveying the group with sharp eyes. "A storm in the wild won't wait for you to argue or cry. Shelter means survival. Use whatever's in the pile. If it stands, you'll sleep under it tonight. If it collapses…" She shrugged. "You'll sleep in the mud."

The challenge sent a ripple of nervous energy through the campers. Children scrambled to their chosen spots.

Pairs of campers scrambled to work. Some built wobbly piles that collapsed at a touch. Others grew frustrated, tossing branches aside.

Ash threw himself at the task like a Tauros charging headfirst. He dragged the largest branches to his plot, muttering excitedly to himself. "If I build it tall enough, we could fit the whole group! Maybe even the counselors! They'll think it's awesome!"

Sweat streaked his face as he stacked branch after branch in a loose pyramid. But he never stopped to weave or brace the supports. Every time he added another stick, the pile wobbled like a tower ready to fall.

"Almost… done!" he shouted proudly, throwing a huge leafy bough over the top.

The whole structure swayed, groaned, and collapsed in a noisy heap, burying him in sticks and leaves.

Children burst into laughter. Ash popped his head out of the pile, twigs sticking comically from his hair. Instead of embarrassment, he grinned and raised his fist triumphantly. "See? That's how you don't do it!"

Even Mika's stern face cracked into the faintest smile.

"Bigger isn't always better," Mika said with a chuckle.

Serena, on the other hand, approached her materials like a puzzle. She smoothed her dress beneath her knees, stacking branches with deliberate precision.

She placed two thick sticks in the soil as a frame, leaning smaller ones against them at an angle. She paused often, stepping back to inspect the symmetry. Her small hands worked carefully, weaving leaves and vines across the top like stitching on a quilt.

Other children grew frustrated, abandoning their shelters half-finished. But Serena's patience held. She hummed softly to herself, fingers nimble as she layered branch over branch.

By the end, her shealter stood solid, not grand, but steady. It looked like something that could weather a storm.

Mika stopped beside her, nodding once. "Good. Small. Practical. That's how you survive."

Serena's cheeks warmed with pride. It wasn't beautiful, but it worked.

"Good work," the counselor said, nodding once more.

Ash, brushing dirt from his hair, stumbled over to her shelter and stared. "Whoa. Yours actually works."

Serena tucked her hair behind her ear, shy but pleased. "I… I wanted to make sure it stayed up."

Ash leaned under the structure, inspecting it like it was a legendary artifact. "This is awesome! Way better than mine. Hey—if it rains, I'll just sleep in yours, okay?"

Serena blinked, startled, then smiled despite herself. "…Okay."

Ash's grin widened. "See? That's teamwork!"

For the rest of the lesson, he lingered at her side, trying to copy the way she wove leaves. His structure collapsed again anyway, but Serena giggled quietly as she showed him how to tie a vine properly.

Lunch was delayed for the next station—berry identification. A long table was lined with colorful fruit: Oran, Sitrus, Cheri, Tamato, and more. Counselor Yuta, a round man with spectacles, adjusted his notes.

"Berries are medicine, food, and poison all in one. Some will heal you. Some will burn you alive from the inside. Always know what you're putting in your mouth."

The children leaned forward in fascination and disgust as he described each berry. Cheri to cure paralysis, Pecha to heal poison, and Oran for basic wounds. But then he held up a deep red Tamato Berry.

"Tamato Berries are not poisonous," he said. "But they are fiery. Eaten raw, they can blister your mouth. Only the foolish would—"

"Only one way to find out!" Ash said, already popping one whole into his mouth.

Serena gasped. "Ash, don't—!"

Too late.

When Ash bit into the Tamato Berry, his eyes went wide. For an instant, nothing happened. Then his face flushed crimson, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his mouth. Steam all but poured from between his lips as he gasped.

"Hot—! HOT—!"

Counselor Yuta rushed over, waving for Chansey. Ash's lips were already swelling, his tongue blistered where the berry's oils had touched.

Serena knelt beside him, her own eyes wide with alarm. "Ash! Why would you—oh, you idiot!" She tore a cloth from her sleeve, dipping it into a basin of water and pressing it carefully to his mouth as Chansey prepared a mild Oran-based salve.

Ash hissed through the pain, but when his eyes met Serena's worried face, he forced a lopsided grin.

The other campers laughed nervously, but the counselor didn't. Yuta lifted the remaining Tamato Berry. "Let this be clear: nature does not forgive foolishness. One mistake in the wild can mean days of agony—or worse."

Serena's hands lingered on Ash's shoulders as Chansey finished treating him. Even after he was patched up, she wouldn't stop glancing at him, still in disbelief at what had just happened.

Ash, lips puffed and voice muffled, still managed to croak out, "Totally worth it."

The final rotation brought the children to the very edge of Viridian Forest. The trees here were older, their trunks thick as pillars, their canopy blotting out most of the afternoon sun. Counselor Ishara knelt in the grass, one hand outstretched. Resting upon her palm was Butterfree, wings shimmering like stained glass.

Her voice was soft, but it carried an authority that silenced the group. "Pokémon are not tools. They are lives. They feel as you do—fear, hunger, joy. If you rush them, they will flee. If you mock them, they will never trust you. But if you listen… if you show them kindness… they may let you into their hearts."

The children leaned closer. The Butterfree flapped gently, then drifted onto a nearby flower.

A boy from Saffron snorted. "It's just a bug. Who cares?"

A ripple of laughter passed through the group. Some nodded, emboldened by the dismissal.

But Ash didn't laugh. His brows furrowed, and he stepped forward before he could stop himself. "Don't say that."

The boy blinked. "What?"

Ash's voice was quiet, but firm. "It's not just a bug," Ash went on, glaring at the boy. "It's a Pokémon. It's alive. It eats, it fights, it works hard just to survive. That's not useless—that's amazing."

He pointed toward the flower Butterfree had landed on, wings stirring pollen into the air. "See that? It's helping the flowers grow. Without Pokémon like this, half the forest wouldn't even be here. You think that's nothing?"

His voice cracked, but he didn't back down. "Being small doesn't make something weak. Doesn't make it worthless. Pokémon fight for their lives every day—even the ones you think don't matter. That's braver than anything you've ever done."

The boy's mouth worked soundlessly. A few kids shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed by their earlier laughter.

Ishara's eyes glinted with approval. "Spoken like someone who hears more than just words."

She coaxed Butterfree back into her hand, then held it out toward Ash. "Go on."

Ash froze, his heart thundering. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand. The Butterfree crawled onto his fingers, its antennae brushing his skin. A strange warmth flooded him—like the tiny creature was greeting him, not as a boy, but as an equal.

The world felt very still.

Serena's breath caught in her throat. Around them, the other campers only saw a boy holding a bug. But she saw more; the way Ash's shoulders straightened, the way the air seemed to hum faintly around him. He wasn't just excited—he was connected.

Her chest tightened, and she didn't know why. But she knew she'd remember this moment.

Ash turned, a grin breaking across his face. "See? Told you it's amazing."

Serena pressed her hands together, her heart fluttering. She had never seen anyone look at a Pokémon that way—as if it were sacred.

In that instant, she knew; Ash wasn't like the others.

By afternoon, the clearing was alive with shouts and laughter. The counselors had marked off sections of the field with rope and sticks, preparing for a series of "friendly contests."

"These games aren't about winning," one counselor announced, voice raised above the chatter. "They're about learning teamwork, trust, and courage. Now—let's see how you all do when the pressure's on!"

The children cheered, some bouncing on their toes, others nervously twisting their hands.

The first event was a simple dash across the field and back, passing a baton to the next teammate.

When the counselor called for volunteers, Serena hesitated at the edge of her group, half-hoping no one would notice her. Her chest tightened at the thought of stumbling in front of everyone.

But Ash spotted her. He jogged over, baton in hand, grinning. "C'mon. You're on my team."

"I—I can't—" she started.

"Sure you can!" He thrust the baton into her hands before she could argue. "Just run with me. We'll make it fun."

The race began with a whistle. Ash tore across the field like a wild Growlithe, legs pumping, dust kicking up behind him. He reached the line, spun, and bolted back—only to trip spectacularly on a divot in the grass, rolling head over heels. The baton flew into the air, and Serena yelped as it landed at her feet.

The other team was already halfway finished. Serena froze. Everyone was watching.

Ash staggered upright, grass sticking from his hair, and flashed her a thumbs-up. "Go! You got this!"

Her heart pounded, but she ran. Her steps were uneven at first, but then she felt the wind in her face, the grass beneath her shoes. By the time she stumbled across the line and back, she was laughing, breathless.

They finished dead last, but Ash pumped his fist like they'd won gold. "See? Told ya it'd be fun!"

Serena couldn't stop smiling, even through her blush.

Next came tug-of-war. Two teams, one rope. Victory meant pulling the other across the line.

Ash planted his heels in the dirt, gripping the rope with all his strength. "Let's crush 'em!"

Serena stood beside him, small hands wrapped around the rope, heart hammering. On the whistle, both sides heaved. The rope burned against her palms. The opposing team had size and muscle on their side, inching them forward.

"Don't give up!" Ash shouted, teeth gritted. He dug in deeper, rope cutting into his hands, sweat streaking his face. Serena felt her arms trembling, ready to let go—until she heard him grunt, "Just hold with me, okay?"

She tightened her grip.

The other team won in the end, yanking them into the dirt. Ash landed flat on his face, Serena tumbling against him. For a second, they both stared at each other in shock—then burst out laughing.

The final challenge was a scavenger hunt; find as many hidden berries in the marked area as possible within ten minutes.

Children scattered into the grass and trees. Serena bent low, carefully searching the roots of bushes, scanning for bright colors. She found two Oran Berries tucked beneath a log and tucked them gently into her pouch.

Meanwhile, Ash charged wildly through the underbrush, shouting, "I found one!"—only to trip into a bush of stinging nettles. He yelped, flailing until Serena hurried over.

"You're hopeless," she said, trying not to laugh as she helped pull leaves from his hair.

"Hopeless but lucky!" Ash grinned, holding up a single bright Sitrus Berry he'd somehow landed on.

When time was called, their team came in second place. Ash whooped as though they'd won the League itself, clapping Serena on the back. She smiled despite herself, pride bubbling in her chest.

By the time dinner was served, Serena's cheeks hurt from smiling so much. She sat beside Ash at one of the long wooden tables, listening to him recount his pratfalls with dramatic flair to anyone who would listen. He described tripping during the relay like it was a daring dive, falling in tug-of-war like a tactical sacrifice, and finding his berry like a heroic triumph.

"See?" Ash declared, mouth full of stew. "Losing's just another kind of winning if you laugh hard enough!"

The other kids groaned, but Serena hid a giggle behind her hand. For the first time since leaving Kalos, she didn't feel like the quiet girl in the corner. She started to feel like she belonged.

The campfire crackled low, glowing embers painting the children's faces in warm orange light. Most of the campers had already retreated to their tents, their laughter fading into tired murmurs. Counselors stoked the last flames, letting the night settle heavy over the clearing.

Serena sat cross-legged near the edge of the fire pit, chin tucked against her knees. She was exhausted in a way that felt good—her muscles sore from running, her palms raw from the rope, but her heart strangely light. She replayed the sound of Ash's laughter in her mind, the way he'd grinned even while face-first in the dirt.

Across the fire, Ash was still awake, poking at the embers with a long stick as if trying to coax one last spark into flame. His hair stuck out in every direction, grass and soot still clinging stubbornly from the day's disasters, though his injuries to his face seemed to heal nicely. He noticed her watching and grinned.

"Hey," he whispered, careful not to wake the others. "Today was fun, huh?"

Serena hesitated, then nodded. "...Yeah. It was."

Ash tilted his head back, staring up at the stars peeking through the canopy. "One day I'm gonna see 'em all. Every Pokémon, every place. And when I do, I'll be the greatest trainer ever. A master. You'll see." His voice held no doubt—just pure conviction, as though the stars themselves had promised it to him.

Serena's chest tightened. She wanted to believe she could be that bold. That sure of herself. Instead, she said softly, "I… I think you'll do it."

Ash turned to her, eyes wide with the simple wonder of being believed. Then he grinned again, softer this time. "Thanks, Serena."

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The night air was cool, the forest humming with distant calls of nocturnal Pokémon.

Finally, Serena rose, brushing off her dress. "Goodnight, Ash."

"Goodnight," he said, still watching the sky.

She slipped into her tent, lying awake long after the others had begun to snore.

Across the fire, Ash's stick finally fell from his hand as he dozed off under the stars, a small, contented smile still etched across his face.

From the shadows, Counselor Ishara approached. She paused, watching the boy for a moment—so unafraid of the dark, so stubborn in his refusal to follow even the simplest rule. With a sigh that was half exasperation, half fondness, she draped a blanket gently across his chest.

"Reckless little ember," she murmured. "The forest would have eaten you alive, if we weren't watching."

By dawn, Ash was back in his tent, roused by another counselor and scolded lightly for breaking curfew. He only yawned and grinned, promising half-heartedly not to do it again.

The morning air of the third day was cool, damp with mist that clung to the grass as the children gathered for their daily excursion. Today, the counselors led them deeper into the edge of Viridian Forest—not far enough to be dangerous, but far enough that the shadows thickened, the canopy swallowing most of the sky.

The children whispered nervously as the forest pressed close, but Ash strode ahead, stick in hand, eyes darting eagerly to every movement in the branches. Serena lingered near the back, her hand clutching her sunhat tight as though the trees themselves might pluck it away.

"Stay close," Counselor Haruto warned, voice low. "The forest listens. We're here to observe, not disturb."

The counselors brought the group deeper into the trees, stopping at a patch of dappled light where moss covered the roots like a soft carpet. "This is far enough," Haruto said, raising a hand. "Pokémon will not show themselves if we trample through their homes. Sit. Watch. Listen."

The children obeyed, settling onto roots and rocks. At first, the forest felt alive—birdcalls, the buzz of wings—but the longer they waited, the more the stillness pressed in.

Minutes passed. A few kids fidgeted, kicking stones. One whispered, "This is boring." Another mimicked snoring loudly, earning a ripple of laughter.

Ash sat cross-legged on the ground, stick in hand, eyes darting to every movement. He was restless, yes, but not careless. He seemed… alert. Curious. Serena, perched nervously on a root nearby, found her gaze pulled to him more than the trees.

It was Serena who spotted it first—a flicker of green along a low branch. A Caterpie crawled slowly, its body arching in a steady rhythm, weaving threads of silk along the bark. The silk glistened in the morning light, fragile but deliberate.

Ash spotted the Caterpie a moment later. He pointed silently to a low branch. "Look," he whispered to the group.

"Ew!" one boy exclaimed. "It's slimy!"

Another child wrinkled their nose. "Who'd want that as a Pokémon?"

Laughter rippled through the group.

But Ash crouched down, his wide eyes following every movement. "Look how it's weaving. It's… It's building something. That's so cool."

The Caterpie crept carefully across the low branch, pausing every few inches to press its mouth against the bark. Each time, a thin strand of silk gleamed in the light, stringing branch to branch in a fragile lattice. Slowly, patiently, the bug was building a shelter—its only defense against the vast, hungry forest.

Serena leaned closer despite herself, drawn in by Ash's voice. She saw the delicate strands gleam, saw the tiny creature working with determination. It wasn't ugly at all. It was… purposeful, beautiful.

Ash whispered softly, as though afraid to break the spell. "You're amazing, little guy."

The Caterpie paused, turning its bright eyes toward him. Its antennae twitched, as if it understood.

Serena's breath caught. She glanced at Ash—and for a moment, she saw something flicker in him, something deeper than simple curiosity. It was as if he felt the Caterpie's struggle, its will to survive.

Counselor Ishara's voice broke the silence. "Respect begins with noticing that even the smallest Pokémon has value. Remember this."

But most of the children had already moved on, bored. Serena hadn't, though, and neither had Ash.

That afternoon, the sun slanted low, and the children were restless after the long day and gathered near the field. A boy from Pewter—taller than the others, chest puffed like a Spearow—was bragging loudly to anyone who would listen.

"My dad says I'll be a Gym Leader one day," he boasted, arms crossed. "I'll beat all of you with one hand tied behind my back. Especially the weak ones." His gaze slid deliberately to Serena. "Bet the Kalos girl can't even run without crying. What'd you come here for, princess? To braid ribbons for your dolls?"

A few kids snickered. Serena's cheeks burned. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Shut up!" Ash's voice cut through the laughter, sharp and hot.

The boy turned, a smirk curling. "What's it to you, huh? You sweet on her?"

Ash stepped forward, fists balled, jaw set. "Doesn't matter. You don't get to talk to her like that."

The kids, sensing a show, formed a circle. "Ooooh!" they chorused, some chanting already; Fight! Fight!

The bully and Ash circled in the ring when the bully shoved Ash hard in the chest. "Make me."

Ash stumbled back, but instead of backing down, he lunged, headfirst into the bully's chest. They crashed into the dirt, rolling, fists flying, clumsy and wild. The bully was taller, heavier, and landed a solid punch that split Ash's lip.

Ash whirled back, grunting, spitting blood, and with surprising speed, swung back, his fist cracking against the boy's ear. "You," Ash panted, following up with another fist, "don't—get—to—talk—like—that!" he continued to pant between blows.

The boy, enraged at the glancing blows, snarled, grabbing Ash by the collar and slamming him into the dirt. "She's just dead weight! You'll never be a Master hanging around losers!"

Ash, swinging his legs, kicked upward, knocking the wind out of the bully. The kids roared, half-horror, half-thrilled with the spectacle in front of them.

Serena pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes wide. She wanted to scream for them to stop, but the words stuck in her throat.

The bully landed another hit, and with a loud crack, Ash's nose began to bleed. But Ash clawed forward, grabbing the boy's wrist, eyes blazing with raw fury. "You don't get it!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "She's worth ten of you!" And with a tug, using his smaller form to get under the bully and use the bully's weight against him, Ash flipped the bully on his back, the bully landing headfirst with a smack.

Gasps rippled through the circle. Even the bully, dizziness setting in, faltered, shocked at what just happened.

Then a counselor's voice thundered like a whip: "Enough!"

Counselor Haruto entered the ring, strong hands wrenching them apart, holding Ash back as he struggled, fists still swinging at the air. "Enough!" Counselor Haruto said again, looking Ash in the eyes until Ash stopped swinging. Both boys breathed hard, chests heaving, faces streaked with blood and dirt.

The bully muttered, "Crazy…" under his breath, glaring.

But Ash only spat into the dirt, his swollen lip curling into a crooked, defiant grin. "Say one more word about her. I dare you."

Counselor Haruto barked at them both, giving Ash a warning glare to drop it, then looking down at the bully, he dragged him off his feet and onto one side, having fierce words with him. The crowd dissolved reluctantly, muttering in awe.

Serena stood frozen, her heart pounding in her ears. No one had ever defended her like that. Not once. Ash wiped blood from his mouth, still smiling as though he'd won.

Serena wouldn't be able to explain what she felt in that moment until she was older, but she felt something settle deep inside her, another thing she would never forget with this boy.

By the time the sun slipped behind the trees, camp had settled into uneasy quiet. The counselors had barked orders, forced the children back into their groups, and continued to scold both Ash and the bully. But the damage lingered—Ash with a split lip and bloodied nose, the bully with a concussion and pride in tatters.

Dinner passed in low chatter, the fight still the unspoken center of every whisper. The other kids stole glances at Ash as though he were something dangerous, untamed. Some admired him. Others were afraid.

Serena sat stiffly through the meal, her stomach too tight to eat. She'd replayed the scene a dozen times already—the fists, the blood, Ash's voice breaking as he shouted You don't get to talk to her like that. Her chest hurt, equal parts fear and something she couldn't yet name.

Later, when the fire was low and most children drifted to their tents, Serena found him alone at the edge of the flames. Ash sat cross-legged in the dirt, hunched forward, pressing a rag against his swollen lip. His hair stuck in sweaty tufts, dirt smudged across his cheek. The firelight carved shadows into his young face, making him look older, harder.

Serena hesitated, hands clasped together, before finally stepping forward. "You're hurt."

Ash glanced up, blinking at her. Despite his battered face, he smiled. "I've had worse."

Serena sat down beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. She reached for the cloth. "Let me."

Ash froze for a heartbeat, then let her take it. Her hands were small, but careful, dabbing gently at the blood on his lip. He hissed through his teeth, but didn't pull away.

"You didn't have to," Serena whispered. Her voice was barely audible beneath the crackle of the fire.

"Yeah, I did," Ash said simply. His brown eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. "You're my friend. And friends don't let jerks talk like that."

Her breath caught. No one had ever said that to her—not with that kind of certainty. Not like it was obvious, a truth so solid it didn't need explaining.

"You're reckless," she murmured, brushing the cloth one last time across his lip.

Ash chuckled, wincing at the sting. "Yeah. But worth it."

Serena's lips curved into a small, shy smile. "Worth it," she echoed, as if testing the word.

They sat in silence, the fire crackling, the forest whispering just beyond the circle of light. For the first time, Serena wasn't afraid of the shadows. Not with Ash beside her.

The counselors called the camp together one last time, their voices carrying through the night.

"Tomorrow evening will be the traditional night walk," one announced. "Into Viridian Forest. Guided, lit, and safe. You'll see the forest as few have. But listen well—stay together, stay quiet, and stay in the light."

A ripple of excitement ran through the children. Some cheered. Others shivered. Serena's heart leapt into her throat. The forest already frightened her in daylight—what horrors might it hold at night?

She felt Ash lean closer, his voice pitched low only for her. "Don't worry. I'll walk right next to you."

Her pulse hammered in her ears. She nodded, clutching the damp cloth in her lap like a secret. "I'd like that."

Ash smiled, bruised but radiant, and turned his gaze to the fire.

Serena, for the first time since leaving Kalos, felt safe.

Above them, unseen in the branches, a pair of ancient eyes gleamed in the dark.

The fourth day passed in restless anticipation. Every whispered rumor about the walk had grown into legend by the hour.

In the morning, the children were assigned small tasks around camp—fetching water, tidying their tents, helping Chansey distribute berries. But their hands were clumsy, their minds elsewhere. Buckets spilled, beds went half-made, and every few minutes someone whispered, "What do you think we'll see out there?"

One boy claimed they'd meet a pack of Beedrill and have to fight them off with sticks. Another insisted they'd see a Legendary. The counselors chuckled at the wild rumors but offered no hints.

Serena moved quietly through her chores, folding her blanket with neat corners. She overheard two girls whispering about ghost Pokémon in the forest and shivered. Ash, meanwhile, splashed half a bucket of water on himself trying to carry it, then laughed at his mess.

For midday lessons, instead of new survival exercises, the counselors gathered everyone around for "quiet lessons"—basic forest safety and group navigation. They taught them how to follow a lantern-bearer's signals, how to walk without tripping on roots, and how to stay calm if separated.

"Stay calm," Haruto repeated. "The forest feeds on fear."

Ash muttered under his breath, "Guess I'll just punch fear in the face." Serena elbowed him sharply, but couldn't hide her small smile.

Normally, afternoon free time was spent racing, laughing, or exploring the edges of camp. But today the games were subdued. Children huddled in groups, swapping theories, daring each other about who would scream first.

Some tried to brag loudly that they weren't scared at all. The bully from Pewter strutted about, swearing he'd bring back a Beedrill stinger as a trophy. But even he glanced too often at the treeline, his voice cracking more than once.

Ash, restless as ever, whittled at a stick with a rock, pretending it was a sword. "If anything comes at us," he declared, "I'll protect everyone."

Serena sat nearby, braiding blades of grass into a little chain. "You can't fight the whole forest, Ash," she said softly.

He flashed her that crooked grin. "Then I'll just fight the parts that need fighting."

Serena shook her head, but something in his certainty calmed her a bit.

By dinner, the tension was thick. The counselors served stew and bread, urging the children to eat well before the walk, but few had an appetite. Spoons clinked nervously, and every snap from the firewood made heads turn.

Ash tore through his bowl with gusto, licking the spoon clean, earning a look from Serena. "What? If I'm gonna meet a Legendary, I'm not doing it on an empty stomach."

Serena rolled her eyes, but when he shoved his bread toward her with a grin—"Here, eat, or you'll faint out there"—she accepted, her nerves easing that much more, even if it was a little bit.

Lanterns were lit one by one as dusk loomed, their golden glow scattering long fingers across the grass. Counselors gathered the children at the camp's edge, their voices firm but calm.

"Stay close. Stay quiet. Stay in the light," Haruto repeated for the dozenth time. His lantern flickered across his scarred jaw, his eyes hard. "The forest welcomes those who respect it. Fear and noise will only rouse it."

The line of children shuffled nervously. Some clung to one another, whispered bets starting again on who would scream first. The Pewter boy tried bragging again that he'd catch a wild Beedrill bare-handed, though his bravado once again cracked when a Hoothoot hooted from the treeline.

Serena stood stiffly among them, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress. The shadows between the trees looked like open jaws. Her chest was starting to tighten again, her throat dry.

Then Ash slid beside her, bumping her shoulder with his own. "Told ya," he whispered with a crooked grin. "Right next to you."

Her fear loosened, just a little. She nodded, clutching his sleeve as the counselors raised their lanterns high.

The children filed into the treeline, the glow of campfire light fading behind them. Darkness swallowed the group almost immediately, dusk's light gone, leaving only the bobbing lanterns to cut paths through the gloom. The lanterns swayed as the group pressed further into the forest. Each step seemed to muffle the world behind them; the night now ruled by the hush of leaves and the rhythm of unseen wings. The counselors guided the children along a faint, trodden path, but the trees grew closer and taller, their branches knitting overhead like cathedral arches.

Not far in, a soft blue shimmer drew their attention. One of the counselors crouched by a hollow log and tilted his lantern. Inside, tiny Morelull pulsed with bioluminescent light, their caps opening and closing like breathing stars. A few children gasped, awe spreading through the line.

"They glow to guide each other in the dark," the counselor whispered. "Never pick them. If you break the family apart, they'll wither."

Ash leaned in, eyes wide. "They look like the sky fell into the woods…" he muttered, earning a small, surprised smile from Serena beside him.

Further along, they found a tree with deep claw marks gouged into the bark. Haruto tapped the grooves with his calloused fingers. "Scyther," he murmured, his voice grim. "Marking territory. Best we keep moving." Even the boldest kids fell silent at that, their lantern light trembling on the scarred trunk.

A few minutes later, a cluster of spiderwebs caught the lantern glow—string after string of silken threads, stretched wide between two ancient oaks. Dew glittered like jewels along the strands. As the children marveled, a tiny Spinarak skittered down the web, its legs delicate as needles. One girl squeaked and pulled away, but Ash stepped closer, fascinated.

"Even the little ones make traps stronger than ropes," Haruto explained. "Predators come in all sizes. Don't ever forget that."

The deeper they went, the louder the forest seemed to breathe. The trees groaned, night Pokémon whispered in the underbrush, and the shrill cry of a distant Noctowl made the children jump. When a cluster of Oddish shuffled across the path, their leaves trembling under the lantern light, several kids laughed nervously—but hushed instantly when the Oddish vanished back into the dark, leaving the path empty again.

Ash, restless with wonder, whispered to Serena, "It's like the forest is showing us pieces of itself, one at a time."

Serena didn't answer, but she felt the truth of it. Every step brought both beauty and unease, and the lanterns suddenly felt much too small for the vast blackness pressing in around them.

The counselors urged the children forward, their lanterns bobbing as the path narrowed between two massive oaks. The silence pressed heavier here, broken only by the crunch of boots on leaves.

Then came a sudden rustle—sharp, frantic—right beside the path.

Before anyone could react, a Zubat swarm burst out of the hollow of a tree, wings beating in a frenzy. The lantern light caught their leathery forms as they whirled overhead, shrieking in a chorus that set teeth on edge.

The children screamed and ducked. One boy fell backward into the dirt, covering his head. Serena froze, her hands clutched tight against her chest, eyes wide as the shadows streaked past.

Ash, startled but thrilled, threw his arms up and laughed. "Whoa! They almost clipped me!"

Haruto snapped at him instantly. "Not a game, boy! If they'd panicked and bit—" He cut himself off, glancing at the other children who were still trembling. "Stay close. Do not wander. The forest is full of surprises, and not all of them are kind."

The Zubat vanished into the canopy, leaving only the echo of their screeches. The group tightened their formation, lanterns drawing closer together. Every child glanced at the trees now with renewed suspicion.

Serena risked a look at Ash. His grin hadn't faded. Somehow, he seemed more alive for it, while her pulse still thundered in her ears. She couldn't decide if he was brave or foolish—or both.

Ash tilted his head back, eyes catching glimmers of starlight through the canopy. "Feels like the whole world's watching," he murmured.

And he was right. In the depths of the forest, unseen by any but the oldest trees, ancient eyes blinked.

The forest grew even darker as the canopy thickened, green light filtering into shadows that turned every branch into a claw. The lanterns barely seemed to cut through it now, glowing islands of safety in a sea of black. The counselors had tightened the formation, children walking two-by-two, voices hushed after the Zubat scare.

Serena's heart still hadn't calmed. She stayed close to Ash, her small hands clutched nervously at the hem of her jacket. He, meanwhile, craned his neck constantly, eyes darting left and right, drinking in every flicker of movement with barely-contained excitement.

"Do you ever stop smiling?" she whispered, watching him.

Ash grinned at her without hesitation. "Nope."

Serena tilted her head at him, her brow furrowed in disbelief. "How can you just…smile all the time? Aren't you scared? Not even a little?"

Ash shrugged, that lopsided grin never faltering. "Why would I be scared? This is awesome! We're in a real forest, with real Pokémon all around us. It's like an adventure already."

She hugged her arms to herself, glancing at the looming trees. "An adventure's supposed to sound fun. This feels…different. Like the forest is watching us."

Ash slowed for half a step, glancing sideways at her. "So? Let it watch. I'll just watch right back." He puffed his chest out a little, striding forward like he had no doubts at all.

Serena blinked at him, her lips twitching between a frown and a smile. "You're crazy."

"Maybe," Ash said with a laugh. "But if I smile, then you don't have to be scared. That's a good deal, right?"

For a heartbeat, Serena forgot about the dark trees and the crunch of dead leaves. She was too busy looking at the boy beside her—the boy who could treat the unknown like it was nothing more than a new game.

Before Serena could respond, the forest erupted.

From the brush ahead, a sudden roar of wings blasted the silence. Dozens of Pidgey, startled from their roost, exploded into the path. The air filled with feathers and panicked screeches, lantern light scattering wildly as children shrieked and stumbled into one another.

"Stay calm!" Haruto shouted, his deep voice straining against the chaos. "Keep moving forward—don't run—"

But the panic spread faster than his commands. The younger children ducked, covered their faces, or bolted blindly into the brush. Counselors scrambled to herd them back. Lanterns swung wildly, casting mad shadows that only made the confusion worse.

In the middle of it all, Serena cried out as a Pidgey clipped her shoulder, feathers brushing her cheek. She stumbled sideways off the narrow path.

"Serena!"

Ash grabbed her wrist without thinking, steadying her before she fell. But in that moment, another surge of wings burst between them and the others—Pidgey swarming like a living curtain. The counselors' lantern light blurred into a whirl of feathers and dust.

"Hold on!" Ash yelled, dragging Serena into a crouch as the air stormed with wings. The flock passed in seconds, but when the world stilled again, they were alone.

The voices of the others were faint now, echoing through the trees in distant directions. The lantern light had vanished.

Ash blinked through the settling feathers, still holding Serena's hand. His grin was gone at last.

"…Serena," he muttered, his voice lower, more serious than she'd ever heard it. "We're not with them anymore."

Serena's heart plummeted. She looked around—nothing but endless trees, black and looming. The path they'd been following was gone, swallowed by the forest floor. Her voice wavered as she whispered;

"What do we do now?"

Ash tightened his grip on her hand. His brown eyes, usually so wild and full of restless fire, hardened with something else, determination.

"We find them," he said. "No matter what."

But deep in the shadows, something else stirred—watching. Waiting.

The forest had claimed them.

The forest closed in around them like a living maze. Without the chatter of the other kids, every sound felt sharper, heavier. The buzzing of unseen insects filled the air, leaves rustled high above, and now and then a branch cracked somewhere deep in the undergrowth. Serena clung to the strap of her small satchel, trying to keep up as Ash pushed forward.

"How far do you think we are from camp?" she whispered, her voice too thin against the vast silence.

Ash kept moving, brushing branches aside. "Not far. We just gotta keep walking straight. If we stop, we'll just get more lost." His tone was firm, but the way his eyes flicked from shadow to shadow betrayed his own unease.

They trudged on for what felt like hours, though the sky above still glowed faintly of the final light of dusk through gaps in the canopy. Sweat clung to their skin. Serena's shoes were muddy, and twigs snagged her dress. She tried not to complain, but every step felt heavier.

At one point, they stumbled upon a hollow tree where a family of Oddish peeked out from the darkness. Their round red eyes glimmered like tiny lanterns before the little grass-types waddled back into hiding. Serena gasped and tugged on Ash's sleeve. "See? They don't want us here."

Ash grinned despite himself. "Nah, they're just shy. Like you."

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't argue.

Further on, the path dipped into a shallow ravine where the roots of massive oaks coiled like serpents through the soil. Ash clambered down first, offering his hand up to Serena as she carefully followed. The forest air grew damper here, and the ground squished underfoot. The silence thickened.

That was when the fear began to creep in for real. The forest looked the same in every direction—gloomy trunks and endless underbrush. Even Ash, always charging forward, slowed his pace. His usual chatter faded to quiet hums, and he glanced back more often than forward.

"I think…" Serena finally spoke, her throat tight, "we're going in circles."

Ash froze, his fists clenched. He wanted to argue, to say she was wrong—but he remembered the crooked tree with the claw marks they had passed before. He recognized it now, looming just a few paces to their left.

For the first time, his smile faltered.

The light above was now a silver glow, the forest canopy signaling that the moon had risen. Serena's breath hitched as she realized it was night. She reached out, gripping Ash's arm with trembling fingers. "Ash…what if no one finds us?"

Ash swallowed hard, forcing a grin back onto his face even though his stomach twisted. "Then we'll find our way back. Together. Don't worry—I won't let anything happen to you."

But as the first echo of a distant howl rolled through the trees, even Ash felt the weight of his own promise.

The howl rolled through the forest, low and mournful, echoing between the trees. Serena tightened her grip on Ash's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. Ash froze, his heart hammering, scanning the shadows. The air seemed to thicken, every breath heavy.

Then—nothing. Silence. The forest stilled, not even the rustle of leaves. Serena's voice quavered. "Ash…what was that?"

Before he could answer, a soft glow pulsed between the trees. At first faint, like moonlight caught in mist, then stronger—pink, shimmering, and moving. The children held their breath as the glow drifted closer, weaving between branches until it floated into the clearing.

It wasn't a monster.

It was…beautiful.

A small, catlike creature with soft pink fur and enormous blue eyes hovered in the air as though gravity had forgotten it. Its long, ribbon-like tail curled and uncurled lazily behind it. Serena gasped and stumbled back, but Ash stepped forward, eyes wide with awe.

"Mew…" he whispered, though he didn't know how he knew its name. The word simply pressed itself into his mind, ancient and certain.

The Legendary Pokémon tilted its head, blinking at him with innocent curiosity. Then it giggled—a high, chiming sound like glass bells—and twirled through the air, somersaulting weightlessly before stopping just inches from Ash's nose.

Serena's hands trembled where they clutched her skirt. "Ash! Don't—"

But Ash only grinned, the fear gone from his face. "It's not scary," he said, softer than she'd ever heard him. "It's…amazing."

Mew circled him, tail brushing against his hair, before darting away and zipping back, playing like a child testing a new friend. Then it landed lightly on a mossy log, cocking its head at Ash and Serena. The glow around it pulsed brighter, bathing the clearing in warm pink light.

Serena's breath caught. "It's…like a dream."

Mew blinked once, and in that instant the forest shifted. Not physically—but in their minds. A warmth poured into Ash and Serena, and suddenly images flickered across their vision like scenes reflected in water.

Ash saw himself standing at a crossroads, the dirt path stretching endlessly beneath a sky burning gold. Above him, a vast bird with feathers of living flame soared, its cry shaking the air with promise. His chest tightened as though the weight of destiny pressed down on him, urging him forward.

The vision changed, and Serena gasped. The world twisted in fire and flood; mountains splitting as titans clashed, oceans boiling as serpents writhed, the very air trembling with thunderous roars. Legends collided in battle, each strike threatening to shatter the earth itself. Her small hands trembled, powerless before the enormity of it, but she could not look away.

Then—Ash again. Older this time. Stronger. Standing on a battlefield beneath a storm-choked sky, lightning flaring at one shoulder and a burning blaze at the other. His eyes were steady, his posture unyielding, as though he bore the hopes of countless lives upon his back. Serena's breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, fierce and unbreakable, utterly transformed from the boy beside her.

The visions snapped away as quickly as they had come, like smoke dispersing in the wind. The forest returned to silence, only the pink glow of Mew lingering for a heartbeat longer.

Serena clutched her chest, tears stinging her eyes without knowing why. Ash stumbled, overwhelmed, but his grin never faded.

Mew stretched, yawned, then floated up into the air again.

Ash, his voice cracking, blurted, "Wait—! Don't go!"

Mew looked back once, giggling again. Its eyes lingered on Ash, long enough to send a shiver racing down his spine—like a promise, or a challenge. Then with a flash of light, it vanished into the canopy, gone as though it had never been there.

The clearing fell silent.

Serena collapsed to her knees, trembling. "Ash…what was that?"

Ash stood frozen, still staring at the sky where Mew had vanished. He pressed a hand against his chest, where his heart thundered like a drum. He didn't know the answer, but every fiber of his being screamed the same truth,

"That…that was the start of something big."

Serena looked up at him, face pale in the fading glow, and she realized even more that Ash Ketchum wasn't just another boy at camp. He was different. The forest had chosen him—or at least noticed him. And whatever that meant…she would continue to never forget it.

The first sign was the smell.

A musky, sour reek drifted through the trees, heavier than the earthy rot of the forest floor. Serena's nose wrinkled, and she clutched Ash's sleeve. "What is that?" she whispered, voice trembling.

Ash didn't answer. He didn't need to. The sound came next—a low, guttural growl that rolled like thunder through the underbrush. The air itself seemed to tighten, as if the forest were holding its breath.

From the shadows between two massive oaks lumbered the beast. An Ursaring. Its fur was matted with dirt, its massive claws glinting ivory in the moonlight. Its eyes burned like twin embers, red with a rage that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with intrusion. A single swipe of those claws could gut a man. Against children, it was a nightmare made flesh.

Ash froze. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs rooted to the ground. Serena's nails dug into his arm, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The Ursaring sniffed the air, lips curling back to bare teeth yellowed with age. Then, with a sound like a boulder grinding against stone, it roared.

The force of it rattled the branches, sent Pidgey bursting from the canopy in a frantic cloud. Serena clamped her hands over her ears, tears springing hot to her eyes. Ash shoved her behind him. His voice cracked, but didn't falter.

"Run."

Serena shook her head, wide-eyed. "I-I can't—"

The Ursaring charged.

It moved with terrifying speed for its size, crashing through shrubs like paper. Ash had only seconds. He grabbed a branch—a pathetic weapon, more twig than staff—and swung it as hard as his eight-year-old arms allowed. The branch snapped against Ursaring's muzzle, doing little more than enrage it further.

A paw the size of a dinner plate lashed out.

The blow caught Ash across the chest and flung him backwards. His body struck a tree with a dull crack, and he collapsed to the forest floor, wheezing. White fire seared across his ribs; every breath was agony. Serena screamed his name and stumbled toward him, but Ursaring was already raising its other paw for the kill.

Ash scrambled to his knees, coughing blood, vision swimming. His hands shook as he lifted another branch, this one shorter, jagged at the end. "Stay back!" His voice broke, but he forced himself to stand between the monster and Serena. "You'll have to go through me!"

Ursaring obliged.

It swung again, claws catching his shoulder this time. Pain exploded across his body, hot and wet. He staggered, arm hanging uselessly, crimson dripping down his shirt. Serena shrieked, darting forward, but Ash whipped his good hand back, shoving her behind him once more.

"Go!" he roared, though the sound tore his throat raw.

But Serena didn't move. Her knees buckled, her face pale with terror. She couldn't abandon him.

Ursaring reared onto its hind legs, blotting out what little moonlight filtered through the canopy. For a moment, Ash could only stare upward, his chest heaving, his blood mixing with dirt. He felt so small. So utterly helpless. And yet—he did not run. His body trembled, broken, but his eyes blazed with defiance.

"Come on!" he shouted at the monster, voice ragged, feral, nothing but pure adrenaline fueling him. "Come on!"

Ash barely managed to lift the jagged branch again. His knuckles were white, slick with sweat and blood, the makeshift weapon trembling in his grip. Every nerve in his body begged him to collapse, to give in, to crawl away into the dirt. But Serena's sobs behind him rooted him in place.

Ursaring's eyes narrowed to slits. It huffed, saliva dripping from its tusk-like teeth. Then, with a sudden whip of its massive arm, it swept low.

Ash didn't have time to react.

The paw smashed into his legs.

The world went white.

A sharp, wet crack split the air — followed by Ash's own scream, torn from deep in his chest. His right leg bent sideways at an angle no limb should ever bend. The bone pierced flesh just below the knee, gleaming white for a horrifying instant before blood cascaded down his shin in hot rivulets.

He crumpled to the ground, agony detonating through him like fire racing through oil. His branch clattered uselessly from his hand. His vision blurred with tears, his breath came in ragged gasps. Every time he tried to move, lightning bolts of pain shot up his spine, making his stomach convulse.

"Ash!" Serena's scream split the air. She dropped to her knees beside him, hands fluttering helplessly over his broken body. Her face was ghost-pale, streaked with tears. "Oh gods, no, no, please get up, please!"

Ash forced his good hand against the dirt, trying to push himself upright. His broken leg dragged behind him like a dead weight, leaving a smear of red in the leaves. The agony nearly made him black out, but he bit down so hard on his lip he tasted copper, forcing himself to stay conscious.

He spat blood into the dirt, glaring up at the towering beast. His voice was a hoarse rasp. "I'm… still here."

Ursaring snarled, a guttural sound of frustration. It wanted him down for good.

Serena tried to shield him, spreading her arms wide in front of his broken body, sobbing. "Stop! Leave him alone!" Her voice cracked into raw desperation.

The bear ignored her. It raised its paw again, the claws dripping with Ash's blood, ready to shred what remained.

Ash, barely holding onto the edge of consciousness, reached out. His hand brushed Serena's trembling wrist, smearing her skin with his blood. His eyes, half-lidded, locked onto hers. Even through the haze of pain, a fire still burned there.

"Run… Serena," he whispered.

And then Ursaring's shadow fell over them both, a wall of death blotting out the last shred of moonlight.

Ursaring's paw fell.

Serena threw herself over Ash, squeezing her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable. She screamed, voice ripping the night air—

And the impact never came.

Instead, the forest exploded with light.

It was not fire, not lightning, not any earthly glow — but a raw pulse of living energy, bursting outward from Ash's mangled body. The air itself quaked. Grass flattened in concentric rings, leaves tore from branches, and the Ursaring was blasted backward with a howl of surprise, its massive form crashing into a tree so hard the trunk splintered.

Ash arched against the dirt, every nerve alight. His eyes flew open — not brown now, but searing with cerulean flame. From his chest radiated a storm of aura, threads of light weaving into his shredded limbs, mending, reforging, though not erasing the damage. His chest and arm stopped bleeding, but hot red marks remained while his broken leg still bled, the bone still jutted wrong, but strength poured into him regardless, as if the very force of life refused to let him fall.

Serena stumbled back, shielding her face from the brilliance. "Ash…?" she whispered, voice trembling with awe and terror.

Ash rose. He should not have been able to. His ruined leg dragged, but his body moved as though borne on invisible wings, steady, implacable. Blue light crawled up his arms, wrapping his fists, sparking like living flame.

Ursaring staggered back to its feet, shaking its massive head, fury ignited in its eyes. It roared, pounding the ground like thunder. But this time, Ash did not flinch.

He stepped forward, dragging his broken leg behind him. His shattered leg screamed with every step, but the aura wasn't fully healing him—it was driving him, puppeting broken muscle and bone through sheer force of will. His body buckled, unnatural, every motion agony. Yet still he moved, carried by fire not yet his own. Each step left a bloody print on the forest floor. His breath steamed in the cold night, the aura flaring brighter with each pulse of his heart.

"You…" His voice was deeper, resonant, layered with something older than himself. "…don't touch her."

Ursaring lunged. Claws flashing, muscles rippling, a wall of death charging.

Ash raised his arm. Aura surged.

The bear's claws never reached him. Ash's fist, wreathed in light, drove forward with impossible force. The impact detonated like a thunderclap, blasting Ursaring off its feet, the beast sent crashing into the underbrush, tumbling into the dark until only the sound of splintering trees marked its retreat.

Silence fell.

Ash swayed where he stood, blood still dripping from his leg, chest heaving. The aura dimmed, leaving faint motes of light drifting in the air like falling stars. His eyes flickered brown again. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, the power receding as quickly as it had come.

Serena rushed to him, catching his shoulders, tears streaming. "Ash! Oh gods—Ash, what—what was that?!"

He blinked up at her, dazed, his lips curling into the faintest of exhausted smiles. "Told you… I'd protect you."

And then he went limp in her arms, the forest still glowing faintly where the miracle had scorched its mark.

The forest was silent now. Too silent.

Smoke-like trails of blue light drifted lazily in the air where Ash had unleashed his impossible power, the ground still charred in a wide circle. The silence pressed in heavy, broken only by the rasp of Serena's breath and the weak, shallow wheeze of the boy in her arms.

"Ash… please…" Her hands trembled where they clutched him, fingers smeared with his blood. The glow had faded from his body; now, he looked painfully human again — a boy broken, battered, barely clinging to life. His leg was mangled beyond anything she'd ever seen, skin shredded, bone twisted, blood seeping hot into the dirt.

For one dizzy second, Serena thought she might faint. Her vision blurred at the sight of the gore, her stomach twisting, her mind screaming for someone older, stronger, braver to swoop in and take control. But no one came.

It was just her.

She swallowed hard, her tears hot on her face. You can't cry now. Not now. He fought for you.

Her gaze fell to his hand, limp and cooling in hers. That hand had burned with light, had stood against death itself. He had chosen to protect her, no hesitation, no fear. The least she could do was not crumble.

She forced her breathing to slow. Inhale. Exhale. The tremors in her body eased, not gone but held in check. She pulled his head against her chest, listening to his ragged breath, grounding herself in the proof he was still alive.

"Okay… okay, Serena, think." Her whisper cracked, but it was steadier than before. "He's alive. He's alive, but he won't stay that way if you just sit here crying."

She tore her gaze from his ruined leg. Every instinct screamed to look away, to pretend it wasn't there. Instead, she forced herself to study it, eyes wide, throat tight. The bone jutted like a spearhead, skin torn to ribbons, blood pumping in weak spurts. It was horrifying. But it was real. And she would not look away.

Her camp training kicked in — faint fragments of the counselors' lessons from the day before. Always stop the bleeding first. Stop the bleeding, keep them breathing, then move them if you must.

She ripped the hem of her dress with shaking hands, tearing strip after strip until she had fabric enough. Pressing down on the wound made her gag, the blood hot and slick against her small palms, but she pressed harder, jaw clenched, refusing to let herself recoil. Ash groaned faintly, and her heart cracked at the sound — but it meant he was still there.

"I know it hurts," she whispered, tears dripping onto his face. "I know… but stay with me. Please, Ash. Don't you dare leave me."

The fabric soaked through almost instantly. She pressed another layer, then wrapped it tight, winding the crude bandage with all the strength in her little arms until the bleeding slowed. The world was still spinning, her stomach roiling, but she had done something. She had helped.

Now came the harder part.

She looked toward the trees, back the way they'd come. The camp was miles away, the path uncertain, predators lurking in every shadow. And Ash — Ash couldn't walk. Not like this.

Her throat constricted with terror, but when she looked down at him again, she felt something else rise to the surface. Love, though she was too young to name it. Loyalty, though she didn't yet understand its weight. A desperate, defiant resolve.

He had stood for her. Now she would stand for him.

Serena shifted, sliding his limp arm around her shoulders. The boy was heavier than he looked — all muscle and stubbornness — and his dead weight nearly crushed her. But she braced her feet, dug her heels into the earth, and hauled, dragging him only inches at a time.

"Come on… come on…" she hissed, teeth clenched, sweat stinging her eyes. Her body trembled, lungs burning, but she refused to stop.

Ash's head lolled against her shoulder, his breath warm but shallow. Serena staggered under the burden, almost collapsing twice, but each time she steadied herself and pushed forward. Step by step, dragging, straining, half-carrying him, half-dragging him over the roots and dirt.

The forest loomed dark and endless, every crack of a twig a reminder of how helpless she was. But with each step, something hardened inside her. She no longer saw herself as the timid girl who had shrunk from introductions, who had cried at night in a strange land. That girl would not survive here.

This Serena would.

Her muscles screamed, her hands burned raw, her dress clung to her in bloody tatters — but she did not stop. She whispered to him as she went, steady and rhythmic, as much for herself as for him.

"You're not alone, Ash. I'm here. I'll get you back. I promise. I won't let anything happen to you."

And beneath her fear, beneath the crushing weight of the boy who's changed her and will continue to change her without yet knowing it, a spark glowed quietly in her chest. It wasn't aura, not like his. But it was something just as strong.

It was the first ember of courage.

Serena's legs continued to burn with every step. Her breath came ragged, her arms quivering from the weight of Ash slumped over her shoulder. For every step she managed, the forest seemed endless, the path back swallowed by shadow and fear. More than once she stumbled, nearly pitching both of them into the dirt, but each time she caught herself and gritted her teeth—but still she pulled, inch by inch.

She thought of his smile — how bright, how careless, how unshakable it had seemed when he'd shouted to the whole camp that he'd be a Pokémon Master. She thought of the way he'd leapt into danger without hesitation, no thought for himself.

And she thought of his hand, glowing with that strange light, stretched out toward her like a promise.

That hand had saved her. Now it was limp and broken in hers.

"No…" she whispered, her voice hoarse but fierce. "You don't get to give up. Not after that. Not after showing me you're not afraid."

Another step. Another strained drag. The hem of her ruined dress tore more against the roots and rocks, streaked with dirt and blood, but she didn't stop.

Each time her body screamed to quit, her heart whispered louder; Keep going. For him.

A spark of strength.

A thread of resolve.

The first strands of the woman she would one day become.

Then the sound came first; a heavy gallop, pounding against the forest floor like distant thunder. Serena froze, clutching Ash tighter, her heart thudding. For one breathless instant, she thought it might be the Ursaring again, come to finish what it started.

But then, through the trees, light blazed — warm, golden, fierce. A massive Arcanine burst into the clearing, mane alight like fire, its roar shaking the branches overhead. Behind it, lanterns bobbed as counselors crashed through the underbrush, shouting names, calling desperately.

"Over here!" Serena's voice cracked as she screamed, half-sob, half-roar. "Here! Help!"

The Arcanine skidded to a halt in front of her, its massive head dipping low, hot breath steaming in the cold night air. One of the counselors rushed forward, eyes wide at the sight of the bloodied boy and the trembling girl who refused to let go of him.

Serena's knees finally buckled. The strength that had carried her this far snapped all at once, and she sank to the ground, still clutching Ash in her arms like she'd never let go.

"He… he saved me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But he's hurt… please, you have to help him…"

The counselors didn't hesitate. Hands reached for Ash, gentle but swift, voices rising in urgency as orders were barked. Serena tried to cling tighter, but one counselor pressed her shoulders, murmuring reassurance. "You did so well, Serena. You kept him alive. You hear me? You kept him alive."

Her tears blurred everything, but as she watched them lift Ash onto Arcanine's back and prepare the dash for camp, Serena felt something deeper than fear. A pride she didn't yet have words for.

She wasn't just the scared girl anymore. She had carried him through the dark. And she would again, as many times as it took.

The ride back felt like a dream. Serena never let go, her arms locked around Ash as though any loosening of her grip might let him slip back into the forest's darkness forever. His body was limp, face pale, but even in his unconscious state, something radiated from him — faint, flickering light, like embers glowing in the ashes of a fire.

At first, Serena thought it was the lanterns swinging on the counselors' belts, or the strange light of the moon through the canopy. But no — the warmth was coming from Ash himself. A low hum that pulsed against her chest, each faint glow syncing with his shallow breaths. Her eyes stung, though whether from tears or the brightness she couldn't say. All she knew was that this boy, who had smiled at danger and made her laugh when she wanted to disappear, was burning with something not even blood and claws could put out.

By the time the camp's lanterns came into view, the night was alive with noise. The camp's medics, stationed at the designated infirmary, rushed to meet them, Pokémon at their sides — Chansey with glowing eggs, a newcomer in a Blissey with healing bells, and Butterfree fluttering desperately with glowing Sleep Powder to calm the panicked kids roused from their bunks.

"Clear a space! Now!" barked the lead medic, sweeping aside benches near the central fire pit. The second unfurled blankets while a counselor came to assist, snapping open a kit of gleaming tools.

Arcanine lowered itself gently, and Ash slid into waiting arms. Its muzzle brushed Ash's arm, and a low rumble built in its throat — not warning, not aggression, but recognition. The fire Pokémon's eyes flicked to a counselor standing off to the side, and they exchanged glances Serena couldn't interpret. It was one of the older counselors, a grizzled ranger with scars twisting down his jawline, he muttered under his breath. She barely caught it.

"...the Gift… it lives again."

Serena blinked up at him. "What—what are you talking about?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The man didn't answer. His eyes lingered on Ash, on the faint sparks clinging stubbornly to his battered body, then shifted away in the chaos, disappearing like a ghost into the night as though he had never been there at all.

As the medics brought Ash to the blankets, gasps rose from the children gathered nearby — some stifling cries at the blood, others craning forward with morbid curiosity. Serena, sliding off the back of Arcanine and stumbling over to Ash, collapsed to her knees on the dirt, too drained to stand but unwilling to look away.

The medics worked with rapid precision, trying to get bandages wrapped tight around Ash's shredded leg. Chansey worked first, pressing its egg to his chest, soft light washing over his wounds.

Serena watched, trembling, as the glow attempted to knit the worst of the gashes together — not perfect, not whole, but enough to staunch the flow. Enough to keep him breathing.

Ash's face twitched. A weak sound escaped his throat — not a word, not even a moan, but enough that Serena's heart lurched with relief.

"Pulse is weak but steady!" the lead medic shouted, sweat streaking his brow. "He's alive!"

Relief rippled through the circle, but it was thin and fragile — a candle flame in a storm. Ash's breathing was shallow, his skin clammy beneath the lantern light. Then he started thrashing, reaggravating his wounds the Egg had just healed.

"Don't crowd him, give him air!" the second medic barked. They adjusted Ash gently on the now makeshift stretcher of coats and blankets pulled from the counselors' packs. His leg was a mangled mess — blood, torn cloth, and the ugly imprint of claws. Serena stayed by his side, clutching his hand so tightly her knuckles whitened.

The lead medic pulled a new roll of bandages from his satchel. "We need to stop the bleeding now! Arcanine — heat!"

The massive Pokémon leaned down, exhaling a controlled, searing breath. The second medic pressed cloth against the wound, the edges cauterized by the fire's precision. The acrid scent of burned fabric and flesh filled the clearing, making some of the younger campers gag and turn away. Serena winced, tears springing to her eyes, but she never loosened her grip.

"Pressure's working — bleeding slowed," the second medic muttered. He glanced at his partner. "Blissey, bells!"

The pink Pokémon stepped forward, its eyes glowing with calm resolve as the soft chiming of Heal Bell rang through the night. Blissey's bells chimed softly, the sound like crystal water over stone. It didn't knit wounds shut or banish the pain, but it steadied the air, soothing panic, easing fever. A balm for spirit, if not for flesh. Ash's thrashing quieted, his breathing growing a fraction steadier.

"Keep the leg elevated. Don't let him drift." The lead medic crouched close, his hands firm but trembling with the weight of responsibility. He pressed his ear to Ash's chest. "Heart's fighting. Spirits above, this boy's tougher than he looks."

Serena swallowed, her lips trembling. "He's… he's going to be okay, right?"

No one answered her directly. The lead medic kept counting under his breath, timing each pulse against the beat of the Heal Bell. The other tore strips of linen to bind the leg more securely, whispering a prayer to Celebi under his breath. The silence that followed spoke louder than words — they weren't sure.

But they kept working. Stitching. Wrapping. Stabilizing. Not a single motion wasted, each of them pouring years of field training into every touch. For all the chaos of the night, the medics moved like a single organism, Arcanine standing guard with blazing eyes, the younger campers held back in a hush of awe and terror.

By the time they hoisted the makeshift stretcher, the boy still looked deathly pale — but his breath had evened, and the crimson flow was reduced to dark stains.

"Let's move. Slowly, steady, don't jostle him," the lead medic ordered.

Serena, still clasping Ash's hand, whispered to him as they carried him through the trees. "Don't you dare give up. You promised you'd be a Pokémon Master… and I'm not letting you break that promise."

For the first time since the rescue, one of the medics cracked the faintest smile, watching the girl's resolve. But no one dared speak it aloud. Not here. Not now.

Behind them, the forest lay quiet again — except for the ranger's Arcanine, its form disappearing into the dark. The older man was already gone, moving silent as shadow, leaving only broken twigs in his wake. His destination was not camp. It was older, deeper. A place whispered of in half-forgotten stories — where the Aura Guardians kept their watch.

The next morning broke soft and gray, the air cool with mist that clung to the tall pines around camp. Birds stirred in hesitant trills, but within the infirmary, the world seemed hushed, every sound dulled beneath the weight of Ash's shallow breathing. His face was pale beneath the sheen of fever-sweat, his body curled instinctively from the deep bruises and gouges that marred him. Every so often, his frame twitched faintly — not from waking, but from pain echoing in his muscles.

Serena never left her stool. Her hair was tangled from sleep snatched in fits, her eyes rimmed red, but her hands were steady as she brushed his bangs back again and again. Once, when she leaned close, she thought she saw it — a faint shimmer of light clinging to his skin, like the air itself bent around him. It flickered only when she touched his hand, pulsing dimly before fading away. She didn't dare mention it. But it cemented what she'd seen last night; Ash was more than he appeared, and she had been the one to witness it.

A counselor ducked in, carrying a tray of broth and water. "He's still resting," they whispered, setting it beside her. "Try to get him to take some, if he stirs." They left a folded blanket across her shoulders, squeezing once before slipping back out. Serena stared at the tray, then at Ash's slack face.

Her hands shook as she lifted the spoon, pressing it gently to his lips. At first, nothing. Then, barely, a swallow. Relief bloomed in her chest so fierce she almost cried, but she steadied herself. If he can fight through all that… then I can do this.

Her mother's voice whispered in her mind — a phrase she'd heard countless times in Kalos, usually when she tripped during Rhyhorn racing practice; Stand tall, Serena. No matter how scared you are, stand tall. She mouthed the words silently, and for the first time, she believed them.

When a pair of curious campers tried to peek in through the doorway, Serena rounded on them, her voice firm despite her exhaustion. "Out. He needs quiet." They blinked in surprise, then scampered off. Whispers spread quickly through camp — that Serena of Kalos hadn't left Ash's side once, that she guarded him like a partner Pokémon.

The hours stretched. Serena read aloud from a field guide one of the counselors left behind, stumbling over unfamiliar names of plants and Pokémon, hoping the sound of her voice anchored him to the world.

By evening, as the sky bled orange beyond the camp, she felt something shift inside her.

"If you can be brave, Ash… then I can too. I won't leave you. I'll stay until you open your eyes."

She took his hand then, clutching it between hers. It was warm, faintly trembling, as if some deeper energy stirred within.

That night, she drifted to sleep at his side — no nightmares found her.

Two days later, Ash stirred with a groan, blinking against the shafts of morning light. His throat was dry, and every movement pulled at aching muscles, but when his eyes focused, the first thing he saw was Serena curled on the stool, fast asleep with her hand clutching his.

"...Serena?" His voice cracked, more rasp than word.

She jerked awake, nearly knocking a bowl of broth from the bedside. "Ash! You—you're awake!"

He gave a weak grin. "Heh. Guess I wasn't dreaming, huh? That Ursaring was real…"

Serena's eyes welled up, and she tried to sound scolding, but her voice trembled. "You're unbelievable. Charging in like that—you could have—" She broke off, biting her lip.

Ash tried to lift a hand, but only managed to squeeze hers. "But I didn't. I had to protect you." His smile softened, less boyish bravado and more something quiet and true. "Guess I'm glad I was there."

Serena pressed her forehead briefly to their joined hands. "You're the most reckless person I've ever met… but thank you."

Ash chuckled weakly. "Reckless sounds about right." Then, his stomach growled, loud enough to break the heaviness of the moment. He grimaced. "Okay, uh, any chance of food? Please tell me I didn't miss every meal."

Serena laughed through her tears, the sound easing both their chests. "You're impossible."

Ash blinked blearily as Serena fussed with a tray on the nightstand. She had been feeding him broth the past few days when he was half-conscious, but now, awake and stubborn, he insisted, "I can do it myself."

Serena narrowed her eyes. "You can barely sit up."

"Watch me." He grunted, trying to push himself upright. His arms trembled like twigs in a storm, and for a moment it looked like he'd flop right back down. Serena darted forward, slipping an arm behind his shoulders, steadying him against the pillow.

"There. Happy?" she said, exasperated.

Ash smirked, though sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort. "Told ya. Strong as a Machamp."

"You're about as strong as a Caterpie right now," Serena shot back, sliding the bowl toward him. "And Caterpie don't spill soup all over themselves."

Ash reached for the spoon, hand wobbling. He managed one shaky scoop before the broth sloshed onto his blanket. "Uh… guess I'm a clumsy Machamp."

Serena sighed, grabbing the spoon from him. "Honestly, you'd starve to death if I left you five minutes alone."

But when she tried to feed him, Ash leaned forward like he was about to bite the spoon clean through. Serena yanked it back just in time, glaring. "Ash Ketchum! This isn't a Tauros trough!"

He chuckled weakly, eyes glinting with mischief despite his exhaustion. "Hey, I'm hungry! You've been hogging all the food while I was asleep, huh?"

Serena's cheeks puffed. "I have not! I've been here making sure you—" She broke off, realizing he was teasing, and smacked his shoulder lightly.

Ash winced but kept grinning. "Ow—hey, injured guy here!"

She relented with a huff, blowing on the spoonful before carefully offering it again. This time, he accepted, swallowing gratefully. "Mmm. That's… wow. Best soup ever."

"It's just broth," she muttered, though secretly she warmed at his words.

Ash leaned his head back, looking smug. "Guess everything tastes better when you're alive."

Serena shook her head, torn between laughter and tears. "You're impossible."

"Yeah," Ash admitted, smiling lopsidedly, "but you kept me alive anyway."

Her cheeks went pink, and for once, she didn't argue. She just gave him another spoonful, slower this time, watching his grin return with every bite.

The next day, Ash had been grumbling since lunch about how "lying in bed isn't training," and Serena was beginning to think he'd drive himself mad if he didn't find something to do with his hands. When one of the counselors passed by, she timidly asked for some paper and pencils. Within minutes, the two of them had a makeshift distraction spread across the blankets.

Serena sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, tongue poking at the corner of her lips in concentration as she sketched. "Hold still," she said, peeking up from the page.

Ash froze, chest puffed out. "Are you drawing me battling Ursaring? Because I probably looked pretty awesome."

Serena gave him a small smile. "Not quite." She turned the paper around. On it was a rough but sweet drawing of him with his spiky hair sticking out in all directions, grinning so big it nearly split his face.

Ash burst out laughing. "Hey! My head's not that big!"

"You wouldn't stop moving," Serena teased, cheeks pink but eyes sparkling. "It's your own fault."

"Fine, fine—my turn." Ash snatched another sheet and clutched the pencil in his fist like a spear. He scribbled furiously, tongue sticking out the same way Serena's had. A minute later, he held it up with a triumphant grin.

It was…something. A blob with too many legs, two antennae, and circles for eyes.

"It's a Caterpie," Ash announced proudly.

Serena blinked at the page, then at him. "That's…a very unique Caterpie."

"Unique?" he repeated, mock-offended. "That's art! I could sell this!"

She giggled, covering her mouth. "Only if you find someone who's never seen a real Caterpie before."

Ash leaned back, satisfied with making her laugh. He didn't say it aloud, but it was the first time since the attack that he felt normal again.

As the afternoon wore on, Serena kept sketching flowers, Pokémon she remembered from Kalos, and little scenes from the campfires. Ash kept trying—and failing—to copy her. His drawings were disasters, but each time Serena laughed, he'd double down, declaring he was improving.

When the sun dipped and the room turned dusky, a counselor brought Serena a lantern to leave by Ash's bed.

"You should get some sleep," she said softly, putting her pencils away.

"I'm not tired." Ash shifted stubbornly under the blankets, eyes drooping despite his words.

Serena rolled her eyes gently. "You always say that."

He yawned so wide it cracked his jaw, then muttered, "Just gotta…stay awake. Make sure Ursaring doesn't come back."

Her heart tugged. She reached out and brushed his hand with hers. "It won't. Not while I'm here."

Ash's gaze flickered toward her, bleary but grateful. He let his eyes finally close. "Thanks, Serena…"

The next morning began with Ash kicking at the blankets, scowling at his bandaged leg like it had personally insulted him.

"I feel fine," he declared.

"You can barely walk," Serena countered, nibbling on the end of her braid as she watched him from her chair.

"I've fought Ursaring. A little walking won't—ow!" Ash yelped as he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Serena shot up, hands flailing nervously.

"Ash! Don't be stupid!" She shoved him back against the pillows, her cheeks hot. "If you rip those stitches open, you'll be stuck in here even longer!"

Ash grumbled, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "So bossy. You sound like my mom."

Serena flushed, half-offended, half-flustered. "Well, somebody has to keep you alive!"

Later that morning, one of the counselors dropped off a basket of snacks: dried berries, biscuits, and small cartons of juice. Ash dug in like a starving Growlithe.

"Hey, save some for me!" Serena giggled, tugging a biscuit from his hand.

"Hey, I was gonna eat that!" Ash protested with a full mouth, crumbs dusting his chin.

"You already ate two!"

"They were small," he argued, but when Serena arched an eyebrow, he broke into laughter and surrendered the biscuit. "Fine. You win this round."

Serena shook her head, smiling as she bit into it. "You really don't change, do you?"

"Why would I?" Ash leaned back smugly. "Smiling, eating, battling—that's the good stuff."

Her expression softened, a warmth blooming in her chest she couldn't explain.

By midday, Ash was restless again. To distract him, Serena asked about Pallet Town.

He lit up immediately. "We've got fields that go forever. My house is near the edge, so sometimes I'd sneak out and try to catch Rattata. They always got away, though."

"Did you ever catch one?" Serena asked.

"Nope," Ash admitted cheerfully. "But one bit me once. Look!" He held out his hand like the scar would still be there. "Right here—okay, maybe it's gone, but it was HUGE."

Serena giggled. "That doesn't sound very 'future Pokémon Master' of you."

"Hey! I was little!" he shot back, but his grin said he wasn't offended.

When it was her turn, Serena hesitated. She traced circles on the blanket with her finger. "In Kalos…it's different. The forests are bigger, the towns…prettier. But I didn't really have many friends. I stayed close to my mom. She used to say I was like a little Fletchling hiding in the nest."

Ash tilted his head. "But you came here, all the way from Kalos. That's not hiding."

Serena blinked at him, caught off guard by the simple truth of it. "I…I guess not."

He gave her a crooked smile. "See? You're braver than you think."

As night fell, the infirmary grew quiet again. The other campers were still out enjoying the fire, laughter drifting through the open windows. Ash sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling.

"Bet they're telling ghost stories," he muttered. "I'm missing everything."

"You nearly died," Serena reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but still."

Serena fiddled with the lantern's knob, heart pounding before she dared speak. "You're not missing everything."

Ash turned his head. "What do you mean?"

She swallowed, cheeks warm. "You have me here. Isn't that…something?"

For once, Ash didn't have a quick reply. He looked at her for a long moment, the lantern's glow catching in his brown eyes. Then, softer than she expected, he said,

"Yeah. It's something."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It felt full, like the whole world had shrunk to the two of them, tucked away in the glow of the infirmary while the forest pressed in around them.

The morning sun spilled soft and golden across the infirmary floor, but instead of cheering him up, it made Ash restless. He sat propped up in bed, arms folded, scowling at the window where the other campers were laughing in the clearing. Serena sat beside him as she had every day, but this morning the weight in the air was different.

"It's the last day, isn't it?" Ash asked suddenly, his voice low.

Serena nodded. "Tomorrow, everyone goes home."

For a long moment, he stared down at his bandaged leg. His hands tightened in the blanket. "Guess I won't be running back through the forest with them."

Serena wanted to say something comforting, but the words stuck. Instead, she reached out and placed her hand lightly over his. "You survived something most people wouldn't. That's more important than a walk in the woods."

Ash looked at her hand, then at her. For once, his grin didn't come. "I don't wanna just survive, Serena. I want more than that. I want to see everything. Meet every Pokémon. I want to be strong enough that if something like that Ursaring happens again… I won't almost lose." His jaw set stubbornly. "I want to be the best."

Serena studied him, her heart tight in her chest. Even broken and bandaged, he was still looking forward — beyond the pain, beyond the fear. His fire hadn't dimmed. If anything, it burned brighter.

"What about you?" he asked, tilting his head. "What do you wanna do when you're older?"

The question caught her off guard. She hugged her knees to her chest, thinking. "I don't know. I'm not like you. I don't…dream that big."

Ash frowned. "So? Doesn't matter if it's big or small. Just something you care about."

Serena thought of her mother, of the Kalos gardens, of the way her heart fluttered when she saw Pokémon moving gracefully instead of fighting. She hesitated, then whispered, "I… I think I want to show people the beauty of Pokémon. Not just the battles, but the way Pokémon move, the way they shine. Like…performances."

Ash blinked. "Performances? Like shows?"

Serena's cheeks pinked. "Kind of. Coordinating, maybe. My mom says I should focus on practical things, but… when I see Pokémon, I just—" She trailed off, embarrassed.

Ash grinned, the spark back in his eyes. "That's awesome. You should do it."

"You really think so?"

"Of course! And when I'm a Pokémon Master, I'll come watch one of your shows. Promise."

Serena laughed, the sound watery with tears she hadn't realized were building. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," Ash said with a shrug, "but I keep my promises."

The rest of the day passed slower than usual. The counselors came and went, the medics checking his wounds, offering Serena breaks she refused. Outside, the other campers played their last games, but inside the infirmary, the air was heavy with the knowledge of endings.

As night fell, the infirmary lantern flickered low, its warm glow soft against the wooden walls. Outside, the campfire crackled with laughter and songs, but inside the room, the world had shrunk again to just the two of them. Serena rested with her head against the side of Ash's bed, her hand again folded over his.

For a while, they were quiet. Then Ash broke the silence with a sudden grin. "When I get my first Pokémon, it's gonna be a Pikachu. The strongest Pikachu anyone's ever seen. You'll see!"

Serena smiled faintly. "You'll probably burn every meal it tries to cook with you."

"Worth it," Ash said, eyes gleaming. Then, softer, "Do you think Pokémon in Kalos are really different from here?"

Serena thought for a moment. "Some. Fletchling, Rhyhorn, Sylveon. But it's not just the Pokémon. The cities… the festivals. There's one where the whole sky fills with lights. Someday, I'll take you there."

Ash's grin widened. "Then I'll take you everywhere here. Kanto, Johto… all of them. I'll battle every Gym Leader, even the Champions."

He paused, his voice dropping lower. "When I thought I was gonna die out there… I wasn't scared for me. Just you. I didn't want you to be alone."

Serena's breath caught. She squeezed his hand, her voice trembling. "You won't let me be. Even if you tried. I'll never forget your smile, Ash. Not ever."

The silence between them grew thick, but not uncomfortable. Just full. Serena tilted her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "If I ever get to perform… I'll make something beautiful just for you. So even if you're far away, you'll know I'm thinking of you."

Ash turned toward her, brown eyes steady. "Then it's a deal. You'll make your shows, and I'll battle my way to the top. And we'll write about it. Every little thing."

Serena giggled softly, wiping at her eyes. "And then one day, we'll meet up again. I'll show you Kalos, and you'll show me all your Pokémon."

Ash smirked, his voice firm. "I'll cheer the loudest at your shows."

"And I'll clap the hardest at your battles."

They looked at each other then, the lantern light painting their young faces in gold. Two children, bruised and bandaged, daring to whisper of futures brighter than the dark forest around them.

"Deal," Ash said finally.

"Deal," Serena echoed.

When their eyes finally closed, it was with the certainty that this wasn't an ending. It was only the beginning.

The final morning dawned bright and clear, cruelly cheerful compared to the heaviness in Serena's chest. Camp was alive with the noise of parents collecting their children — trunks clattering, voices calling, Pokémon chattering as they helped load bags. For most, it was joyous. For Serena, it felt like the end of the world.

Ash sat propped on the infirmary steps, his leg bound in fresh bandages, crutches leaning against his arm. He was pale, thinner than he'd been when camp began, but his eyes — his eyes were the same, burning with that stubborn fire. Serena's suitcase bumped along behind her as she walked toward him, each step heavier than the last.

"So," Ash said, forcing a grin. "Guess this is goodbye."

Serena nodded, her throat too tight to answer. Her parents were already calling from the wagon, their Kalos accents sharp in the air, but she lingered, rooted to the spot.

"You'll be okay?" she finally whispered.

Ash shifted on his crutches with an exaggerated shrug. "Course I will. You saw me. I fought off an Ursaring."

"You nearly died," Serena snapped, her voice cracking.

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Ash's grin softened, turning into something smaller, more fragile. "But I didn't. And I won't. Not when I've got a promise to keep."

Serena blinked, tears welling. "Promise?"

"That we'll write. Every week," Ash said firmly. "Even if it's just… what you had for lunch."

Her laugh broke through her tears, a shaky, beautiful sound. "You and your lunch."

Ash's grin widened. "Hey, it's important! A Pokémon Master's gotta keep track of these things."

Serena shook her head, giggling through her tears. Then she grew serious, clutching the handle of her suitcase like a lifeline. "And someday… we'll see each other again. Right?"

Ash hesitated, then pushed himself up straighter on the crutches, raising his hand toward her. "Not someday. Definitely. I'll find you. I'll come to Kalos if I have to. That's a promise."

Serena's lips trembled. She stepped closer, pinky outstretched. "Then seal it."

Ash hooked his finger around hers, their hands small but unshakable. For a long moment, they just stood there, tethered by that single, childish gesture that felt bigger than any vow they'd ever make again.

Her parents called again, sharper this time. Serena's chest ached. She wanted to stay. She wanted to rip the world apart if it meant one more day. Instead, she let their fingers part slowly, lingering until the last moment.

"Bye, Ash," Serena managed as she turned and started to walk away, tears slipping down her cheeks, looking back every few steps. Ash stood on the steps, wobbling but proud, one hand raised high. His grin was too big for his face, too bright to be fake — the same grin that had carried her through the forest, the same grin that promised he'd keep fighting.

"See you soon, Serena!" he shouted, voice cracking with all the hope of a boy who refused to believe in goodbyes.

Serena stopped moving, turning around with surprising speed, and rushed back to Ash, pulling him into a hug, careful not to hurt him too badly. Breaking the hug and on her tiptoes, she gave him a light kiss on the cheek before rushing away again. Ash, dumbfounded, watches Sererna rush away, hand idly touching his cheek.

Serena turns around one last time, seeing Ash's reaction, laughs through her tears, and waves, her heart breaking and healing all at once.

She didn't know how. She didn't know when. But she believed him. They'd see each other again.

Camp ended in a scatter of wagons and tearful goodbyes. By evening, the cabins were empty, fires doused, the voices of children carried off to every corner of Kanto and beyond. Only Ash remained, sitting on the infirmary steps with his crutches leaned against the railing. He stared at the dirt road where Serena's wagon had disappeared, the echo of her laughter and tears still ringing in his ears.

The quiet pressed heavy. The forest, usually alive with Pidgey and Caterpie, seemed to hold its breath.

And then — the air shifted.

From the treeline emerged a massive Arcanine, mane glowing faintly in the dusk. Its paws made no sound on the ground. Behind it walked a cloaked man, his stride slow and deliberate, the fading light catching sigils embroidered faintly in deep blue fabric. The man's face was hidden beneath the hood, but Ash felt the weight of his gaze like a hand on his shoulder.

"You," Ash whispered, recognizing the Arcanine — the same one that had led the charge to save him.

The beast stopped before him, lowering its massive head until amber eyes locked with his. For a moment, boy and Pokémon simply looked at one another. Then Arcanine gave a single nod, almost human in its solemnity.

The man stepped closer. His voice was calm, low, but carried weight like rolling thunder. "You survived what should have killed you. Not by chance, but by the light within you. The aura."

Ash blinked, heart thudding. "Aura…? That glow?"

The man inclined his head. "Few are born with it. Fewer still awaken it. It is a gift, and a burden. You are one such bearer." He studied Ash for a long moment. "We are the ones who guard that light. The Aura Guardians. And we have come for you."

The man's words hung in the still air. "We are the ones who guard that light. The Aura Guardians. And we have come for you."

Ash shifted uncomfortably, grabbing his crutches, his brows knitting. "Come for me? Why?" His voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it. "I don't even know you."

The Guardian inclined his head slightly. "Nor should you. Few remember our order exists. That is how it must be. But your aura… it roared to life that night. We could not ignore it."

Ash glanced down at his bandaged leg, the memory of the Ursaring's claws flashing in his mind. His chest tightened. "So what—now you're just gonna drag me off somewhere? Train me? Make me fight monsters like that again?"

The man's voice was calm, but unyielding. "No one will force you, Ash Ketchum. But the truth is simple; the gift you carry will not lie dormant. It will grow, with or without guidance. Untrained, it could destroy you. Or worse, destroy others."

Ash swallowed hard, staring at the ground. Destroy others. His mind flashed to Serena — to her tears, her trembling hands as she pulled him from the forest, to the way she had whispered promises into his fevered sleep.

He clenched his fists. "…I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Then learn control," the Guardian said. "Learn purpose. With us, you will be tested, pushed, broken, and remade. It will not be easy. But you will be ready when the world calls."

Ash hesitated. His instinct screamed not to trust easily. Yet something in the man's tone — not persuasion, but quiet certainty — struck him. The world would call. And when it did, he didn't want to be the boy dragging his broken leg through the dirt, helpless without a miracle.

Finally, he looked up, eyes narrowing in cautious resolve. "If I do this… I'm not giving up who I am. I'm still gonna be Ash Ketchum. Still gonna chase being a Pokémon Master. And I'm not breaking my promise to Serena. I won't."

The Guardian studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, once. "So be it. Guard your bond. Keep your promise. But know this—your path will take you farther from her than you can imagine. And one day, the choice between duty and desire may test you more than any battle."

Ash didn't flinch. His grip on the crutch tightened, and his grin flickered back—smaller, steadier this time. "Then I'll just win that battle too."

For the first time, the Guardian's lips twitched into a shadow of approval. Arcanine rumbled deep in its chest, eyes locking with Ash's. Something unspoken passed between them, solemn and certain.

The Guardian extended a hand. Ash hesitated, then clasped it. His grip was firm despite the bandages.

"Then rise, Ash Ketchum of Pallet Town," the Guardian intoned. "Your journey begins tonight."

And Ash rose.

The handshake sealed, the Guardian and his Arcanine melted back into the trees, vanishing as swiftly as they had appeared. The clearing grew still again, leaving Ash alone beneath the weight of the moment. He stood in silence, crutches pressed against his chest, his gaze wandering once more to the road where Serena's wagon had disappeared.

Above the forest canopy, unseen by human eyes, Mew drifted in lazy arcs. It's great, ancient gaze lingered on the boy, on the aura that had burst like wildfire from him, on the bond that already tethered his path to another's. The mythical creature tilted its head, tail curling playfully as its mouth curved in a knowing smile.

Far beyond Kanto's borders, the world turned. Mountains slumbered with secrets in Johto. Ruins whispered in Hoenn. Shadows stirred in Sinnoh. The great regions of the Pokémon world, each brimming with legends and dangers, waited unknowingly for the day the boy from Pallet would walk their soil.

But for now, he was only a child, bandaged and broken—but a flame had sparked in the forest that night. Small, fragile, but fierce enough to burn against the dark. A boy who had faced death in the forest and risen again with fire in his heart.

A boy whose story was only beginning.

Chapter Text

The road stretched long beneath the rising sun, dust curling under every step. Ash Ketchum walked it with steady rhythm, cloak pulled against the morning wind, scarred hands gripping the straps of his pack. On his shoulder rode Riolu, the small jackal Pokémon, balanced like it had always belonged there.

Together, they cut a strange silhouette — not boy and Pokémon, but brothers, moving as one.

Ash was no longer the messy child who once blurted his dreams around campfires. Ten years had burned that boy into something sharper. His frame had filled into lean, fighting muscle, the kind forged from endless drills and survival in the wild. His hands, rough and scarred, flexed with unconscious readiness; his left leg still carried the pale line of an old wound, a reminder of the night his aura first flared.

His face had hardened too — jaw set, cheekbones sharper, eyes still the same warm brown but shadowed now in blue with the weight of years. And yet, when he grinned, the boy lingered there, reckless and defiant, refusing to die. His hair was longer, untamed as ever, falling in dark strands that brushed his ears and whipped in the wind.

He wore the garb of a traveler, not a child; dark trousers reinforced at the knees, boots scuffed from the road, and a short cloak stitched with faint silver sigils — the mark of the Guardians. Subtle, but unmistakable. Even without the cloak, his presence carried a hum in the air, a low thrum of aura that resonated with Riolu at his side.

At the crest of a hill, Ash paused, eyes sweeping the horizon. Somewhere beyond those ridges lay Kalos, and with it, the girl whose memory had kept him alive in the darkest nights.

He reached into his pack and pulled out a worn envelope, the paper frayed at the edges, the ink faded from being read too many times. A letter. One of many in Serena's handwriting. He didn't carry all her letters. Most were too fragile, tucked away safely long ago. But a handful — the ones that had kept him alive through the worst storms — he carried always. His thumb traced the looping curves of her words as if to memorize them all over again.

He read silently, lips moving to her voice;

"Ash, I don't know if you'll even get this one. I hope you do. Yesterday I fell flat on my face in front of everyone during practice. Again. But Eevee tried so hard to cheer me up afterward, bouncing around like I'd won instead of lost. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have the confidence to really do this… but then I think of you, smiling through everything, and I tell myself I can. Even if I stumble, I'll keep walking, no matter what. — Serena."

Ash folded the letter carefully, sliding it back into the envelope like it was something sacred.

"Still tripping over herself, huh?" His voice was low, almost amused, though his eyes softened. "Guess some things never change."

Riolu made a soft chuff, ears twitching. Ash smirked, tilting his head toward him.

"You're right. She's braver than she thinks."

The bond between them thrummed faintly, that gentle hum of aura connection. He didn't need Riolu to speak — he could feel it. The warmth of agreement. The quiet loyalty.

Ash's gaze turned to the sky, where clouds drifted like pale sails across the blue. His grin flickered, small but certain.

"Hang on, Serena. I'm coming."

Ash walked on, boots crunching gravel, his cloak tugged by the morning breeze. The road stretched ahead in a blur of dust and horizon, but his mind wasn't on the path. His body remembered pain — the ache in his calves, the throb in his shoulders — and with it came a memory.

The mountain. The snow. The sting of a staff across his back when his legs failed. Again.

His first trial.

The cold bit into his skin like teeth. Snow whipped across the cliffside where he stood, legs bent into the Root of the Oak, arms trembling at his sides.

The Root of the Oak was no ordinary stance. It was the foundation of every Guardian; the position meant to teach stillness in the midst of a storm. Feet planted, knees bent, aura sunk deep into the earth like roots gripping soil. It looked simple. It was torture. Hours in that position stripped the body raw, until only willpower kept you upright. Many initiates broke on their first night. Few rose again.

Ash's breath fogged with every exhale, his thighs burning, calves on fire. He'd been told to hold the stance until sunrise. The moon still sat high in the sky.

Minutes stretched into hours. His balance wavered. His legs buckled, once, twice, before he pitched forward into the snow with a grunt. A sharp crack across his back brought stars to his vision.

The Guardian Master loomed, staff still humming from the strike. "Again."

Ash spat snow from his lips, dragged himself upright, and forced his body back into position. His teeth chattered. His arms trembled so badly he thought they'd shake themselves apart.

The body obeys the spirit. The spirit obeys the will. And will must be unbroken.

The mantra pounded in his skull with every heartbeat. His muscles screamed for release. The cold gnawed deeper, biting into his scars. He wanted to cry, to collapse, to sleep. But a face flashed in his mind — a girl with sandy hair and bright eyes, standing in the firelight of a summer camp long ago, pinky wrapped around his.

Ash set his jaw and stood.

The wind howled. The snow stung. His body broke, but his will did not.

When he finally collapsed again, his body nothing but a shaking wreck in the snow, the Master gave no strike this time. Only a single word, "Better."

Ash's chest heaved as he dug his hands into the ice, lips cracked and bleeding, but still splitting into a grin.

"Next time," he rasped, "I'll last longer."

The memory faded, but the ache lingered. Ash flexed his hands against the straps of his pack, scars catching faintly in the morning light.

Another memory rose to meet it — softer. A letter. He didn't need the paper for this one; he'd read it enough times to know every word. It was Serena's first showcase attempt. Her voice whispered in his mind as clearly as if she were beside him;

"I tripped in front of the entire hall today. Everyone laughed. I wanted to run offstage and never come back. But Eevee twirled like I'd already won. So I kept going. Do you think that counts?"

The hall glittered with silk banners, chandeliers, and ribbons — a mock stage meant to train future coordinators. Serena's stomach turned at the sight of it. Rows of children lined the benches, whispering, some snickering already as each name was called.

Her fingers clenched around Eevee's Poké Ball, slick with sweat. What if I fall? What if I choke?

"Contestant twenty-three! Serena Yvonne!"

Her heart leapt into her throat. Legs like lead, she stepped forward into the harsh spotlight. Her trembling hand released Eevee. The little fox appeared in a burst of light, tail flicking high. The crowd murmured — Eevee was beautiful, its stance naturally graceful, its bright eyes full of confidence that Serena lacked.

She tried to breathe, to step into the performance. She lifted her arm—

—and caught her toe on the stage.

The crash echoed through the hall. Her knee smacked against polished wood, the sting sharp enough to make her eyes water. Laughter rippled from the benches, cruel and loud, swallowing her whole.

Her face burned red-hot. She wanted to vanish, to sink into the stage and never rise again.

But Eevee turned to her. Not ashamed, not angry — only flicking its tail with a sparkle, eyes steady. We can still do this.

Eevee wasn't her choice, not really. It had been placed in her hands by her mentor with the words, "A partner with potential, like you. See what you can make of each other." At the time, Serena had thought it a cruel joke — to give a blank slate to a girl who barely knew herself. But in that moment on stage, when Eevee's steady gaze met hers, she felt for the first time that maybe it had been right all along.

Serena's throat tightened. Her body shook, but she forced herself upright. Her arm lifted again, stiff and awkward. Eevee twirled with playful energy, leaping in a small flourish. Serena stumbled after, half a beat behind. The laughter still stung, but not as sharp. When Eevee landed, the crowd gave a scattering of applause — not much, but real.

Backstage, Serena collapsed against the wall, her whole body trembling. Tears prickled her eyes, shame hot in her chest. But Eevee bounded into her lap, soft fur pressing against her.

"…Okay," she whispered, burying her face in its neck. "We'll keep walking. Together."

Ash's expression softened at the memory of her words.

"Yeah, Serena," he murmured, low enough only Riolu could hear. "That counts."

Riolu's aura pulsed warm against his shoulder, a faint hum of agreement. Ash smirked and pressed forward, the horizon burning brighter in his eyes.

The path dipped into a valley, a thin river cutting silver through the fields. Ash followed its curve, the sound of water mingling with the crunch of his boots. Riolu had hopped down from his shoulder and padded beside him, mimicking his stride, every step in rhythm as though the two shared one heartbeat.

Bird Pokémon scattered from the reeds as they passed, wings flashing in the light. A pair of Rattata skittered across the stones ahead. Riolu growled low, but Ash raised a hand.

"Not today," he said, his voice quiet but firm. The little Pokémon eased, though its eyes never left the bushes.

Ash bent down, scooped a handful of the cold river water, and let it spill over his face. The sting of memory clung to him — the mountain, the laughter, the applause — but the cool water anchored him back in the present. Ten years behind him, Kalos still ahead.

The road wound upward again. The silence of travel, the rhythm of steps, the weight of his pack — all of it was familiar, steady. Yet his mind refused stillness. Memories pressed at him, unbidden.

The mountain again — but not snow this time. Fire.

The chamber was deep within the mountain, lit by nothing but faint braziers whose flames guttered in the damp air. Ash knelt at the center, sweat already slicking his brow. His hands shook where they rested against his knees.

Control the flame. Do not let it consume you.

The Master's words echoed off the stone, low and commanding.

Ash inhaled. The aura surged. Blue light crawled across his skin, a shimmering veil that made his pulse race. For a moment, exhilaration flooded him — every nerve alive, every muscle stronger than steel. This was it. This was power.

But the current twisted. His breath hitched. The fire inside him roared too hot, too wild.

Pain tore through him like knives. His ribs burned, his veins seared, his head filled with white noise. He tried to hold it — tried to control it — but it lashed against him, shattering his focus. Arcs of aura lashed out, scorching the stone floor. A brazier toppled, flames licking his arm.

Ash screamed. His body convulsed, chest a furnace threatening to tear itself apart.

The Master's staff struck the ground. The chamber shook as the aura around Ash shattered, collapsing like glass.

Silence. Smoke. The stink of charred stone and flesh.

Ash gasped raggedly, coughing, his arm blistered, chest hollow.

The Master's shadow loomed over him. "You are not a weapon. You are a vessel. Until you learn that truth, you will break yourself."

Ash forced his eyes open, the whites bloodshot, his grin defiant. "Then… I'll learn fast."

The memory burned in him still, his chest tightening as he walked. But over it came Serena's words, softer, an echo carved into him as deeply as any scar.

"Ash, you won't believe it — Eevee and I got through a whole routine without me tripping once! They even clapped louder this time. Not a lot, but enough to make me feel like I belong up there. Eevee looked so proud. I wish you could've seen it."

The practice hall was humbler this time, the chandeliers fewer, the crowd smaller — but Serena's hands still trembled as she stepped onto the floor. Her braid was too tight, her breath too quick. The spotlight washed her pale.

"Contestant eight! Serena Yvonne!"

Eevee bounded forward, fur shimmering, tail flicking like a banner. The little Pokémon's confidence steadied her, if only slightly.

She lifted her arm, remembered the sequence, twirled — wobbly, awkward, but she did not fall. Eevee leapt, spun midair, and landed lightly on its paws. The audience murmured, then clapped — a scattering of applause, louder than before.

Serena froze, stunned. For once, no laughter followed.

Eevee nudged her ankle with its nose. Bow.

She did, stiff but proud, cheeks hot. The applause grew warmer.

Backstage, she collapsed to her knees, laughter bubbling through tears as she hugged Eevee close. "We did it… We really did it."

Eevee chirped, pressing its cheek against hers, tail brushing her face like a ribbon.

Back on the road, Ash's lips curled faintly. He could almost hear her laugh in the ink of her words, see Eevee bouncing proudly at her side.

"Good job, Serena," he whispered. His hand drifted unconsciously to his chest, where the memory of fire still lingered like a scar.

Riolu hummed, aura pulsing steadily against him. Ash's grin turned sharper. "Guess we both had to learn the hard way, huh?"

The sun climbed higher, burning the mist off the fields. Ash and Riolu left the valley behind and entered rolling grasslands, the wind sweeping tall blades into waves. A flock of Pidgey burst from the grass, scattering at their approach, and far off, a lone Tauros raised its head before snorting and turning away.

Ash adjusted his pack, the leather straps creaking against his shoulders. The road had been his world for ten years; stone, dirt, forest, snow. Endless steps, endless training, endless battles. There were times it felt like he had never been a boy at all, only a weapon the Guardians were shaping, grinding down to steel.

But he wasn't steel. He wasn't cold iron.

He looked at Riolu padding beside him, small but proud, eyes glinting in the light. They weren't steel. They were fire.

Ash's lips curved into a grin. And that fire had to start somewhere.

The canyon echoed with rushing water far below. Ash stood on the cliff's edge, breath steady, arms extended as he faced his next trial. His task was simple: stop the falling stones hurled at him by the Guardians. Not with his hands, but with his aura.

The first rock came. A blur of gray. He thrust his hands out — too wild. The aura flared and shattered, the stone clipping his shoulder hard enough to spin him around. He hit the dirt, teeth rattling.

"Again," the Master commanded.

Ash rose, blood on his lip, eyes blazing.

Another rock. He focused — too slow. The stone smashed the ground at his feet, shards cutting his legs.

"Again."

Over and over. Dozens of stones. Each failure a bruise, a cut, another layer of pain. His chest screamed, his arms hung heavy, his breath was ragged.

But he refused to fall.

He closed his eyes. Reached deeper. Felt the rhythm of the canyon, the pulse of the water, the thrum of his own blood. The aura wasn't fire. It wasn't rage. It was flow.

The next stone came — and his hands moved, glowing faintly blue. The rock slowed, hung trembling in the air for a heartbeat before dropping harmlessly to the dirt.

Ash's eyes snapped open. His aura burned steady, clear, not tearing him apart but moving with him. For the first time, he wasn't fighting it. He was channeling it.

The Master gave no smile, but a single nod. "At last," he said. Then, after a long pause, "Remember this. Aura is not for triumph. It is not for pride. It is a current. A Guardian does not dam it nor drown in it — he learns to shape it. Today, you shaped it, boy. That is your first step."

Ash wiped blood from his mouth, lips curling into a grin. "Then I'll keep stepping."

Ash's grin faded into another memory, softened by her voice. Another letter, written in those neat, careful loops, he knew by heart.

"Ash, my teacher finally said it today — that I have potential. Can you believe it? She said Eevee and I were rough around the edges, but she saw something worth shaping. I don't think I've ever felt prouder. It's not a ribbon or a trophy, but for me… it's the first step."

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and perfume, the walls lined with mirrors. Serena stood at the center, Eevee poised by her side. The instructor, a stern woman with hair pulled tight into a bun, had drilled her for weeks, never offering more than corrections and clipped commands.

Today was different.

Serena twirled, movements smoother now, her arm rising in time with Eevee's leap. She stumbled once, but caught herself, face burning. Eevee landed lightly, tail sweeping the air, and together they struck their final pose.

For a moment, silence. Serena braced for criticism, for the usual sigh.

Instead, the instructor, Madame Leroux, folded her arms. "Better. Not polished. Not ready. But better. And worth working with."

But Leroux wasn't finished. "Understand this, child. Coordination is not ribbons or glitter. It is discipline. It is craft. A true performer does not chase applause. She commands it. Learn that difference, and you will grow."

Serena's smile faltered, but her heart burned. She bowed, whispering under her breath, "I'll learn it."

Her cheeks flushed — not from shame, but from pride.

Back in the dressing room, she hugged Eevee so tightly it squeaked. "She actually said we were worth it!" she whispered, tears prickling her eyes. "We're not just fumbling anymore. We're… we're starting."

Eevee chirped, pawing at her braid with a tiny smile.

Ash exhaled slowly. His shoulders eased, and the faintest smile tugged at his mouth.

"Of course she was worth it," he muttered, "She always was."

Riolu padded closer, aura pulsing softly in rhythm with his own. Ash reached down and ruffled its ears. "And so are we, huh?"

Riolu barked softly, eyes shining.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain. Dark clouds gathered along the horizon, the kind that promised storms before nightfall. Ash pulled his cloak tighter, Riolu quickening its pace to keep step. The dirt road had become mud in places, boots sucking at the earth.

Storms were nothing new. He'd survived blizzards that froze bone, nights in deserts where sand seared his skin raw. But no matter the storm outside, it was never as brutal as the ones in memory.

His first mission had taught him that.

The summons had come at dawn. Ash was still raw from training, his body aching, but when the Master's voice called, he rose without hesitation.

"You are ready to serve," the old man said, staff planted firmly in the stone floor. "The Guardians do not live to sharpen their blades in isolation. We exist to protect balance — between people, between Pokémon, between the wild and the world. Today, we will see if you understand that truth."

Ash's heart had raced. A mission. His first.

They traveled through a valley choked with mist, the path winding toward a forest pass. A caravan of merchants had been reported ambushed along this trade route — not by bandits, but by wild Pokémon driven to fury, their balance broken by encroachment. The Guardians did not interfere with nature unless it threatened the greater harmony.

And now, it had.

From the trees ahead came snarls, glowing eyes in the dark. Mightyena — a full pack. Their howls shook the branches. The caravan drivers cowered behind their wagons, children clutching their mothers' cloaks.

The senior Guardian gave a sharp nod. "Go. Hold them long enough for the innocents to escape. Show me that your aura is more than fire."

Ash swallowed his fear and charged.

The first Mightyena lunged. His fist glowed faintly, instinct taking over. The blow connected with its ribs — the beast yelped and crumpled. Ash felt triumph spark hot in his chest. I can do this. I can fight.

But pride cost him. Another shadow lunged from the side, jaws sinking into his arm. White pain exploded. His scream tore through the trees. Hot blood poured down his sleeve.

Panic surged — and with it, aura. Too much. It flared wild, arcs of blue fire searing the beast until it released him with a yelp. But the backlash left him reeling, the power burning him as much as his foe. His knees buckled.

Around him, chaos. The Guardian's staff cracked against snarling jaws, the wagons groaned forward as terrified Pokémon pulled them uphill. The pack pressed in, teeth flashing.

Don't break. Not now. Not with them watching.

Ash forced himself upright. His arm hung uselessly, blood soaking his tunic. His breath rasped, each inhale stabbing like knives. But he dug deeper. Past the fear. Past the pain.

He felt it. The rhythm of the pack, the thrum of their movement, the pull of the earth beneath his feet. His good hand rose, shaking but steady. Aura gathered, not as fire, but as force.

The next Mightyena leapt — and Ash's palm flared blue.

A wave burst outward, raw and clumsy but strong enough to hurl the beast back into the trees. Others stumbled, snarling, buying the caravan precious seconds. Wheels rattled on stone. The last wagon crested the rise.

The pack scattered into the dark. Silence returned, broken only by Ash's ragged breathing.

He collapsed to his knees, mud mixing with blood beneath him. His vision swam. His arm was torn and seared, his chest hollow.

The senior Guardian stood over him, staff still humming faintly with aura suppression. His expression did not soften. "You lived. That is all that matters. Remember this pain, boy. Next time, use it better."

Ash spat blood into the dirt, his lips twisting into a grin despite the fire in his veins. "Oh," he rasped, "I'll do more than live."

The memory stung like fire in his arm, but Serena's words came to him again, softer and cracked at the edges.

"Ash, I failed. We failed. Eevee and I froze on stage — I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, and we were pulled off before we even finished. Everyone clapped politely, but I could see it in their eyes… pity. I don't know if I'm cut out for this. I thought I was getting better, but maybe I was wrong."

The hall smelled faintly of perfume and waxed wood, the chandeliers burning too hot, too bright. Serena's palms were slick with sweat as she clutched Eevee's Poké Ball, her braid wound tight enough to ache against her scalp.

"Contestant twenty-six! Serena Yvonne!"

The announcer's voice echoed through the crowd. Dozens of eyes fixed on her. The lights snapped on, harsh as lightning. Serena's heart slammed against her ribs.

She stepped forward, boots clicking too loud, and released Eevee in a burst of light. The little fox bounded forward, fur shimmering, eyes bright. The audience gave a polite murmur, waiting.

Serena's legs refused to move.

The music swelled — lilting, graceful. She raised an arm, but her knees locked, her throat tightened. Eevee twirled, glancing back for her lead. Nothing.

Her breath stuttered. The crowd's murmur shifted, whispers threading through the seats. Not laughter this time. Worse. Pity.

"Go!" the announcer hissed from the wings, too low for the audience to hear but sharp enough to stab.

Serena stumbled forward, jerky and out of rhythm. Eevee tried to follow, tail flicking desperately to salvage the routine. She tripped again, nearly falling, her cheeks burning hot. Her ears rang with imagined mockery.

Halfway through, the music faltered and cut. A shadow swept in from the wings — Madame Leroux, stern as ever, with her hair wound in a silver bun. She placed a hand on Serena's shoulder, guiding her gently offstage.

"To falter is not shame," Leroux murmured, voice even. "But to freeze is death to art. Remember this."

Serena bit her lip hard, eyes stinging, but nodded.

Backstage, she crumpled onto the bench, trembling. Eevee pressed against her, whining, licking at the tears streaking her face. She buried her hands in its fur, shaking her head.

"I can't do this," she whispered hoarsely. "I'm not like the others… I'll never belong out there."

From the doorway, Leroux's voice carried, softer this time;

"Performance is not sparkle, child. It is not for applause or ribbons. It is the bridge between your heart and your Pokémon's. If you cannot walk it, you will fall. But if you learn to trust it — and yourself — then even failure will carry beauty."

Serena clutched Eevee tighter, the words sinking into her like needles. In that moment, they felt like rebuke, but later — much later — they would return as wisdom.

The rain began to patter, soaking his cloak. Ash tilted his face to the sky, eyes half-closed.

"She thought she couldn't," he murmured. "But she kept writing. Kept trying."

Riolu pressed against his leg, aura humming in rhythm with his own. Ash's grin flickered through the storm.

"And that's why she's stronger than she knows."

The storm broke in the night, and by morning the fields were soaked, the road a ribbon of mud. Ash trudged onward, boots squelching, cloak plastered to his back. Riolu bounded along the puddles, occasionally splashing water just to see it ripple.

Ash shook his head, half-smiling. "You're way too entertained by this."

But inside, his mind wasn't on puddles. His hand brushed against his chest again, feeling the faint hum there — the place where aura had almost consumed him once, and where it had saved him later. That hum had never left him.

It reminded him of the first time he'd truly felt aura not as fire, not as force, but as a bridge.

The training cavern was dark, torches guttering low. Ash sat cross-legged, eyes closed, sweat dripping down his temples. Beside him knelt one of the Lucario who trained with the Guardians, its calm presence filling the room like a steady flame.

"Breathe," the Master instructed. "Not with your lungs. With your spirit. Do not reach for aura. Let it reach for you."

Ash tried, frustration gnawing. He could feel the hum inside him, but it slipped like water through his fingers. He clenched his jaw, fists tight.

A soft paw pressed against his arm. The Lucario's aura flowed into him — not invasive, but steady, calm, like a stream washing against fire. For the first time, Ash felt it; not just his own energy, but another's. Their pulse, their emotion, their calm strength.

It startled him so much his eyes snapped open. Blue light flickered between them, threads connecting hand to paw. His breath caught.

The Lucario looked at him, gaze steady, as if to say, You are not alone in this. Aura is not isolation. It is bond.

Ash's chest ached, but his grin spread wide. "So that's what it feels like…"

Her voice came to him again,

"Ash, something strange happened. I didn't win, but when Eevee and I danced this time, the audience actually clapped — not because it was perfect, but because they felt something. I could see it in their faces. It was like… for one moment, we were connected. Is that silly? Maybe it's nothing. But it felt real."

The hall was smaller, the crowd quieter, but the nerves still gnawed. Serena's steps weren't flawless — she stumbled, missed a beat. But Eevee twirled with a playful flick, brushing against her legs as if pulling her forward.

So she smiled. Not forced, not stiff. Just smiled, moving with Eevee, laughing when she nearly tripped again.

And the audience laughed too — but not cruelly. Warmly.

The applause that followed was louder than before. Not for precision, but for honesty. The warmth of it filled her chest, chased away the shame.

Backstage, still glowing, she hugged Eevee close. "They… they actually liked us. Not because we were perfect, but because we were us."

Eevee barked softly, tail wagging.

Ash tilted his head to the side as he walked, eyes narrowing against the morning light.

"Not silly," he murmured. "Not at all. That's what it's supposed to feel like."

Riolu glanced up at him, ears twitching, as if sensing the weight of his words. Ash reached down, ruffling its fur with a grin.

"One day, you'll feel it too, Rio. That connection. Stronger than anything else in the world."

By midday, the road wound through an old grove of oaks, their branches creaking in the wind. Shafts of sunlight dappled the mud, warm but restless. Riolu padded ahead, nose twitching, occasionally darting toward rustling bushes before Ash called him back.

Ash's stride was steady, but his jaw tightened. The hum of aura in his chest wasn't calm this time — it burned hot, restless, sharp with memory.

Not every lesson had come with triumph. Some had come with blood. Some with screams.

And one, with guilt that never left him.

It had been a border village, a place of simple homes and dirt paths where farmers lived under constant tension with the wild. The Guardians had been called — a rampaging Ursaring, disoriented and furious, tearing through the edge of the fields.

Ash had run ahead of his partner Guardian, fire blazing in his chest. I can stop it. I have to.

He met the beast in the fields, aura flaring bright, stronger than it had ever been. He struck hard, forcing it back step by step. Triumph surged. I'm doing it. I can save them.

And then a scream cut through the air.

A child, no more than seven, had wandered from the huts. The Ursaring's eyes locked onto her.

Ash pivoted, aura burning hotter, but too wild, too frantic. He charged, legs pumping, chest blazing. He was fast — but not fast enough.

The Ursaring's paw lashed out. The child flew, crashing into the dirt, blood blooming across her small arm. Her cry tore through Ash like glass.

He roared, aura bursting in a storm of force that drove the beast back into the forest, broken and fleeing. Silence fell.

Ash staggered to the child's side, heart hammering. Her mother was already there, clutching the girl close, sobbing. The little one still breathed, but her arm was mangled, blood staining her dress. The scar would never leave her.

Ash froze, aura sputtering out. His fists trembled as guilt crushed down.

The senior Guardian's voice was cold as stone. "You fought bravely. But bravery without discipline can cost lives. Remember this day."

The girl lived, but the mangled arm would carry scars forever. Ash knew the memory would outlast even the wound.

Ash's knees buckled. He wanted to scream, to tear the ground open, to beg for the chance to do it over. Instead, he whispered through clenched teeth, nails biting into his palms until they drew blood;

"Never again. Never again."

Her voice came softer this time, uncertain, laced with hurt.

"Ash, I don't know if I should keep doing this. Someone sabotaged me. Right before my routine, my ribbons were cut, my dress torn. I tried to go out anyway, but I could see them laughing when I failed. I thought contests were about beauty, about joy, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it's all just cruelty dressed up in glitter."

Months passed, each routine another test.

The showcase hall glowed with light and color, children laughing backstage. Serena had worked for days, braiding new ribbons, sewing sequins into her dress. Eevee twirled at her feet, tail brushing the fabric proudly.

When she returned from rehearsal, her heart sank.

The ribbons were shredded. Her dress was torn down the side. Sequins scattered like broken glass across the floor.

Gasps rose from the other girls. Some whispered. One smirked.

Serena's throat closed. Her eyes stung. She tried to fix it, hands shaking, but the damage was too much. The music called her anyway.

She stepped onto the stage in tatters. Eevee bounded out, trying to shine as if nothing was wrong, but Serena's movements were stiff, her cheeks burning. The crowd murmured. She stumbled once, twice, and by the end, she bowed through tears.

Backstage, the smirk was waiting. "Maybe next time you'll remember coordinating is not for everyone, Kalos princess."

Serena bit her lip until it bled, clutching Eevee to her chest. The little Pokémon whined, pawing at her chin, eyes fierce — as if to say; Don't let them break you.

Serena buried her face in its fur. "I won't. I won't let them."

Ash's steps slowed beneath the oaks. Riolu looked back, ears twitching at the change in his aura. Ash knelt, resting a hand on the little Pokémon's head, eyes hard on the horizon.

"She thought contests were just glitter. I thought aura was just fire." His jaw tightened. "We both learned the hard way."

Riolu pressed closer, aura humming steadily, grounding him. Ash's voice dropped to a whisper, more to himself than anyone else.

"Never again."

The grove gave way to open hills, the storm clouds clearing behind him. Ash stood at the crest of a slope, the wind tugging at his cloak. Riolu perched on a rock beside him. The world stretched vast and green below.

Ash's eyes lingered on the horizon, his grin faint but real. He thought of the words he had once sworn; never again.

And he remembered the first time he kept that promise.

It was another village — not the same, but close. Word had spread of thieves using wild Pokémon to raid farmers. The Guardians answered, and Ash was sent again.

Fear gnawed at him as he approached the fields. Farmers huddled behind hay wagons, children clutching mothers' skirts. His chest tightened — the memory of that girl's cry seared in him. Not again. Not this time.

The thieves struck at dawn. Raticate swarmed the fields, gnawing grain sacks, scattering supplies. Behind them came men with clubs, shouting threats.

Ash stood at the front. His aura pulsed steady this time — not fire, not chaos. Flow.

A Raticate lunged. Ash's hand flared blue, catching it mid-leap and hurling it back into the dirt. Another rushed in, and he ducked low, aura pulsing through his fist as he struck clean, not wild. The beast tumbled aside.

The farmers gasped. The children cheered.

Ash turned, eyes blazing, aura glowing steady now. His voice rang out, "Stay behind me! You'll be safe!"

And they were.

By the time the Guardian reinforcements arrived, the thieves were fleeing, their Pokémon scattered. Ash stood tall, bloodied but unbowed, aura still humming. For the first time, he hadn't just fought — he had protected.

Later, as the farmers gathered their families, a boy tugged at his sleeve. Wide-eyed, trembling, but smiling.

"Thank you, Guardian."

The boy's words struck him harder than any staff. He wasn't Guardian yet, not truly. But in that moment, he wanted to be worthy of it.

His grin spread slow, fierce, unshakable. "Yeah," he murmured. "That's what I am."

Once more, Serena's voice came next, lighter this time, written in that looping script he'd ingrained in his core;

"Ash, something wonderful happened. After our last performance, the other coordinators actually clapped for me. Not out of politeness — but real clapping. One even said they liked our routine. Eevee wagged so hard I thought she'd fall over. It was the first time I felt like I belonged up there. Like I wasn't just pretending."

The hall was smaller, the audience fewer, but Serena's nerves were sharper than ever. She stepped out, Eevee at her side, and this time — this time — she let herself breathe.

Her arms moved not perfectly, but fluidly, her steps catching rhythm with the music. Eevee spun with her, their motions aligned. They weren't flawless — but they were together.

When the final pose struck, there was silence — then warm applause. Not roaring, but real.

Backstage, a girl her age caught her arm. "That was good. Really good. You've improved a lot."

Serena blinked, heat rushing to her face. "You… you mean it?"

The girl smiled and nodded before hurrying away to her own performance.

Serena's throat tightened. She turned to Eevee, hugging it close, tears in her eyes but a smile on her lips. "We're not alone anymore. We're really not."

Eevee yipped happily, tail brushing her cheek.

Ash let the memory settle in his chest like an ember — steady, warm.

"She found her place," he murmured. "And so did I."

Riolu barked, as if to agree.

Ash chuckled. "Guess we're both finally getting somewhere, huh?"

The land had shifted again. More hills rose on the horizon, this time, vineyards climbing their slopes. The smell of earth and blossoms drifted on the wind, and Ash knew Kalos was drawing closer. Riolu continued to walk beside him, its stride steady and proud.

Ash glanced down at his partner, a smile tugging at his lips. "You weren't there at the very beginning," he murmured. "But you've always been with me. Even before you hatched."

His chest tightened with the memory of the night he'd become Guardian — and the night Riolu became his brother.

The temple halls glowed with torchlight, shadows flickering across ancient stone. Ash knelt in the center, cloak heavy across his shoulders, scars marking every inch of him. Around him stood the Guardians, silent, their aura humming in steady resonance.

The Master approached, staff planted before him. "Ten years you have walked the path. Ten years you have bled, broken, risen. Today, you stand not as a student, but as a Guardian. Ash Ketchum of Pallet — will you swear?"

Ash raised his head, eyes blazing. "I swear. To protect the balance. To wield aura not as fire, not as a weapon, but as a bond. To give my life, if need be, for those who cannot stand alone."

The hum of aura deepened, filling the chamber like thunder. The Guardians bowed their heads. The Master touched his staff to Ash's shoulder. "Then rise, Guardian. The youngest among us, but not the weakest. From this day, you are one of us."

Ash rose. His chest heaved, his eyes burned, but his grin split wide and fierce.

And then the Lucario stepped forward — the pair who had trained beside him for years. Without a word, they placed an egg before him, aura glowing faintly within.

"The bond you forged with us," the Master said, "has borne fruit. This is our gift. Our child. He will walk with you as a brother."

Ash's hands trembled as he lifted the egg, feeling the aura pulse within. It resonated with his own, strong, steady, undeniable.

"Thank you," he whispered, throat tight. "I won't fail him. Or you."

The memory softened, Serena's words echoing bright and proud, the ink etched in his mind;

"Ash, I did it! Eevee and I won our first ribbon! It wasn't perfect, but it was ours. When they called our names, I thought my heart would burst. For the first time, I believe I can really stand on that stage. I hope… I hope one day you'll see me there. I'll keep walking until then."

The hall was grander than any she'd performed in before. Banners streamed from the rafters, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Serena's hands trembled as she released Eevee — but when the little fox spun into the light, tail flicking with sparkles, something inside her steadied.

They moved together, not flawlessly, but with grace born of trust. Serena stumbled once, caught herself, and smiled through it. Eevee twirled with her, brushing her cheek mid-spin. The crowd responded — warm, loud, alive.

When the routine ended, there was silence — and then a roar of applause. Her name was called, her ribbon raised.

Serena froze, tears filling her eyes, before laughter bubbled out of her. She hugged Eevee tight, lifting it high. "We did it! We actually did it!"

Backstage, other coordinators approached, offering nods, smiles, and real congratulations. Serena flushed pink, overwhelmed, but for the first time, she didn't shrink. She bowed, held Eevee close, and whispered, "This is only the beginning."

Back on the road, Ash's smile lingered. He reached down, letting Riolu hop up onto his shoulder again, the little Pokémon balancing easily.

"She made it," he said softly. "And so did I."

Riolu barked, aura pulsing steadily against his own.

Ash's grin sharpened, his eyes burning on the horizon. "Now it's time to walk together again."

By dusk, the Kalos border stretched before him. The air was different here — not sharp and cold like the peaks of the mountains, nor heavy with dust like the valleys he had crossed, but rich, warm, and tinged with the sweetness of berries. It was the air of a place that had not yet tried to break him.

Ash stood still on a ridge, boots sinking into the wet grass. Below, the valley spread wide and golden under the last sweep of sunlight, dotted with cottages, orchards, and winding rivers that gleamed like silver threads. Beyond that, faint and hazy, he could just see the silhouette of Lumiose — spires reaching for the heavens, lights glittering like stars already come to earth.

For a long moment, he simply breathed. Ten years of mountains, snowfields, deserts, and forests. Ten years of scars carved into his flesh and deeper ones cut into his heart. Ten years of failure and triumph, of vows whispered through clenched teeth, of laughter carried only in letters.

All of it, every step, had brought him here.

Riolu looked on from Ash's shoulder, silent for once, eyes fixed on the same horizon. Its aura brushed against his like a steady heartbeat — warm, steady, alive. They had trained together, bled together, become brothers not by blood but by bond. The egg had been a gift, but this bond? This was earned.

Ash's hand went to Riolu's head, ruffling the fur between its ears. "We made it, Rio." His voice was low, almost reverent. "Ten years. Ten years of becoming something more than a boy who wanted to be a Pokémon Master. Ten years of fighting, failing, rising. And now…" His jaw tightened, his eyes burning on the horizon. "Now we find her."

The wind shifted, carrying scents of wildflowers from the valley. Ash's scars prickled, the old pain reminding him of the cost it had taken to reach this moment. But beneath the weight of it all, his chest burned with something brighter.

Hope.

He straightened, cloak tugging at his shoulders, and stepped forward. Riolu barked once, sharp and eager, aura flaring in rhythm with his own.

"Serena," Ash murmured, his grin slow, fierce, and unshakable. "I'm coming home."

And though the road behind him stretched across mountains and oceans, though Pallet Town waited somewhere far away, Ash knew it wasn't a place he was walking toward. It was a person.

Lumiose City rose from the valley like a beacon, its towers glowing under gaslight, streets alive with carriages, vendors, and trainers spilling from every corner. Ash had seen great mountains, ancient temples, and Guardian halls carved into stone — but nothing as loud, as alive, as this.

The noise pressed in around him, a thousand voices at once. Pokémon darted between feet and wheels, laughter echoed from balconies, and music spilled from the plazas. Ash stood for a moment at the edge of the crowd, Riolu pressed against him, and wondered if this was what it felt like to step into another world.

But he had no time to marvel. He had come here for one reason.

"Excuse me," he asked a passerby, his voice low but steady. "Have you seen a girl named Serena Yvonne? Coordinator. Travels with an Eevee."

The woman blinked at him, confused, then shook her head.

He asked again at an inn, then a shop, then a market stall. Most only shrugged. A few gave vague nods — "Maybe I've seen her at a Contest Hall" or "There are many coordinators here, boy."

Hours passed. The city became a maze, every street another question unanswered. But Ash pressed on, his voice repeating her name like a prayer, his eyes searching every face in the crowd.

Serena. Serena. Serena.

Night had nearly fallen when Riolu tugged at his cloak, barking sharp. Ash turned — and saw it.

Posters, plastered across a contest board outside a lantern-lit plaza. Names, dates, and in the center — her face.

Serena Yvonne. The text glittered in cursive: "Rising star of Kalos Contests — see her this weekend in Lumiose!"

Ash stopped dead, the din of the city fading into silence. His chest tightened, every scar, every wound, every lesson crashing together in that single instant. She was real. She was here. Not a dream, not a letter, but flesh and blood and only a heartbeat away.

Riolu barked again, tugging at his sleeve with bright eyes. Ash exhaled, steadying himself, his hand pressing against the poster as though he could feel her through the paper.

"We found her."

His voice cracked, but his grin burned sharp and sure.

The Contest Hall glowed like a jewel in the night, lanterns strung across its marble facade, the plaza outside buzzing with spectators pouring out from the evening show. Ash wove through the crowd, heart hammering, clutching a small bundle of flowers in one hand — lilacs and blue roses he had bought from a vendor with the modest coin pouch the Guardians had pressed into his palm when they sent him into the world. Not riches, just enough to walk the road with dignity.

It wasn't much, but it was all he could give.

He had caught the tail end of her performance, standing at the back of the hall as the music swelled. Serena spun across the stage, ribbons trailing like firelight, Eevee twirling at her side. The crowd roared with applause that shook the rafters, louder and warmer than anything Ash had ever heard.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe. This wasn't the shy girl who once tripped in Viridian Forest. This was Serena — radiant, confident, commanding the stage as if it had always been hers. And yet, when she smiled at Eevee, Ash saw the same spark he remembered from the campfire all those years ago.

When the curtain fell, he stepped into the tide of people spilling out into the plaza. His body moved on instinct, every muscle taut, every scar aching. The flowers crumpled slightly in his grip, his palm damp with sweat.

And then he saw her.

Serena stood just beyond the steps of the hall, her hair catching the lantern glow, ribbons still threaded in her braid. Eevee perched proudly on her shoulder, preening at the attention of passing children. Serena laughed — bright, unguarded, so achingly familiar that Ash felt the years fall away in an instant.

He froze. The din of the plaza dulled, the crowd fading until it was only her. Ten years of training, ten years of silence, ten years of letters — and here she was, so close he could almost reach out.

His legs carried him forward before he realized it. The crowd parted, voices dimming. Serena turned at the movement, her eyes catching his.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Her smile faltered, breath catching. "Ash?"

He swallowed, his throat dry, and stepped closer. The flowers trembled in his hand as he held them out, a crooked grin spreading across his scarred face.

"Hey, Serena."

The world seemed to hold its breath.

Chapter Text

The sun rose over Lumiose City, gilding its towers in gold and silver. From her apartment balcony, Serena Yvonne leaned on the railing, ribbons fluttering gently from the window behind her. Below, the streets already bustled with merchants, the air alive with voices, the perfume of fresh bread and roasted chestnuts carried upward on the wind, the ring of bicycle bells. Kalos's capital was never quiet, but Serena had learned to thrive in the noise.

She stepped back inside.

Her apartment was modest, but every inch bore her touch. Sequined fabric and half-finished costumes draped across chairs; practice ribbons lay coiled on the desk like sleeping serpents. The mirror by the wall was smudged from countless rehearsals, sticky notes lining its edges with scribbled reminders: "Smile more." "Don't overthink the spin." "Trust Eevee." On the nightstand by her bed, a framed photo of her mother, Grace, smiled back at her, beside a vase of fading flowers from her last small victory.

But it was the folded scrap of paper pinned above her vanity that held her gaze. The letter. Ash's letter.

Its edges were worn, softened by years of unfolding, smoothing flat, and folding again. The ink had faded in places, but she could still see the words.

"Serena, I can't explain everything. But you should know — even on the darkest nights, when I think I can't take another step, I remember you. I remember your laughter, your courage in the forest. That's what keeps me going. Keep walking, no matter what.

She touched the paper lightly, her lips curving into a smile. Eevee hopped onto the vanity, yipping softly as if to remind her it was still here, too. Serena laughed, scratching under its chin. "Don't worry. You're not being replaced. You're still my partner. But…" her gaze softened on the letter, "…he's my anchor too."

Serena turned toward the mirror, catching her reflection.

She had changed. Her hair, once a plain bob, now flowed long and golden, tied into a braid threaded with silk ribbon. Her body had lengthened into lean curves honed by years of dancing, her waist narrow, her movements graceful even when she was just standing still. But her face still held a softness — wide blue eyes that lit with warmth when she smiled, lips full with just enough natural curve to tug the breath from anyone watching. Cute, yes, but there was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself now, a quiet sensuality in every flick of her braid, every tilt of her chin.

She laughed at her own reflection, cheeks warming faintly. "I wonder if he'd even recognize me."

Eevee barked once, tilting its head with the same mischievous spark it always carried. Serena scooped it up, pressing her cheek against its fur. "I know. I've grown up. So has he."

Her eyes slid back to the letter. Her heart tightened, but it wasn't painful — it was fuel. "Ten years," she whispered, a vow more than a thought. "Ten years, and I'm still walking toward you."

She set Eevee down, tightening her ribbon braid and standing taller. The weekend shows loomed ahead, three chances to prove herself — not to the audience, not to Leroux, not even to her rivals.

To herself.

And, maybe, to him.

Serena turned to look across the room, her gaze settling on a small case atop her desk. Inside, nestled on red velvet, rested her first ribbon — the proof she and Eevee had finally made it. She touched the glass gently, her chest tightening. We've come so far, but this is only the beginning.

Eevee barked with an indignant squeak. Serena laughed again, brushing her partner's fur smooth. "Alright, alright. I know. Practice first, then memories."

It was two years into her training, her hands still clumsy, her movements stiff. Serena remembered standing in Madame Leroux's studio, the mirrors unforgiving as always. She expected another lecture, another correction.

Instead, Leroux had simply stepped forward, placing a small Poké Ball in her hand. "Your movements lack trust because your heart lacks an anchor. This will be your anchor."

The light burst open, and Eevee tumbled out, shaking its fur, blinking up at her with wide, curious eyes.

Serena had dropped to her knees instantly, tears stinging her eyes as she whispered, "You're mine? Really?"

Eevee had pawed her cheek, as if to say, Of course I am.

That was the moment her life shifted. Not because contests became easier, but because she no longer faced them alone.

Serena blinked the memory away, smiling faintly. "You've been with me since the beginning," she whispered, rubbing Eevee's chin until it purred. "Now it's our turn to show them."

Serena, straightening her braid in the mirror, determination sparking in her eyes. "Let's get ready, Eevee."

The floorboards creaked softly under her slippers as Serena slid into her first pose, breath slow and controlled. The apartment was still except for the tick of the wall clock and Eevee's soft paws padding in circles around her ankles.

"Ready?" she whispered, voice almost ceremonial.

Eevee barked sharply, ears perked.

The music began — a lilting waltz drifting from the small speaker on her desk. Serena's arms rose, ribbons fluttering faintly from her wrists as she spun into the first steps. Her hair swirled, braid catching the light, her body moving with trained grace.

But Eevee, ever the showboat, leapt into the air a beat too early, tail flicking dramatically. Serena stumbled, nearly tangling her foot.

"Eevee!" she gasped, laughter breaking her composure. "That's not your cue!"

The little fox landed with a smug bark, trotting in a proud circle. Serena rolled her eyes, but couldn't help grinning. "Show-off."

She reset, determination knitting her brow. Again. And again. By the fourth run, sweat dampened her braid, her breath came quick, her legs ached — but her timing was sharper, her spins smoother. Eevee panted heavily, but still twirled with her, refusing to quit.

Finally, Serena collapsed onto the floor, lying flat with her arms spread wide. "If we do this any more, I'll melt into the boards."

Eevee flopped beside her dramatically, tongue lolling out. Serena giggled, pulling it into her arms. "We'll get there. Just… maybe not all in one morning."

"How about we take a break and go hit the market?" Serena asked Eevee, receiving a happy bark in return. Serena laughed, "Ok, ok! Let me change and we'll go."

Lumiose's Central Market was a riot of color and sound, a living tapestry stretching across cobblestone streets. Banners snapped overhead, vendors shouted over one another, and the air was thick with aromas — spiced meats roasting on skewers, fresh loaves crackling from ovens, honey-glazed tarts cooling on trays.

Serena moved through the crowd, Eevee perched high on her shoulder, tail swishing like a banner. Children pointed and whispered, tugging their parents' sleeves. A pair of teens even asked if she was competing in the weekend's showcases, their eyes bright with admiration. Serena flushed pink, ducking her head. "I—I am. Hope to see you there!" The teens moved, and Serena continued her walk.

She paused at a fruit stand, examining baskets of oran berries and sweet pecha apples. The vendor, an elderly woman with kind eyes, leaned forward. "For the little performer?"

Serena nodded, and Eevee chirped happily.

The woman winked. "Then a discount, for luck."

Eevee barked loudly in approval.

Farther down, Serena stopped at a flower stall. Roses, daisies, violets, all arranged in neat bouquets. But the blue roses caught her attention — rare, striking, unlike anything else on the table. She lingered, fingertips brushing a petal, a thought tugging at her chest. He'd like these.

Eevee tugged her braid impatiently, yipping. Serena startled, cheeks warming, and quickly bought her groceries instead. "Daydream later," she muttered, though her smile lingered. "Come on, let's head back."

The apartment smelled of herbs and roasted bread by evening. Serena sat at her small kitchen table, a candle burning low, pen poised above a page. Eevee dozed at her feet, tail twitching in dreams.

Writing had become a ritual. She always wrote to him. Ash. Even if the Guardians carried letters away like shadows, even if weeks passed without reply, she wrote. It was how she kept him alive beside her.

Her pen scratched softly;

"Eevee's twirls are still clumsy, but she's getting better. Today in the market, people actually asked if I was competing. I almost felt like I belonged. This weekend is important. If I do well… maybe you'll hear about it. Maybe you'll be proud. I wonder if you're safe tonight. I wonder if you're thinking about me."

She stopped. Her throat tightened. The words felt too raw, too desperate. If he did read them, if they somehow reached him — what would he think? That she was weak? That she'd wasted ten years writing words into the dark?

She folded the page, but instead of sealing it, she slid it into the wooden box on her desk. It joined dozens of others, stacked neatly, unsent. A secret archive of all the things she was too afraid to say out loud.

Serena pressed her forehead to the lid. "Someday," she whispered. "Someday you'll read them all."

With a sigh, Serena scooped Eevee into her arms and turned in for the night.

The morning light slanted through the curtains, golden and warm, dust motes drifting in its path like tiny stage lights. Serena stood in the kitchen, humming faintly as she stirred a pan of berry compote, a soft, saucy fruit topping. The scent of simmering oran and pecha filled the small apartment, sweet and sharp enough to make Eevee sit upright on its stool, tail thumping expectantly.

"Patience," she teased, scooping the compote onto toasted bread and slicing a sliver for her partner. Eevee devoured it in two bites, whiskers sticky, eyes wide with the silent plea for more.

"You'll spoil your figure before the show," Serena laughed, wiping its muzzle with the corner of a napkin. Still, she slipped it one more piece.

Her own stomach was fluttery, appetite dulled by nerves, but she forced herself to eat. Leroux's words from months ago still haunted her; A body unfed is a routine unfinished. She chewed carefully, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.

Serena finished her piece and sighed, standing. "Come on, let's go for our morning walk." Eevee gave her a twirl of excitement, ready to go.

She stepped out into Lumiose with Eevee trotting proudly at her heel. The city at mid-morning was alive but not yet frenzied. Sunlight spilled down the wide boulevards, glinting off glass and wrought-iron balconies. Cafés spilled their chatter into the streets, parasols casting cool shadows where couples leaned close over coffee. A Gogoat cart rumbled past, its driver humming, while a group of children chased after a darting Fletchling, their laughter spilling like water.

Serena moved among them quietly, absorbing everything. The murmur of voices, the smell of butter and sugar from a patisserie, the glitter of shopfronts filled with ribbons and silk. At a corner, she paused to watch a street performer—an older man with a Mr. Mime juggling painted balls in elaborate arcs. The crowd clapped, coins ringing into his hat. For a moment, Serena let herself imagine being on stage, not under contest rules, but simply for the joy of being seen.

Eevee yipped and pawed at her leg, breaking the daydream. "You're right," she whispered. "No time for pretending today."

Still, as she walked on, she noticed the blue roses again at the same market stall. She didn't stop, but her gaze lingered.

By midday, she was back in the apartment, sewing kit spread across her bed. Her costume—a pale cream dress with cascading ribbons—needed one last repair. A seam had frayed at the shoulder, barely noticeable but unacceptable under the scrutiny of stage lights. Serena's fingers worked quickly, pricking once, twice, muttering a soft "ow" under her breath.

Eevee leapt onto the bed, rolling onto its back and batting at the dangling ribbons. Serena tugged them gently away, laughing. "Not yet, silly. You'll ruin the effect."

The laughter faded when she caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. For a moment, the girl staring back at her looked small again—blue eyes uncertain, lips pressed tight. Her braid had come loose from practice, wisps framing her face in disarray. She thought of the judges, their clipped notes, their pens scratching judgments into permanence.

Her chest tightened. What if she stumbled again? What if she was only ever "almost good enough"?

The letter above her vanity caught her eye. Ash's words: Keep walking, no matter what.

She inhaled. Her needle slipped cleanly through the seam. By the time she knotted it, her hands were steadier.

The hours ticked by too quickly. At two, she brewed her ritual mint tea, letting the steam clear her head. At three, she laid out her dress, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care. At four, she reapplied her ribbon braid, pulling it tighter this time, fingers precise. At five, she sat cross-legged on the floor with Eevee, eyes closed, breathing in sync with her partner until her heart slowed from frantic to focused.

By six, the nerves had returned, coiling sharp in her stomach. But this time, they didn't paralyze her. They pushed her forward.

Serena stood, slipping into her dress, feeling the ribbons brush against her calves. She looked into the mirror, cheeks flushed, lips trembling with a smile.

"Ready?" she asked softly.

Eevee barked once, steady and sure.

Serena nodded. "Then let's go."

By late afternoon, Lumiose's Contest Hall glittered like a jewel, its marble forecourt thronged with families, hobbyists, and a nervous constellation of first-time entrants. Serena stood at the stage door with Eevee perched on her shoulder, the city's hum pooling in her chest. The air inside smelled of powder and warm lights. Somewhere deeper in the building, a piano ran scales, and a coordinator laughed too loudly at a joke to hide their own nerves.

Backstage was its own ecosystem—garment racks forming little alleyways of silk, sequins, and stitched dreams; makeup mirrors glowing in cheap halos; taped X's marking places to stand. A staffer clipped a number to Serena's sleeve: 17. She ran her fingers once more along Eevee's neck ribbon—a soft, pale blue today—and kissed the top of its head.

"Breathe," she murmured. "We practiced. We're ready."

Eevee chirped, nudging her cheek with warm confidence.

Madame Leroux materialized like an apparition in the glow of a mirror, arms folded, silver bun immaculate. "Stand tall, shoulders low. Precision is kindness to the audience," she said, not unkindly. Her eyes softened the barest fraction. "Remember, you command the room by trusting your partner."

Serena swallowed. "Yes, Madame."

A runner called, "Sixteen to the wings! Seventeen, on deck!"

Serena padded to the curtain with Eevee at heel, the world narrowing to the rectangle of light at stage left. Through the slit, she watched #16—a boy with a Spritzee—close with a sweet curtsy. Polite applause. The pianist shuffled sheet music. Lights re-angled. In the dark just offstage, Serena rolled her shoulders and let her hands fall to her sides. The old flutter started in her stomach. She laid a palm over Eevee's head. The little body relaxed into her touch. The flutter steadied.

The floor manager lifted two fingers.

Two. One.

"Number seventeen: Serena Yvonne and Eevee!"

They stepped into the light.

Heat pressed against her skin—those lamps were fierce—and for a heartbeat, the crowd was a smear of faces beyond the glare. She took her mark, toe to the taped X, and raised her chin. The first piano notes fell like dew.

Serena began with a slow pivot, right arm carving a crescent as Eevee circled her ankle—Baby-Doll Eyes catching the footlights and throwing a soft gleam across its irises. A warm murmur drifted from the front rows. She advanced three steps, paused on a breath, and let Eevee spring into the opening flourish, a tight twirl that sent its ribbon whipping with a whisper. On cue, Serena spun as well, her braid slashing a line of gold through the light.

They flowed into the first sequence—Serena's heel-toe glides framing Eevee's quick, darting arcs. She'd chosen a waltz-tempo piece precisely because it left room to breathe, to let the audience watch them together. Eevee slipped to her left; Serena answered with a hand flourish, drawing the eye across to the little fox as if passing a thread of light back and forth.

"Good," she thought, feeling the room settle with them. "Keep it."

The first minor stumble came at the turn. Eevee leapt a beat sharper than in practice—eager—and Serena clipped the edge of its circle with her heel. A tiny catch. A gasp from someone in the second row.

Smile. Breathe. Don't rush.

She softened her wrist, widened the next step by a fingertip, and gave Eevee space to land. The error vanished into the phrase like a note intentionally bent. The pianist, bless them, felt her correction and leaned into the rubato; the music exhaled with her.

They moved into the starfall—Eevee's Swift, arcing up in pale gold tracers. Serena pivoted through the sparking arc, palm lifting as though she were painting the comets into being. The effect drew a hum of approval; a child in the aisle seat clapped mid-phrase and was gently hushed, giggling. The tracers drifted down like warm stardust, and Serena breathed the dust in as if it were courage.

"Now the ribbon."

Eevee darted beneath her arm as Serena unspooled the pale-blue sash from her wrist. She let the ribbon trail the curve of her spin while Eevee performed a quick Quick Attack burst—not for speed, but for glide—skating a silver line in a tight crescent at her feet. The sash dipped to catch the houselights, and for a heartbeat the stage glowed with a single simple truth; girl and Pokémon moving as one line, one loop, one breath.

A murmur rose, real this time, not polite.

Serena felt heat prick her eyes. Not now. Stay.

They entered the closing progression—three turns, a sweep, Eevee's final vault to her forearm perch, then the bow. On the second turn, nerves flickered; her ankle rolled the slightest bit. She saved it with a micro-step, but the flow hiccuped. She didn't flinch. She smiled through it, pushing warmth into her face the way Leroux had taught her—"If you feel your heart climb to your throat, let it climb into your smile instead"—and lifted Eevee just enough that the audience's gaze returned to the bright thing.

The vault hit. Eevee landed light against her forearm, paws poised like it had practiced it a hundred times (it had). Serena pivoted her body, presenting her partner to the house like a gift.

The music stopped. Silence hung—and then applause, modest but honest, rolling out in a sweet wave. Not a roar. Not yet. But she felt its warmth vibrate the stage under her feet.

She bowed. Eevee bowed with comical gravitas, earning a ripple of laughter. The laughter loosened the last of the tension in Serena's chest like a knot coming free.

They exited into the wings, breathless, the dark swallowing them like cool water.

Backstage hum returned—a staffer whispered, "Nice recovery on that turn," and Serena pressed a hand to her chest, laughing shakily. "Thank you." Eevee yipped, dancing at her ankles until she scooped it up and pressed their foreheads together.

"I almost tripped you," she whispered.

Eevee's answer—an indignant chirp—translated roughly to you almost tripped yourself.

"Fair," she said, grinning.

In the greenroom, a bulletin board waited for judge notes—short, clipped comments pinned beside each number. Serena scanned for 17 and found three slips, each stamped with a tiny emblem.

Judge A (Technique): Lovely lines. Watch the second rotation—ankle nearly rolled. Breath control improved; keep ribs soft through the turn.

Judge B (Artistry): Gentle rapport with partner—audience felt it. Consider stronger contrast in midsection to build a clearer arc.

Judge C (Originality): Starfall + ribbon pairing is clean; consider a bolder third effect. Eevee's timing eager—good energy, mind the lead.

She read them twice. They stung and soothed in equal measure. "Stronger contrast. Bolder third effect," she murmured, rolling those phrases between her teeth. Leroux materialized at her elbow again like a stern lighthouse.

"Well?" the instructor asked.

Serena handed over the slips. Leroux read, once, then nodded. "Accurate. Your error is not error—it is fear of the next beat. If you breathe one heartbeat wider, the body will find space. Also"—her eyes ticked to Eevee, who was busy trying to pull a corner of note paper free with its teeth—"the partner must follow. Do not let eagerness outrun the music."

Serena straightened. "Yes, Madame."

"And Serena," Leroux added, voice lowering, almost a secret, "the ribbon sequence is yours. Keep it. Own it."

Heat warmed Serena's cheeks. "Thank you."

Scores posted an hour later. She didn't place. Not top three, not even fourth. She hovered in the upper middle—a neat little island called "good enough." The familiar hollow opened in her chest; not failure, but the ache of almost. Eevee nudged her knee with gentle insistence. Serena crouched and buried her face in soft fur for one long breath.

"We're getting closer," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. "We're getting close enough to touch it."

They walked home through streets that had cooled to a blue hour haze. The market stalls were closing, bakers washing down stone stoops, lanterns rising one by one like careful stars. Serena stopped at the flower stand again, almost without thinking. The blue roses soaked up the lantern light and tossed it back, cooler, calmer.

"Tomorrow," she told them, smiling, and the vendor smiled back like they'd shared a secret.

At the apartment, Serena peeled off her stage dress and pulled on a soft, oversized sweater, the kind that slipped off one shoulder without asking. She brewed mint tea—always mint—set Eevee's bowl on the mat, and spread the judge slips out on the table like a map. She wrote notes in the margins:

Breathe 1 beat wider at turn 2

Let Eevee wait for eye cue before vault

Contrast: insert Sand spiral → break → Soft stillness → Starfall

Bolder 3rd effect? (light catch? back ribbon? micro-pause?)

Her pen hovered over that last line. Bolder. She could feel the shape of something just beyond reach, as if the music were holding out a hand she hadn't yet dared take.

She glanced at the letter pinned above her vanity. Keep walking, it said in his familiar hand. No matter what.

Serena smiled, small and private, and lifted her mug. "Tomorrow," she told the empty room that didn't feel so empty tonight. "We breathe wider."

Eevee hopped into her lap with a gentle oof and promptly fell asleep, warm weight pinning the notebook in place. Serena traced the curve of its ear and watched the city lights blink through the thin curtains until her eyes grew heavy. Somewhere out there, the world was spinning, and she was finally learning how to turn with it.

Tomorrow would be Saturday. Stronger. Cleaner.

And Sunday—she didn't know it yet—would change everything.

Morning came soft and overcast, a pale sheet draped over Lumiose. Serena woke to the patter of light rain on the balcony railing and the muffled hiss of tires on wet stone far below. The city sounded gentler when it rained—less brass, more strings.

She rolled her ankle slowly under the covers—testing. The near-roll from Friday's second turn whispered in the joint like a remembered argument. "Not today," she told it, slipping out of bed.

Mint tea steaming in a chipped blue mug. A banana and two slices of toast—fuel, not indulgence. A long, deliberate stretch sequence that Leroux had drilled into her: calves, hips, thoracic spine. Eevee mimicked her with a series of ridiculous yawns and exaggerated back arches, tail flagged like a pennant. Serena laughed and booped its nose. "You're impossible."

At the vanity, she retied her braid tighter than yesterday, weaving a cream ribbon through the strands, then paused to smooth a thumb over the letter pinned above the mirror. The paper's edges were soft now, like cloth. She didn't need to read it anymore; she could feel the words in her chest.

"Stronger contrast, bolder third effect," she recited, skimming Friday night's notes. "Breathe one beat wider at turn two. Eye cue before the vault." She set a metronome app to a slower click for her warm-up—taught herself to love the space between beats, to let it hold her instead of scaring her.

By late morning, the rain thinned to an on-again, off-again mist. She walked to the hall with Eevee in a little hooded poncho that it tolerated only because the fabric had sparkles. Lumiose wore its wet skin well—cobblestones gleaming, gutter water following the curb in quicksilver streams, café windows fogged with conversations. Serena stopped at a tiny bakery wedged between a hatter and a music shop and bought a paper bag of chouquettes—sugar-dusted puffs that melted away like promises. She ate two, fed one to Eevee, and tucked the rest into her tote for the greenroom, smiling at the thought of sharing.

At the Contest Hall, the stage manager—an affable man with a voice like gravel—let her onto the empty stage for a five-minute spacing rehearsal. The house was dark; only work lights colored the air. She tested her second turn slowly, widening the step a breath, letting her ribs soften. It felt right. From the wings, a lighting tech leaned out, "You doing the starfall again?"

"If you can warm the front wash to amber before it," she called back, "it makes the tracers pop. Then a snap back to cool when it fades."

He gave her a thumbs-up. "Got you."

Backstage, Saturday buzzed differently. The nerves from Friday had burned off; what remained was intent. Coordinators pinned hair, tightened laces, and taped shoes with the low, serious efficiency of people who had decided to try again. A younger girl with a Flabébé struggled with a broken hook-and-eye; Serena slid beside her with a soft, "Hold still," and fixed it with three quick stitches. "You're fine," she murmured. "Breathe."

The girl nodded, eyes glossy. "Thank you."

Serena's own dress today was the cream cascade—subtle shimmer in the fabric, pale enough to let Eevee's warm fur read bright against it. She'd hand-stitched a narrow band of mirrored sequins along one ribbon last night, a quiet gamble for the "bolder third effect" note. Not fireworks—just a way to catch the Swift's light and throw it back.

Leroux found her in the crush. "Saturday," the instructor said, eyes a cool appraisal. "The room is yours if you take it."

"I will," Serena answered, surprising herself with how steady it sounded.

A runner clipped Number 12 to her sleeve. "On the hour. You're fifth in the first block."

She shared the chouquettes out in the greenroom. Laughter loosened shoulders. Eevee charmed everyone within a five-meter radius, then promptly returned to Serena's lap as if to remind them who it belonged to.

When her number was called, she rose into the corridor of garment racks and felt her pulse find the tempo she'd practiced—slower, steadier. The stage manager lifted two fingers. Two. One.

"Number twelve: Serena Yvonne and Eevee!"

They stepped into a world made of light.

No waltz today—she'd chosen a simple andante with brushed piano and a single violin line. Serena took the stage right corner and carved a diagonal with her body—long, confident strides, shoulders down, neck soft. Eevee shadowed her left ankle like a small moon shadow, ears pricked, pace perfect. At center, Serena pivoted and gave the house nothing—one beat of stillness. It landed like a held breath. Someone in the fourth row leaned forward audibly. Yes, she thought. Lean in.

Her left hand lifted. Eevee, eyes glancing up for permission, kicked into a controlled Sand Attack—not flung wild, but coaxed into a low column that wrapped her calves. The front wash warmed to amber; the fine grit turned to liquid gold. Serena rotated slowly inside the spiral, palms open, face unguarded. Then—the break. She cut all movement. The spiral settled. The room went quiet enough that she could hear a child whisper, "Look."

She let the silence live for two heartbeats. Breathe wider, she told her body—and did.

She unspooled the pale ribbon with the mirrored sequin band and traced a figure-eight as Eevee threaded under and over, pace answering hers. No tugging, no rushing. Eye to eye: now. Eevee waited. A small miracle. Serena smiled with her eyes, not her mouth, the way Leroux had taught. The audience felt it anyway.

The piano line climbed; she signaled with her wrist. Eevee burst into Swift—comets arcing up in soft gold and silver. Serena moved her modified ribbon through the falling tracers, the sequins catching and scattering the pinpoint lights into a brief halo around her face and shoulders. An intake of breath rolled the front rows like wind in wheat.

Yes. That was the bold. Not louder—truer.

Here came Friday's near-fall. She widened the step a whisper, softened her ribs, and let her exhale carry her through the rotation. Eevee's paws ticked the floor twice, waiting for her cue like a perfect partner. No stumble. The final vault—Eevee to forearm—landed with a barely audible thump and a ridiculous amount of pride.

Music cut. Serena presented Eevee to the house with both hands, as if offering them a secret. The applause came warm and sustained—fuller than Friday. A few bravos cracked from the balcony. Somewhere, a baby squealed and laughed; the laughter spread as if permission had been given to be happy.

She bowed, deeper than yesterday. Eevee bowed with an even deeper flourish because, of course, it did. A little wave of chuckles broke, affectionate, not dismissive.

Backstage, she let the curtain swallow her and then let her lungs empty. Her hands shook with adrenaline; she let them. The stage manager brushed past and muttered, "Held the breath nicely. Good instincts." She laughed, half breath, half disbelief. "Thank you."

At the greenroom board, her slips appeared:

Judge A (Technique): Marked improvement on rotation 2—placement clean, breath supported. Excellent cueing of partner; keep shoulders open on diagonal approach.

Judge B (Artistry): Silence used with taste; the audience leaned into you. Ribbon light-catch: elegant, not garish. Consider a sharper dynamic shift into the final phrase to heighten catharsis.

Judge C (Originality): Sand spiral → stillness → starfall is a clear arc. The mirror-band choice paid off. Next: push contrast further—risk one more second of stillness.

Leroux read over her shoulder, lips barely curving. "You gave them hunger. Good. Tomorrow, starve them a heartbeat longer before you feed them."

Serena huffed a laugh, giddy. "Yes, Madame."

Scores posted at dusk. She hovered just out of ribbon range—third on the judges' tally, but tonight, like Friday, wasn't a ribbon night, so when the winner's name was called, Serena clapped hard, smiling until her cheeks ached. Her prize was that she had been seen.

In the corridor, two coordinators stopped her. "You changed the pacing," one said, eyes bright. "That stillness was… brave."

"And the halo around your face?" the other added. "That wasn't just lighting."

Serena ducked her head, flushing. "A tiny bit of mirror on the ribbon. And a very kind tech."

"Keep it," the first said. "It suits you."

Outside, the rain had finally lifted; the streets steamed softly, lanterns reflected in every puddle. Serena detoured—she knew where—and found the flower vendor packing away the last of the stems. Without thinking, she bought one blue rose. It felt cool as a secret in her hand.

At home, she stood on her chair and pinned the rose beside Ash's letter. For a moment, the two touched—petal to paper—blue against faded black ink. Something in her chest eased.

The come-down aches arrived in a quiet wave—ankles humming, hip flexors tight, lower back a line of complaint. She drew a bath and soaked until her fingers pruned. Eevee sprawled across the bathmat like a melted croissant. After, she iced the ankle while eating the last of the chouquettes and reread the judge slips, circling phrases:

Risk one more second of stillness

Sharpen the dynamic shift into the final phrase

Open shoulders on diagonal

She dimmed the lights and stood before the mirror, practicing the micro-pause alone: step, present, wait. The trick wasn't posing—it was believing she deserved the audience's attention long enough to hold it. She counted to two. Then two and a half. Then three. At three, her pulse tried to bolt. She smiled into the mirror, smaller, realer. "Tomorrow," she told the girl there, "you'll give them three."

She almost wrote a letter. Pen poised. The words pooled and refused to resolve. I almost placed. I felt them with me. I wish— She closed the notebook instead. Not tonight. Tonight, she wanted the feeling to stay inside, warm and undisturbed. She added another folded page to the growing stack in the box. One more unsent truth waiting for its time.

Eevee climbed into bed before she could stop it and burrowed under the quilt with a grumpy squeak at the intrusion of her cold feet. Serena laughed, tugging the covers up to her chin. The city's night noise braided itself into a lullaby—distant music, a moped whining somewhere, laughter rising and falling like a tide.

"Tomorrow," she whispered into Eevee's fur, "we breathe wider. We hold longer. We take it."

Eevee's tail thumped twice in agreement and went still.

Sunday waited—unseen, unstoppable—just beyond the window's dim reflection.

Serena woke before the alarm, breath already shallow with the electric hum that only came on performance mornings. The sky beyond her curtains was a sheer blue veil, the storm washed clean away in the night. For a long moment, she lay still, listening to the distant tram's bell, to the hush of Lumiose catching its first breath, to Eevee's soft, staccato snores at the foot of the bed.

"Today," she whispered, not a promise, not a threat. A decision.

Eevee's ears pricked. It crawled up and flopped onto her stomach as if to stamp its paw on the contract.

They kept breakfast small and bright—yogurt with a spoon of leftover compote, sliced pecha, with granola scattered like gravel over a garden path. Eevee got a ceremonial dollop on a saucer and devoured it like it had been starved for weeks. Serena ate even when the nerves tried to pinch her throat shut—Leroux's rule still held; A body unfed is a routine unfinished. Mint tea steamed from a mug, curling ghosts along the windowpane.

She took the morning slowly, ritual by ritual. Braid first—undo, brush, center part, gather. She wove today's ribbon—a narrow band the color of pale blush—through the gold like a secret thread and pinned a single blue rose petal behind her ear, stolen last night from the stem pinned by Ash's letter. The petal felt cool against her skin, as if it remembered the night air.

At the vanity, she again smoothed a thumb over the letter itself. Keep walking, no matter what. She started pulling her hand away when a thought tugged at her mind, sudden and unreasonable: Are you out there today? Somewhere in this city?

She laughed it off. Nerves making fairy stories. Still, her pulse didn't argue.

Warm-up—longer, deeper. She rolled her ankles in careful circles, felt no whisper of Friday's near-roll. Shoulders down. Hips open. Ribs soft. In the mirror, she practiced her micro-pause—step, present, eyes up—counting one, two, three. Her pulse tried to bolt at three. She stayed anyway, smiling until the room believed her.

"Three," she told Eevee, who was attempting a spin on the rug with the grace of a collapsing folding chair. "We hold it for three."

Eevee tumbled and popped up, pretending nothing had happened. Confidence incarnate.

By late morning, she had rehearsed the final phrase twice and the opening diagonal three times slower than tempo. When the clock blinked noon, she closed the speaker and let silence sift down like snow. "No more," she told herself. "We're ready. Now we live."

They walked to the Hall through a city that felt polished—cobblestones scrubbed by rain, balconies freshly gleaming, café chalkboards rewritten in tidy loops. She stopped at the same flower vendor without planning to. The woman recognized her, eyes bright.

"Third day?" the vendor asked.

Serena nodded, shy. "Third day."

The woman plucked a single blue rose and a spray of white baby's breath, tied them with a pale ribbon, and pressed them into Serena's hand. "For courage," she said, and then, softer, "For the one you're walking toward."

Serena couldn't speak for a heartbeat. She smiled instead, small and fierce, and tucked the bouquet into her tote like something sacred.

Backstage, Sunday buzzed with that specific electricity that comes when a city's eyes are on a room. Staffers hustled. The pianist warmed the ivories in tight, tidy phrases. The lighting tech from yesterday gave her a little two-finger salute. "Got your amber and your snap-cool," he promised. "And we can chase that starfall with a tiny front-edge sparkle. It'll read."

"Thank you," Serena said, meaning it like a prayer.

Her costume was the cream cascade again, but she'd added one small change: a narrow blush sash at the waist to echo the ribbon braided in her hair. Eevee wore the pale-blue neck ribbon from Friday—the color suited it; it made its eyes look impossibly bright.

Leroux appeared one last time, as if invoked. "A room follows the performer who believes it should," she murmured at Serena's shoulder. "Give them stillness like a dare. Then pay the debt with beauty."

"Yes, Madame," Serena said, and for once her voice didn't shake.

A runner clipped Number 9 to her sleeve. Early slot, strong crowd. She paced the wings, eyes closed, feeling the stage under her feet through the boards, carving the room in her mind until it belonged to her. Eevee pressed against her calf. She pressed back with her knee. We breathe together.

The stage manager lifted two fingers.

Two. One.

"Number nine: Serena Yvonne and Eevee!"

Light poured over them.

No rush. No apology. Serena stepped from the upstage right corner along a clean diagonal, shoulders down, neck soft, letting the house see her arrive. Eevee tracked her, a half-step behind and to the left, matching her breath like it had watched her sleep and synced itself on purpose. At center, Serena turned to the audience and gave them exactly what Leroux ordered: stillness. Not dead, not blank—charged. A dare wrapped in a smile. One. Two. Three. The air tightened like a drawn bow.

She lifted her left hand. Eevee's eyes flicked to hers—now? She gave the barest nod. Eevee breathed a controlled Sand Attack, and the techs earned their pay—the warm front wash turned that fine grit into molten amber that wrapped Serena's calves like a living column. She rotated within it, slow as the hands of a cathedral clock. When the spiral settled, she stopped. The room did too. In her periphery, she saw someone actually put a hand over their mouth. If she looked a little further, she would have seen a cloaked figure standing with a small Riolu at their heel in the very back of the hall, the little jackal's aura feelers twitching as it tracked the room's energy.

One second. Two. Three. She felt the hush press against her skin like silk. And then—she smiled, and the house exhaled with relief.

She unspooled the blush ribbon with the mirrored band and let it draw an infinity sign while Eevee threaded under and over. No tugging. No drag. Every exchange an agreement. She used her eyes to cue the tiny pivots—Eevee waited. It had learned the patience of a partner. They traced a circle that felt less like choreography and more like a vow; I move when you do. You move when I do. Together or not at all.

The piano line climbed, the violin tucked in close, and Serena slashed the ribbon through the air—now. Eevee burst into Swift, comets arcing up in a generous fan. The front wash snapped cool. The mirrored band caught the fading starpoints and threw them back in a ring around her face and shoulders so briefly it could have been imagined. A child squealed; an adult whispered, "Oh." In the balcony, someone clapped once, involuntarily, like a reflex to beauty.

She sharpened the dynamic into the final phrase as if tightening a cord. Breathe in, ribs soft—but the attack clean. The step she'd feared on Friday came like it had always been hers; widen a whisper, ribs soft, ankles strong, turn. No wobble. Eevee's paws ticked twice in perfect patience, then launched when she cut her gaze—a flawless vault to her forearm. The weight was nothing. The pride was everything.

She lifted Eevee like an offering and bowed. The music released. For half a heartbeat, the room hung in the same held breath as her opening stillness—and then the applause broke, full and alive. Not a roar, not a tidal wave, but a swell with body in it—heat, hands, whistles from the back corner, a clear voice somewhere up front calling her name wrong and right all at once: "Serena! Serena!"

She laughed through the bow, wetness stinging her eyes. Eevee bowed so deeply it almost toppled off her arm; the laughter rolled and landed softly.

They cleared the wings, and Serena leaned into the wall just inside the dark, palms flat, lungs heaving. The stage manager clapped her shoulder once—hard enough to ground her.

"Clean," he said. "You bought the silence. You paid it back."

"Thank you," she breathed, not looking up because she wasn't sure if she'd cry if she did.

In the greenroom, the slips arrived like valentines:

Judge A (Technique): Rotation secure. Controlled breath through stillness—professional. Cueing is exemplary; partner's timing precise. Maintain shoulder openness on opening diagonal (minor).

Judge B (Artistry): You dared the house to wait, and they thanked you for it. The blush accent and mirror work framed your face beautifully—charismatic center. Consider pushing even darker quiet before the final rise for maximum catharsis.

Judge C (Originality): Three-day arc visible. Sand spiral → stillness → halo felt inevitable in hindsight. That's craft. Keep building the language; you've found your voice.

Leroux read them without comment for a long moment. When she finally spoke, it was barely more than breath. "You commanded the room," she said. "Do it again, and again, until the room forgets there was a time it did not belong to you."

Serena hugged her impulsively; Leroux suffered it for exactly one second before patting her shoulder and stepping back. "Go drink water. Don't faint before the posting."

She laughed, giddy and obedient. Water. A whole bottle, cold enough to hurt her teeth. Eevee lapped furiously from its bowl and then made the rounds of the greenroom collecting illicit crumbs like a tiny, glamorous thief.

Dusk edged into the windows when the scores went up. She stood back, suddenly shy, while the cluster surged. Then she edged forward, Eevee nosing between ankles like a tiny barge.

Winner: Serena Yvonne & Eevee.
Ribbon awarded: Lumiose Showcase — Evening Star.

Unlike the previous nights, Sunday's showcase awarded a single ribbon, the Evening Star, to the top act. Tonight, it was hers. There it was. Her name had weight. It sat there in black ink, heavy and utterly real. She didn't cheer. She didn't scream. She just pressed her hand to her mouth and felt the laugh claw up her throat and turn to something wetter and deeper. Eevee barked like it had known all along and launched itself against her chest. She nearly fell, caught by two coordinators who screamed for her. The slap of their palms on her back, the squeeze at her forearm—peer joy—was as dizzying as the ribbon itself.

They pinned the ribbon to her sash for the photographs. It sat against the blush like a star caught in fabric. Flash. Applause. Names called. Done.

Outside, the Contest Hall glowed in the oncoming night. The plaza had already filled—families spilling down the steps, little kids trying out twirls that would break ankles, partners preening. Serena stood in the spill of warm light with Eevee perched like royalty on her shoulder and felt the city's hum thread through her like music. She was still floating when a staffer pressed the bouquet they'd dressed onsite—white lilies and pale greenery—into her arms. She took it, dazed, half-laughing, and held it awkwardly beside the single blue rose hidden in her tote.

She turned to find Leroux and almost collided with a chest.

The bouquet tilted. A hand steadied it.

"Sorry," a voice said, roughened by disuse, low and familiar in a way that made the floor tip. "I—"

Serena looked up.

The world narrowed to a pair of dark eyes and a ruinous, tired, impossible smile. A cloak. Scarred hands holding a small, careful bundle of lilacs and blue roses tied with pale ribbon. The bouquet from the morning stall, as if the city had conspired.

A name broke out of her without permission. "Ash?"

The plaza noise went soft. Her heart tripped, and then ran.

He didn't vanish. He didn't resolve into someone merely similar. He just stood there—older, harder, the boy from the campfire hammered into a man by ten winters—and held the flowers like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to offer them.

"Hey, Serena," he said, and the way he said it—like a prayer he'd been saving—made something in her chest come undone.

The bouquet in her hands slid sideways. She didn't feel it fall because she was moving, closing the distance with a sound that was half laugh, half sob. She hit his chest, and he wrapped around her like the end of a long fall. The lilacs crushed between them; their scent burst sweet and green, dizzying.

Eevee yelped in outrage at being displaced and then warbled triumphantly from somewhere behind her knee as if it had orchestrated this entire thing. Riolu, chuffed at Eevee—offended on principle, but curious in practice—and lowered into a playful crouch, eyes bright.

Serena and Ash held on long enough that breath became optional. When she finally leaned back, his hands were still on her arms, gentle like she was glass.

"I—" she began, and then her body made a choice she hadn't pre-approved. She rose onto her toes and kissed him.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't staged. It was the years and the letters and the blue roses and the phrase keep walking, tipping forward until they had to meet. His mouth was warm and stunned, and then not stunned at all.

And something lit.

Not heat like embarrassment. Not the bright panic of the stage. A current. A thread pulled taut and suddenly humming between them like a plucked string. It ran from the place in her chest that had always felt too empty straight into his sternum and sang.

The plaza blurred.

The lights smeared into gold. Inside her mind—no, not inside, between—images flashed like someone had opened a book and flipped every page at once; a summer forest and a boy grinning with a split lip; snow stinging bare arms held in a stance that looked like prayer; braziers guttering in a stone chamber, a glow too bright; a small hand dragging a heavier body through leaves that smelled like iron and sap; a letter being folded, unfolded, folded again until the edges grew soft; a ribbon catching a starpoint and turning it into a halo; a pinkie promise over crackling fire; a Mew's tail flicking once in the dark and the feeling of being seen by something older than stories.

Across the small space left in the world, Riolu's aura feelers flared. It leaned into Ash's calf with a soft, steadying sound—"rii"—as if bracing him through the current it felt thrumming between them. Eevee's fur lifted along its spine, not with fright, but recognition; it sidled against Riolu so their shoulders touched, two notes finding the same chord.

The flash in Serena's mind didn't hurt. It knit. The way her breath synced to a count of three onstage and the audience came with her—this was that, but deeper. A bond that had been there all along pulled tight and sang their names.

Serena gasped into the kiss and felt him gasp too, as if some invisible river had just braided with another and become a single current. Her skin prickled down both arms; beneath her palm, atop his chest, something hummed—aura, she realized dimly, not as a word but as a recognition, like finally remembering a song you've always known.

They broke apart by inches, stunned laughter catching in both their throats. His eyes were bright and wrecked and more alive than she'd ever seen them.

"Did you—?" he began.

"Feel that?" she finished, breathless. "Yes."

Chapter 2: The Unseen Bond

For a heartbeat, they just looked, the world politely holding itself at the edges. Eevee, impatient with being a footnote, launched itself up Serena's leg and inserted its face directly between theirs. Not to be outdone, Riolu rose on its toes and peered up between them, solemn as a judge, then offered Eevee a formal bow. Eevee tapped its forehead with a dainty paw—truce sealed, partnership pending. Serena and Ash both laughed—messy, relieved, young again for a moment.

He lifted the slightly crushed bouquet like an apology. "These are for you. Congratulations."

She took them—lilacs flattened, roses shining anyway—and the ribbon bit into her fingers like proof. "You saw?"

"All of it," he said, the words soft as confession. "You commanded the room."

Heat climbed her cheeks. She wanted to tell him everything—about the letter above the vanity, about the blue rose pinned beside it, about how she had thought of him on every stillness and in every breath. Instead, she said the truest small thing she could fit through a tight throat. "You're here."

"I'm here," he said, and looked down at her like the city had finally delivered him to the one address he hadn't been able to find for ten years.

Around them, the plaza remembered itself—laughter, bright voices, the hiss of a food cart flame catching. Somewhere, a child pointed and whispered to a parent about the girl with the ribbon and the boy with the cloak and the way the air around them had seemed, for a second, to glow.

Serena held the flowers to her chest and stepped closer again, letting her shoulder touch his. The hum between them didn't vanish when they stopped touching lips; it settled into something steadier, a low, reassuring chord under everything else. She realized she could feel the shape of him in her mind, the way you can feel a note you're about to sing before the sound exists—there you are.

"Come with me?" she asked, voice small only because the moment was so large. "Somewhere we can talk."

He nodded, relief flickering across his face like a released breath. "Anywhere."

They moved together toward the edge of the crowd, flowers cradled in Serena's arms, the night opening ahead like a stage without an end. The hum between them stayed—quiet, present, undeniable. She didn't have a name for it yet beyond the one her heart offered up without asking:

Home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Bond Chosen

They slipped out of the plaza together, the roar of the crowd thinning to a warm aftersound that clung to the stones. Serena still cradled the bouquets—the Contest Hall's lilies in the crook of one arm, Ash's lilacs and blue roses in the other—and felt the hum between them like a quiet chord under the city's song. It didn't buzz so much as breathe; a steady, reassuring exhale from somewhere just beneath her breastbone that matched the rhythm in him.

Lumiose at night was an orchestra. Gaslamps haloed the boulevards. Wet cobbles—polished clean by the weekend rain—threw back smears of gold and cobalt. A fiddler worked a cafe corner under a striped awning; the tune had the soft sway of a lullaby. A crêpe cart hissed as batter hit the griddle; sugar and butter rose in a ribbon of scent that curled like a beckoning finger. Somewhere, someone popped a bottle, and laughter rolled out in one bright wave.

They didn't speak at first. There was too much to fit through words.

Eevee rode Serena's shoulder like a tiny monarch accepting tribute, still wearing the pale-blue ribbon as if it had been born with it. Riolu kept the opposite flank, a neat, protective shadow at Ash's heel—eyes flicking, ears pricking, aura feelers trembling whenever strangers passed too close. When Serena's steps veered around puddles, Riolu matched. When Ash paused to let a stroller rumble past, Eevee's tail tapped Serena's collarbone twice, impatient, then settled.

The street narrowed into a quieter lane. Wind teased the ribbon threaded through Serena's braid; she felt Ash's gaze slide to it and back. "You kept that style from Kalos all the way across the world," he murmured, voice low, a little rough, like he was relearning how to use it on something other than orders and oaths.

"It keeps my head on straight," she said, smiling without meaning to. "And it looks nice under lights."

"It looked like you belonged there," he said. Then, after a beat that felt like a hand pressed gently to her back, "You did."

Heat slid across her cheeks. You saw. The words were right there, but she let them rest. The city eased them forward—past a florist now packing stems into buckets, past a pair of kids drawing chalk stars on the curb, past a Mr. Mime balancing a stack of saucers while a Mr. Rime tapped a cane on the beat, little snow-glints appearing and melting in time.

They turned down Galerie d'Azur, where shopfront glass held their reflections like a second, quieter life; a girl in cream with flowers, a boy in a travel-worn cloak, two small shapes flanking like emblems. In the window of a music shop, polished instruments gleamed like sleeping moons. Ash's reflection caught Serena's eye—taller than the boy she remembered, shoulders broader, hair a little longer. The cloak covered most of him, but the way he moved inside it told the truth; every step placed, every glance measured, as if he'd learned to map danger and kindness with the same attention.

Eevee chirruped and stood on Serena's shoulder to peer at their ghost-selves, delighted. Riolu peered too, chin lifting, then gave a decisive nod at the sight—as if the composition met some private approval. "Rii," it said, satisfied.

Serena laughed, soft. "Your partner's very formal."

Ash's mouth tugged at one corner. "He's all instinct and ceremony." He glanced down. "You approve?"

Riolu looked up at Serena and Eevee, considered, and thumped its paw once. Approval granted.

She felt the hum in her chest answer that small sound. It pulsed again when Ash's sleeve brushed her fingers at a corner where the lane pinched tight, and a couple came the other way arm-in-arm. Not a spark this time. Not the sudden flare that had filled her head in the plaza. This was a pressure, a warmth, a quiet promise that seemed to say I am here. You are here. The line holds.

They crossed a square where a street pianist played under fairy lights. Couples drifted in a slow, unhurried dance. Serena's steps picked up the shape of it without thinking. Ash noticed and matched—half a turn, not quite a step, the ghost of a lead offered and taken. Eevee squeaked, affronted at nearly losing its perch. Riolu chuffed, then—because dignity had limits—mimicked a tiny half-step of its own beside Ash's boot, as if to prove it could.

Serena's laughter came easier than breath. "You dance now?"

"I move when I'm told," he said, deadpan enough to make her bite her lip not to snort. After a beat, warmth colored his words, "You looked like you wanted to keep moving."

"I do," she said. It was about the square, and it wasn't. She shifted the bouquets, kept the roses higher so their scent stayed close. "Do you want somewhere private? Or—" she gestured at a cafe with frosted windows and the rise-and-fall of conversation inside "—we could sit for a bit."

He followed her gaze, then checked the shadows as if listening for something only he could hear. "I'd like to talk where we don't have to stop when the bill comes," he said gently. "If that's alright."

"My apartment, then." She felt it as she said it—the tiny leap in her pulse, the way the hum inside tightened into something like expectation. She swallowed, smiling. "I have tea."

"M-mint?" he asked, like he'd stumbled onto a memory without meaning to.

"Always." Her voice went soft. "Just like—"

"—you wrote," he finished, smiling, sending a shocking skip up her spine.

They cut across Rue Mistral. The wind picked up—a real one, not just the name—tugging at Ash's cloak and making the gaslamps shiver. He instinctively shifted to the street side of the walkway, casual as breathing; Riolu mirrored the move a half-step out, blue eyes scanning rooftops and alleys with polite suspicion. Eevee, convinced by long experience that it was the most important creature in any given radius, called a chirruping hello to a pair of Furfrou trotting past in impeccable cuts; the pampered dogs regarded the road-dusted quartet with faint disdain and kept moving.

"You live far?" Ash asked.

"Two blocks up, four over," Serena said. "Third floor. Old building. The landlord fixed the boiler himself, which the boiler didn't appreciate, but it works."

"That's good," he said with a light chuckle.

She wanted to tell him about the mirror ringed with sticky notes, about the smudges on the glass from her forehead where she'd leaned at 3 a.m. after a rehearsal that went nowhere. She wanted to tell him about the little wooden box full of unsent letters, about the way she talked into the dark like it could carry words across oceans. Instead she told him the small, comfortable things the street could bear. "There's a bakery downstairs that sells chouquettes. The owner's granddaughter sneaks Eevee sugar crystals. We're not supposed to know. We pretend not to see."

"Good allies," he said gravely. "Supply lines are important."

She elbowed him, lightly. "Is that a Guardian joke?"

"A logistics truth," he said, and the smile that followed was quick and unguarded and so him that her knees went briefly unreliable. She tightened her hold on the flowers to keep from wobbling.

They turned onto her street. Narrower, older. Stone steps worn in the center from generations of soles. Flower boxes crowding the windows. A delivery boy whistling badly as he stacked crates outside a wine shop. Someone on the second floor of the next building laughed; the sound fell warm as lamplight.

At her door, the hum between them seemed to lean forward, curious. She fumbled the key once because her fingers had decided to be made of ribbon; the metal scraped the plate with a little nerve song. Ash's hand came up, palm open—not to take the key, just to be there if she wanted it. The offer steadied her more than if he'd actually done anything as she got the key in the lock and opened the door.

"I'm sorry if it's a mess," she said, and realized as soon as the words left that the apartment had never looked more precisely itself; the costume draped over the chair back, the mirror smudges, the letter pinned like a relic above the vanity. Home, but also the stage. She looked up at him, suddenly shy. "Welcome."

"Thank you," he said. Simple. Weighty. He dipped his head, the way he would entering a shrine.

Riolu slipped in first, silent as a poured shadow, and did a quick, polite circuit—corners, under the table, behind the couch, the balcony door lock, back again—before posting up by the entry rug like a little blue sentinel. Eevee leapt down with an indignant burr at the lack of cushions in the doorway and trotted to its usual velvet pillow with the nonchalance of a queen resuming her throne. It flopped, kicked once at the air, and then remembered it needed to keep one eye on everyone, so it sat up and did a very serious blink.

Serena set the bouquets on the counter, breathed in the blue roses like oxygen, and turned back. Ash had paused just inside, cloak still on, like someone who'd learned not to put roots down in rooms that weren't safe.

"You can… you can make yourself at home," she said, hearing the echo in the phrase and not minding it. "Tea in a minute. Sit. Or—" she stepped closer without quite thinking, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak "—stay and we can… we can talk."

He watched her hand on the fabric, then her face. Something eased in his shoulders, some strap only he could feel loosening a notch. "I'll sit," he said. "And talk."

She nodded, suddenly aware of the climb in her breath and the way every sound in the apartment seemed louder; the tick of the wall clock, the soft rasp of Eevee washing its paws, the tiny click of Riolu's claws settling on the rug, the distant city like a sea through the windows. She crossed to the kettle and set it on, the familiar motions pulling her nerves into a braid.

Behind her, the cloak whispered. A slow pull. The soft thud of weight laid over the back of her couch.

She didn't turn yet. Not for that first second. She watched steam lift from the kettle's spout and pretended it was any other night. Her fingers found the tin of mint, the scoop, the porcelain cups. In the reflection on the dark oven door, she saw him ease down—careful, like a man who hadn't sat in a place that 'belonged' to him in a long time.

Serena carried the cups to the low table and finally let herself look full-on.

Ash sat with his forearms on his thighs, hands loose, the open line of his throat catching the warm apartment light. Without the cloak, his lines were sharper, cleaner; a simple black tunic, worn at the seams; leather bracers unbuckled and set aside; the ghost of old wraps on his wrists. Along the edge where fabric parted at his collarbone, a pale scar curved—old, healed, the kind that told a story you didn't tell unless asked. The hum between them rose a note, tender and fierce at once.

Her eyes flicked to his, asking permission without words. He held her gaze, steady, and nodded once. You can see me.

She set the cups down with hands that didn't shake and eased to the cushion across from him. The kettle sang down into quiet as the flame went out. Mint drifted up between them, cool and clean.

"Tea," she said, just to say something.

"Thank you," he said, as if she'd brought him more than leaves and water. He wrapped his hands around the cup and looked not at the steam but at her, as if orienting to a star. The hush in the room wasn't empty; it had shape. It was the space you give a vow before you spoke it.

Outside, Lumiose continued being itself—bells, laughter, a tram sighing along its rails. Inside, the two of them sat with their small, hot cups and the quiet line humming between their chests, and let the breath come even, together.

"Serena," Ash said finally, voice low, careful. "There are things I can tell you now. If you still want to hear them."

She let the word settle, felt the awe of it—a door she'd pressed her forehead against for ten years clicking open. Her smile was soft and bright and certain. "I do."

Riolu lifted its head, attentive. Eevee flicked an ear, pretending not to eavesdrop and failing spectacularly.

Serena curled her fingers around her cup. "Tell me everything."

But he didn't start with legends. Not yet.

First, he let himself be distracted.

He started with the room.

Ash's hands stayed wrapped around the mint cup as his gaze made a slow, unhurried circuit—an inventory not of threats this time, but of a life. The mirror smudged by countless foreheads. The sticky notes feathering its edge, 'Smile into the breath. Risk one more second of stillness.' The practice ribbons, neatly coiled on the desk like sleeping commas. The pale cascade dress draped over the chair. The tiny salt-sugar constellations on the floor beside the door from a certain bakery's secret chouquette truce. The letter pinned above the vanity, edges worn to velvet. And, beside it, the blue rose she'd pressed there last night—cool color against faded ink.

His mouth moved before he could stop it. "You kept them." A breath, a little raw. "All the miles between us, and you… you kept the words warm."

Serena's throat tightened. "They kept me warm," she said. "When I didn't place. When I did. When the room felt too big." She lifted her cup, letting the steam fog the space between them. "And when it didn't."

Ash's eyes slid to the practice notes again, a soldier's focus turned toward small, human details. "You leave yourself instructions," he said, almost smiling. "We do that too. On the walls. On our hands. On the inside of our teeth, if we have to."

"'Supply lines are important,'" she said, teasing his earlier joke back to him.

"Logistics truth," he deadpanned again—but the smile that broke through was real and easy, the kind that made him look startlingly young for a heartbeat. The kind that made her chest ache with relief.

He set the cup down and unbuckled the leather bracers he'd laid near the edge of the table, setting the straps flat as if the act itself deserved respect. Without them, the old wrap-lines around his wrists were visible—ghostly bands of compressed skin where cloth had lived for too long. A pale crescent scar curved along his collarbone where the tunic gaped; another thinner one traced the outside of his left forearm like a chalk line. They weren't loud. They didn't demand to be seen. They simply were; the written record of ten winters.

Serena's breath wavered. "May I…?"

He gave the tiniest nod, and she let her eyes follow the story his skin told. Not cataloguing, not counting. Witnessing. Her fingers flexed against the porcelain to keep from reaching without asking.

When she looked up again, he was already watching her, steady and open. Ash breathed in deep and quickly let out his breath, "Ok. There are things I can tell you now," he said. "I was given permission—if you choose to swear. Before that, I can give you shapes. Not names. Not places."

"I'll swear," she said, the words leaving before the thought finished. Then, gentler, aware of the weight she was taking into her hands, "Explain first. Let me understand what I'm taking on."

He breathed out, something like gratitude easing the line of his shoulders. He leaned back a fraction, not away from her—away from the posture of vigilance. For a moment, as the kettle's residual warmth ticked in the coils, as mint hung cool between them, as Eevee made a determined attempt to wedge its entire face inside its water bowl and Riolu pretended not to notice, he looked less like a blade and more like a man learning he could set the blade down.

"The Aura Guardians aren't a story," he said. "We're a net no one's supposed to see until it catches what would fall through. We don't sign our names. We don't take credit. Balance is the work. Bonds are the tool." His eyes flicked to Riolu. "Aura is not power first. It's relationship, given shape."

Serena nodded, feeling the truth of it in the hum under her sternum.

"We train until the body forgets how not to listen," he went on, voice even. "We learn the old roads. We learn where the world thins. We learn how to stand between a wild thing and a frightened village without turning either into an enemy. We learn how to keep a promise when no one is looking." He glanced at her sticky notes, and the smile returned, softer. "We also learn how to eat with one hand and wrap a wound with the other. Not as noble, but necessary."

"And you leave letters on your teeth," she said, and he huffed a laugh.

"Sometimes," he admitted.

He looked at the letter again, then at her. "I'm allowed to tell you the shape of the oath," he said, careful, as if reading from a map he'd folded and unfolded too often. "It's a binding—an acceptance as much as a promise. It doesn't trap you. It names you a harbor. If I bring you truth, you keep it. If I bring you burden, you share it. If you ever choose to lay it down, you come back and lay it down with me. Not alone. Never alone."

Mint cooled in her mouth without her drinking. "Why me?" Serena asked quietly. Not fishing. Not coy. Just wanting to hold it right.

"Because you already kept me," he said simply, the words unadorned and devastating. "Because you already did the work of a harbor with nothing to help you but paper and will." He set his palm flat on the table between them without reaching. "Because what happened in the forest made a line between us, and today proved it wasn't an accident."

Her hand hovered over the old wood, not touching yet, feeling the warmth pooling there like a second candle. "Is it… always like this?" she asked, struggling for where this began and ended—this hum, this certainty, this sense of a door opening between rib and spine.

"No," he said. "Some of the old stories talk about partner-oaths. About bonds that choose themselves. But most oaths are duty. Useful. Clean." His eyes didn't leave hers. "This one would be… different."

"Mate-bond," she said, trying the word, not as romance, but as naming. Her cheeks went hot; she didn't look away.

He didn't either. "Yes."

Silence settled like a third presence—comfortable, alert. Eevee, sensing the temperature change without understanding the weather, abandoned the water bowl and hopped to her cushion, tail flagged, eyes bright, waiting. Riolu glanced between their faces and then at the door, content that for once the enemy was not outside.

Serena drew a breath and let it out slowly. "What does it ask of me?"

"Presence," he said. "Honesty. Patience. The oath never asks you to stop being yourself. It doesn't make you smaller. It asks you to let the bond teach you when to be softer and when to be steel." He hesitated, the kind of caution that wasn't fear but respect. "There is risk. If we faced something that wanted to use aura to harm, it would feel for the line between us. We would have to defend it. Together."

She nodded. "We already did, once," she said, and the forest's cold breath came back for a flicker—the roar, the shock, the weight of his body in her arms. She swallowed. "I'm not leaving you outside again."

A long, quiet beat. He looked away, not evasive—gathering. When he looked back, there was a different weight in his eyes, the shadow of a road beyond the next turn.

"There's one more reason the oath matters now," he said. "And it's the part I can only name sideways, before the vow."

Her pulse ticked. "Then say it sideways."

"In the order's halls," he said, "there are stories we tell to remind ourselves of what happens when oath turns into hunger. When bond becomes chain. When a Guardian stops serving balance and starts trying to own it." He didn't whisper, but the words seemed to lower the air in the room. "Most of those stories have endings that begin with the others catching up in time."

"And this one?" Serena asked.

He shook his head once. "We don't know if it's a story yet. We know the shape of a shadow we've felt in places it shouldn't be. Whispers of aura used like a blade, not a bridge. Roads disturbed that should be quiet. The elders are sending me to Kanto because that's where the first edges are fraying. That's as much as I can say before the oath." A beat. "I didn't come to Kalos to put that on you. I came to find you. But if we walk together, you deserve to know why the road turns."

Serena's jaw set, not in anger—in decision. "Then we walk together," she said. "I'll take the oath. Not because of shadows. Because of you. The shadows can learn to be afraid of us."

A sound that might have been a laugh and might have been relief left him on the same breath. He glanced at Riolu; the little jackal straightened, bright, ready. Eevee chirruped agreement so confidently it might have signed on both their behalves.

"Alright," Ash said, voice going low and formal at the edges, a tone that belonged to halls cut from stone and fires banked to coals. He looked around her apartment one last time—not checking exits now, but choosing where to put a vow in her life so it would belong. The mirror with its notes felt like a witness; the vanity with the letter felt like a reliquary. He let his gaze return to Serena. "We'll do it here," he said softly, as if asking permission of the room and of her at once. "If that's what you want."

She nodded. "Here."

He rose, unhurried, and crossed to the bookshelf to take a small ceramic dish from beside a stack of programs. He set it on the low table and, with a practiced motion, touched two fingers to the air over its center. The space above the dish pulsed once, thin as heat above a road in summer. No flame yet, just a shimmer. The apartment's light seemed to lean toward that point.

Serena's breath caught. "Do we need… anything?"

"Just quiet," he said. "And hands." His half-smile acknowledged it, shy and certain all at once.

Riolu padded forward, solemn now, and sat opposite Eevee at the edge of the rug. Without being told, it lifted one paw. Eevee mirrored, placing its small pads against Riolu's, eyes very large, very serious—two partners inventing their own ceremony.

Ash's attention returned to Serena, and the world narrowed in the kindest way. The kettle continued to tick as it cooled. The clock hushed. Outside, Lumiose dimmed to a far shore. Inside, the table waited, the air above the little dish shimmering like water about to take the shape of a bowl.

"Close your eyes," he said softly. "Breathe with me."

She set her cup down, slid forward across the cushion, and offered her hands over the table toward his—fingers open, palms warm, the ribbon in her braid brushing her shoulder as she bowed her head.

Ash reached out, caught her hands lightly, and drew one long breath in time with hers.

The air shifted.

And the ritual began to gather.

He didn't speak the old words yet. He taught her how to breathe.

"In for four," Ash murmured, thumbs firm against the roots of her fingers. "Hold for one. Out for four. Again."

Serena matched him. The room gentled around the count. The city thinned to a shore a long way off. The little ceramic dish on the table shimmered as if heat were a shape you could pour. Between their palms, warmth gathered—subtle at first, then sure—like two cupped hands catching a small, invisible spring.

"Good," he said, and the word itself felt like a hand smoothing a crease. "Now, don't search for it. Let it find you."

She stopped reaching. The warmth rose to meet her.

It began as a soft pressure at the center of her chest, the same hum that had carried her through the plaza—only now it answered back. A second pulse, not her own, touched it and settled into sync. Serena's lashes fluttered. "I—"

"I know," he whispered, and when he said it the warmth steadied, as if the air had nodded. "This feels… stronger than any training bond I've ever heard about." he said in a hint of surprise.

"Ready?"

"Ready," she said, and meant it all the way to bone.

Ash shifted their joined hands over the shimmer above the dish. The air flexed like a sail catching the wind, and a low glow rose without flame; not blue alone, not gold alone—blue at the heart, like deep water; a veil of rose-gold at the edges, like light seen through closed eyelids. It didn't burn. It recognized.

"Look there," he said softly. "That's us."

He didn't chant. He didn't conjure smoke or crack thunder. He set his voice low and even, the way you speak to a skittish Ponyta so it will take the bridle because it trusts you, not the leather.

"Aura hears promise," he said. "It doesn't care about pretty. It cares about what's true."

He turned his hands, threading his fingers through hers—no force, only invitation. Serena let her palms open and interlace, her wrists aligned with his. The glow rose a breath higher, pooling around their knuckles like warm water around stones. She felt the smallest tug—a thread drawn from the place behind her sternum, fine as silk, unspooling without pain. A matching thread lifted from him. They reached for each other without touching and held in the air like two notes finding the same pitch.

"Ash…" She swallowed. Her eyes stung, not with hurt. With relief. "This feels like… breathing for the first time after you've been underwater for too long."

His mouth tipped at the corner. "That's what it was for me when I realized I didn't have to do it alone."

He straightened a fraction. The ritual tone edged his words—not stiff, not ceremonial for show, but weight-bearing. "Serena Yvonne of Vaniville," he said, naming her like a place, "you stand here of your own will?"

"I do," she said, and the glow pressed warm against her fingers like a creature delighted to hear the right answer.

"Do you accept harbor?" His thumb brushed the ridge of one knuckle, grounding the question. "If I bring truth, will you keep it? If I bring burden, will you share it? If, one day, you must lay it down, will you lay it down with me, not alone?"

"I accept," she said, and the word fit in her mouth the way her name had when he spoke it back in the plaza. "I will keep your truth. I will share your burden. And if I must lay it down, I will lay it down with you."

The threads above the dish tightened a hair. She felt—not a pull, not a tether—but a tug of recognition at the base of her throat, as if some quiet sentinel inside had stood up and said present.

"Ash Ketchum of Pallet," she said, and his breath hitched the barest bit at hearing his whole name wrapped in her voice. "Do you stand here of your own will?"

"I do," he said, steady.

"Do you accept harbor?" Her voice held. "If I bring truth, will you keep it? If I bring burden, will you share it? If I ask you to stop—to look, to turn—will you listen? Will you lay it down with me if I cannot carry it?"

"I accept," he said. "I will keep it. I will share it. And if you say stop, I will stop. We lay it down together."

The room answered; a faint pressure in the ears like elevation, a soft shift in the light as if the walls had leaned a little closer. On the rug, Riolu and Eevee had set their small ceremony; paw to paw, eyes bright, the air between their pads quivering with the tiniest flicker of light. Riolu's aura feelers trembled; Eevee's fur lifted along her spine not with fear, but with attention. Two small hearts keeping time.

"One more part," he said, and the words changed shape, becoming personal—dangerous only because they were so gentle. "Not from the Order, but just for us. You can refuse it, and the harbor still stands. But if you want it… we can name what the bond already is."

Her cheeks heated. She didn't look away. "Name it."

His fingers tightened, once. "We don't bind to own. We bind to choose." A beat, the smallest tilt of a smile. "And to choose again, every day."

"Yes," she breathed.

He drew a breath that shook at the edges, then smoothed. "Then speak with me," he said, and the glow climbed, a fraction more, ready.

He began, and she followed, their voices low, braided,

"I choose you, in waking and in rest.
I choose you in the quiet and in the storm.
I will be mirror and shelter, knife and salve,
Not to cut you down, but to cut you free.
I will not feed the hunger that makes chains.
I will feed the trust that makes bridges.
I will not take your will.
I will walk beside it.
My strength is yours when you ask.
Your strength is mine when I ask.
We do not vanish.
We return."

Each line lay warmth into the air and settled, like planks placed across a span until, without noticing, you were standing on a bridge that hadn't been there a moment before.

"Consent," he said softly, the last gate and the most important. "Serena—do you consent to this bond, chosen and kept by both, free to be ended only by the will of either spoken to the other?"

"I consent," she said, and the words filled her mouth with the taste of mint and something like sunlight on linen, clean and right.

"Ash—do you consent?" she asked, and now the ritual made sense down to the root; not because some law required a phrase, but because he did.

"I consent," he said, and on the final consonant, the two fine threads above the dish touched.

Not a snap. Not a flare. A seam closing.

It wasn't sight so much as recognition. The glow braided—blue at the core, rose-gold at the edges—and ran down in a single loop around their linked hands. It didn't knot and trap; it moved, a living ring that sank without weight into skin and bone as if finding the place it had always belonged. Serena felt it pass her wrists like a warm pulse, then her elbows, then her sternum, where it settled and spread thin, like a veil that let breath through and held out the cold. Something inside her that had been bracing for years—she hadn't realized until that second she'd been bracing—unclenched.

Images brushed—not poured, not forced. A mountain morning, thin and blue; the bite of wraps on raw palms, then the relief when the grip finally held true; laughter muffled in a scarf in a snowfield; the smell of mint and pecha steam from a tiny kitchen; the soft scrape of a pencil across paper at midnight; a stage's hush right before a risk; the metallic tang of fear giving way to decision in a dark forest; a small hand dragging a heavier body over roots and stones; lilac crushed sweet between two chests; a blue rose pinned beside faded ink. Not stories told. Truths shared, each acknowledged, none taken.

Across the rug, the light between Riolu's and Eevee's paws brightened and then folded down into their pads. Riolu exhaled a tiny huff—more felt than heard—as if something in its bones had relaxed to match its human's. Eevee blinked very slowly, solemn, then ruined the moment by yawning so big her tongue curled like a ribbon. Serena laughed without meaning to. The glow on the table rippled in answer, like a pond taking a pebble and returning to still.

For a breath, everything held. Then the air in the dish dimmed to a memory of light and went clear.

The bond did not disappear. It settled—a low, steady chord under the day's noise, the way you can feel a favorite song even when no one's playing it, if you close your eyes and put your palm to your chest.

Ash didn't rush to speak. He let the quiet confirm what the light had done. His thumbs were still at the roots of her fingers; he was still breathing in her count.

When he did find words, they were not for the Order or the shadow on the road. They were for her. "Serena," he said, voice rough with something good, "you're not outside the door anymore."

She swallowed, smiling until it shook. "Neither are you."

Ash and Serena didn't let go of each other's hands and enjoyed each other's silent company for a bit longer.

Ritual complete, tea cup returned to his hands, Ash took a deep breath and began,

"When I said the Guardians are a net no one sees," Ash began, voice low, "that wasn't poetry. We were built to catch what falls between the visible jobs—between Rangers, between Leagues, between faiths and rumors. The world has its healers, its officers, its Professors. We're what's left when none of those are enough."

Serena nodded, saying nothing. The mint had cooled in her mouth by now, but the warmth in her sternum hadn't faded. On the rug, Riolu sat like a small blue statue with its eyes half-lidded, listening; Eevee sprawled on her pillow with her chin on her paws, pretending to doze and failing.

"We're fewer than most people think," he continued. "Elders and journeymen. Apprentices. We rotate roles as needed—Scout, Warden, Mediator, Lorekeeper. The names sound grand, but mostly it's walking, listening, learning, which silences mean peace and which mean something's holding its breath." His eyes cut briefly to the window, to where Lumiose's lights drew pale rivers on the glass. "Sometimes it's standing in a door until the storm gives up and goes around."

"What about… the place you trained?" Serena asked, softer now, not to break the spell of the room. "You wrote once about roots. About a hall that felt like a heartbeat."

"The Root of the Oak," he said, and something softened in him at the name. "Not a metaphor. A real place. Johto highlands. There's a tree there older than most stories—its roots have swallowed stone cloisters and turned them into halls. When the wind moves through them, it sounds like breath. We keep our oldest records there. The first laws are carved into the living wood."

"What laws?"

"Three," he said, and he didn't have to think to remember them. "Guard the balance; honor the bond; walk unseen." A beat. "The order changes with the moment, but the words don't."

She let them settle. Balance. Bond. Unseen. She could feel them line up with the life he'd lived, even when she hadn't understood it; the letters that told her nothing and everything, the way he moved now—quiet, present, unobtrusive until he wasn't.

"How do you… talk to each other?" she asked. "If you have to be unseen."

"We don't leave digital tracks," he said, humor ghosting his mouth for an instant. "You'd like some of our couriers. Old-fashioned. Ranger posts. Shrine keepers. Dead drops carved into the undersides of mile-markers along routes only we use. We even use bell codes in some places—one long, two short—that sort of thing." His fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. "And sometimes we don't talk at all. We just show up where we're needed, because someone read the wind right three weeks ago and set a road in motion."

"And the… work?" Serena asked, choosing the word carefully. "You make it sound like half listening, half standing in doorways. But the scars—" her eyes flicked, apologetic, to the pale crescent at his collarbone "—tell me the other half is harder."

"It is," he said simply. "Aura is not a weapon first, but it can be one. We train the obvious—projection, pulse, shields. How to feel a mind without breaking it. How to let a wild thing rage without letting it decide for you. How to step inside a strike and not flinch. How to hold back when your body wants to leap." His mouth turned wry. "How to run."

"And the cost?" Serena asked. "What does it take from you?"

He didn't look away. "Sleep," he said, half a joke, half not. "Sometimes skin. Sometimes, more private things. Overuse leaves a burn you can't see—headaches that sit behind the eyes and hum, a tremor in the hands you can breathe through if you're lucky. You learn your limits, or they learn you. I've had both happen."

Serena's fingers, unthinking, reached across the table and brushed the back of his hand. The tremor wasn't visible now, but the story of it sat in the way he held the cup—economical, careful, as if he were keeping his hands honest under watch. He let his fingers turn, palm up, and she folded hers into it; the hum in her chest rose a fraction, steadied.

"You said mediators," she whispered. "Do you… talk people down?"

"Often," he said. "A farmer who thinks a flock of Murkrow is a curse when it's a sign of a storm. A Gym leader whose pride is louder than their duty. A Ranger crew running themselves to ground because they think stopping to sleep makes them weak. Sometimes talking doesn't work." His eyes went distant for a second—not shutting down, just turning to look at a picture on a far wall. "Sometimes something old wakes up and thinks the world still belongs to it. Sometimes something new grows teeth where it shouldn't. That's when the walking turns to fighting."

"And the fallen Guardian?" she asked, voice low as a secret under a blanket. "You said the shadow isn't a story. Not yet. But you've felt edges fray."

"We don't know a name," he said. "We don't know a face. The Order suspects a will at work, but it hides its hand well. We know the pattern—problems that feel arranged. Not chaos. Not wildness. Coaxings. A nudge here, a silence there. Someone testing what happens if you pull a single thread out of a tapestry that's held for a hundred years. We just don't have the proof," His jaw ticked, not with anger—with restraint. "Kanto has a lot of old threads. The Order wants eyes there. Mine."

"And now mine," Serena said, soft but unarguable. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The ritual humming under her sternum had already answered for him.

They sat in that hum for a while. Eevee stretched until her paws trembled, then flopped again in a puddle of ribbon; Riolu's ears rotated like two small satellites tracking the shift of Serena's breathing.

Her gaze drifted, pulled by a magnet she couldn't see, to the letter above the vanity—the faded lines she knew now by heart. The room seemed to follow it, and so did Ash. Their eyes met there, then dropped to the blue rose pinned beside it.

"Do you remember," Serena asked quietly, voice catching on the curve of the words, "the last morning at camp?"

His breath went in sharply, the way it does when you step into a room you've avoided because you know exactly what's inside. "All of it," he said. "The taste of the tea. The ash in the air. The feel of the blanket. Your hand." The corner of his mouth moved. "The way you tried to make me laugh so I wouldn't be afraid."

"I was the one who was afraid," she said, not ashamed of it now. "Of what it meant. Of what it had taken to keep you here."

He nodded. "Me too. I didn't have language for the weight." He exhaled. "I still don't, sometimes."

They let the silence bend around the memory. In it, Serena saw a girl with a braid too short and a boy with bandaged ribs staring at a ceiling they thought might drop answers through the boards. She saw the sweet, stupid bravery of children promising forever with pinkies because they didn't have other tools.

"Do you regret anything?" she asked, the question landing like a stone placed gently on a ledge. She wasn't fishing for absolution. She was just interested in the truth.

Ash's fingers tightened around hers once, almost reflexively, then eased. He didn't look away. "Yes," he said. "I regret leaving without saying goodbye to my mother."

The words sat heavy and clean between them.

"I asked," he said, no defensiveness in it, only the memory of a small voice in a big hall. "When they came for me. I begged. The answer was no. They said if I went home, I'd be followed. If I wrote, the wrong eyes would read. They let me write to you because you were far, because your letters would travel by hands they trusted. I thought—" he swallowed, and there was a crack in the sound "—I thought I'd be strong enough to carry the silence. I told myself it was a duty. Some days it was. Most days it was just… cruel."

Serena's other hand came up, wrapping his. "You were a child," she said, the gentleness in her voice not a softness but a steel that refused to let him take blame that didn't belong to him. "You were given an impossible choice and told it was the only one."

"I still made it," he said. "And she paid for it."

"Maybe," Serena said. "Or maybe she saved herself by refusing to break in a way that would have broken you, too." She shook her head, eyes bright. "We don't know, but maybe we can find out."

He breathed, a sound of gratitude and grief, and nodded.

"What was she like?" Serena asked. "Tell me a thing you miss about her."

He didn't have to search. "The way she would hum and not realize it," he said, a half-smile tugging, real and hurt in the same breath. "Not songs anyone else would recognize—just… threads. Kitchen music. She'd stir soup to it. Fold laundry to it. When she was worried, it would go quiet. I think that's how I learned to hear silence."

Serena's throat tightened. "Grace—my mom—she would measure her day in bowls. If she was stressed, there were more bowls on the counter. If everything went wrong, the sink would fill and she'd go make a pie because that's what hands can do when the heart can't fix things." She laughed wetly. "Sometimes we had pie for dinner because neither of us was brave enough to eat anything else."

He smiled—soft, aching. "I think our mothers would have liked each other."

"I know they would," Serena said. "Because they made us, and we like each other."

He huffed something like a laugh. The hum beneath her sternum loosened and warmed at the same time.

"Have you… checked?" she asked, careful, in case the answer was a blade. "On her. On Pallet."

He took a long breath, then let it out. "Not close. Not in person. I wasn't allowed near Kanto while I was training. The Root wouldn't risk drawing trouble to a place that couldn't defend against the kind of trouble that follows what I am. But we track public things—to make sure a storm isn't sitting where we're not looking. I only ever saw traces—records, not faces. The last clear thing I have is old. A registry entry. Taxes paid on a little house. No notices that would mean… No."

"Good," Serena whispered, closing her eyes, letting the word sit like a candle lit in a window. "Good."

"She deserves better than me walking in through the front door like something out of a story that she didn't ask to live in," he said, quieter still. "But, she deserves a warning." His mouth twisted. "And maybe she deserves me anyway."

"You'll give her both," Serena said. "Warning. And you. And I'll be there." She squeezed his hands. "I will not let you carry that turn alone."

He nodded, jaw working once like he was swallowing something sharp, and finally got it down.

"What about Grace?" he asked, and there was no politeness in it—only the willingness to share weight. "Does she know anything?"

"Not the Guardians," Serena said. "I told her there were rules I couldn't break, and she didn't push. She knows I've written to a boy for ten years and that he kept me moving when I wanted to sit down in the road and stop." Her smile bent. "She told me to keep walking. She underlined it in a letter once." She tipped her head at the vanity. "You two would get along."

"I think we already do," he said, and they both laughed, and the ache in the room eased into something that felt like rest after hard work.

They sat there until the cups were empty and the city had turned a page into a later hour, their hands still joined because there didn't seem to be any reason to separate them and a hundred reasons not to. The mint had long since gone cold, but the aura hum hadn't dimmed.

When he finally spoke again, his voice carried the weight of a new road chosen. "Serena," he said, and the way he said her name was a promise that what came next would not be a secret kept behind a door. "There's something else. About why Kanto matters now, and how we can move without drawing the wrong eyes."

She straightened, the ritual's warmth meeting the iron in her spine. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me how we walk it."

"A courier left a packet for me," Ash said. "Not here—Kalos is clean. In Kanto. A shrine on the south road into Viridian. There's a bell code carved beneath the lintel—one long, two short. I ring it; if the answer comes back in three, the packet's under the fourth stone on the right." His mouth tilted. "Old habits."

Serena's fingers tightened around his. "And inside?"

"Maps. Names of places, not people. Patterns. The elders don't put ink to faces unless they have to." He drew a breath and let it out slow. "What I can tell you is that the signal was raised because Kanto's edges are wrong. Rangers report poaching spikes near Viridian that don't match migration patterns. Lavender Tower's lanterns were seen burning when no keeper was on duty—three nights in a row with no wind. Two Gym inspection logs were altered—clean hands, careful penmanship—like someone wanted challengers moving on a different schedule. A fisherman out of Vermilion swears a current in the bay runs the wrong direction under a new moon, just for an hour, like something large turns over beneath the city and resets the tide."

He met her eyes. "None of that is proof of anything, but all of it together is a pattern. Not wild. Just arranged."

Serena's gaze flicked to the little dish where the shimmer had been and back to him. "So we go. We read the edges."

He nodded. "We go."

"How?" She gestured toward the window, where Lumiose glowed like a constellation jar someone had left open. "Boat? Plane?"

"Plane is faster," Ash said, "but risky. I'd rather not leave a record of us sitting under a name and a time in a system I don't control. There's a ferry from Coumarine to Vermilion that leaves at dawn every other day. It's a longer crossing, days on the water, but safer. The captain's friendly with a Ranger quartermaster who's friendly with… us. We can be on the next one if we move."

Serena did mental math, reflexively mapping rehearsals and ribbons into a travel grid and then discarding it because the grid had changed. "I can be packed in an hour," she said. "Two if I let myself fold things instead of shoving them."

A small, proud sound escaped him, like a laugh that had forgotten how to be loud. "We'll need to stop by a shrine on the way out of Kalos," he added. "I owe the Order a bell; sworn harbor, sworn bond. That officially 'unlocks' what I can tell you as we go."

"Deal." She swallowed, then found the nerve that had carried her onstage and let it speak. "I'd like to go to Vaniville first. For Grace. If I leave tomorrow at dawn, I can be there by midday, tell her in person, catch the evening line back to Lumiose, and make the Coumarine train before first light."

Ash didn't hesitate. "I'll go with you." Then, gentler, "If you want me to."

"I do." The answer surprised her with how quickly it landed, like it had been waiting. "It's not just my life that changes. She deserves to see us."

He nodded, and the line under her sternum answered like a string tuned a hair tighter. "Then Vaniville, shrine, Coumarine, ferry, Vermilion." He looked down at their hands. "After we land, Pallet."

Her breath hitched. "Your mother."

He held her gaze. "With warning. Not with a story kicked in at a door." A beat, steady. "You beside me, if you'll still be there after she decides what to do with me."

Serena's hand tightened. "There isn't an after where I'm not."

His posture eased—as if her answer had loosened a strap across his chest—and he slid naturally into the shape of planning, the way some people drop a shoulder and another catches a pack. "Covers," he said. "For Kanto, we don't need masks. We need reasons. I'll register for the Indigo Gym Circuit." He let the weight of that land. "It's visible, which is dangerous, but it also keeps me moving in a pattern that doesn't look like hunting. It puts me in rooms with leaders who feel the land under their feet and it lets me ask questions while I'm asking for badges."

"You've wanted those since you were eight," Serena said softly, a smile breaking at the corners of her mouth. "I've seen you earn everything—this cover will be easy."

"Easier with a partner who can hear the room," he said. "You joining the Coordinator Circuit gives you your own pattern—venues, judges, tech crews, old hands who've seen the weird because theaters always see the weird." He glances at the mirror with her sticky notes. "It also keeps you in light instead of shadows. The quiet kind of light you command."

Serena's chest warmed. "Kanto's Grand Festival circuit is patchwork," she said, already thinking through venues. "Celadon revived the Garden Showcase last season; Pewter's museum runs exhibition nights—less competitive, more curated. Saffron has a theater with better rigging than sense. Vermilion's festival board is messy, but they pay on time. I only need five contest ribbons from the circuit to get into the Grand Festival, so I'll route to match your badges."

Ash's jaw softened at the sight of her flipping through venues in her head. "We'll build a braid," he said. "Your shows thread through my gyms."

"Safety," Serena said, the word not fearful but practical. "We should make rules. Signals."

Ash nodded, the soldier in him grateful for a language he could set between love and risk. "Three kinds then," he said. "Daily, urgent, and burn."

"Daily. Like a check-in?"

"Dawn or after-show," he said, nodding. "Even if we're together. It's not for trust. It's for rhythm. Say 'clear' if it's all quiet. 'Cloud' if something is odd but not dangerous. 'Wind,' if you want me to start paying a different kind of attention."

Serena grinned despite herself. "You naming things is going to be a problem for my heart."

His ears pinked a fraction; he cleared his throat. "Urgent; one pulse on the bond if words aren't safe, two if you can speak but need me to listen, three if you need me to come." He paused. "If you pulse three, and I can't get to you right away, you'll feel me answer with three back. It's not a stall, but it's a promise that I'm on the way."

"And Burn?" she asked.

He didn't smile. "If we are compromised—if the wrong eyes attach the wrong meaning to our movements—we burn the pattern. We drop the public routes. We move from shrine to shrine by roads that don't exist on maps. We give up visible wins to keep the fight with us." He looked down, then up, with honesty. "I won't like it. You won't either. It's a hard kind of living. But we survive it if it comes to it."

Serena sobered, then nodded. "Add a fourth," she said. "For me. If I say 'stage,' it means I'm about to make noise on purpose. A show of light to get eyes on me so they're not on you."

"Only if I say 'curtain,'" he countered, too fast, instinct answering instinct. At her look—equal parts amused and stubborn—his mouth twitched. "We'll negotiate it case by case."

"Compromise, good," she said primly. "Our first fight. I think we did well," Serena smirked.

He laughed—quiet, delighted, surprised by himself. Riolu flicked an ear, pleased; Eevee, who had rolled luxuriously onto her back to present the world with an unacceptable amount of stomach, chirped at nothing in particular and then sneezed.

"Training," Serena said, because plans felt better when they had muscle under them. "Not just for the stage, but for… this." She gestured between them and then to the floor, where Riolu and Eevee had invented a game of balancing paws without falling into a tangle. "We should learn to move together. If your right is free, my left is guarding. If I see a light someone shouldn't have, I tell you which beam is rigged. If you feel a current go wrong, you tell me which step to skip."

Ash's eyes brightened. "Exactly that. We'll run drills. Not just fights—exits. Entries. Sightlines. How to walk past a man looking for a boy in a cloak and make him look down at a ribbon instead." His gaze slanted toward Eevee. "We'll teach them the same. He'll take the open ground; she'll take the light."

"Riolu," Serena said, and the little jackal looked up alertly, ears forward. She pointed to her left and shifted her weight; it moved there at once, as if it had already been reading the plan in the air. "He already listens."

Ash's voice went affectionate without dimming. "He listens to you because you asked him like you expect to be heard."

She felt heat on her face and didn't argue.

He leaned back, and the room took his weight like it had been waiting to. "There's one more piece," he said, and his tone brushed the earlier shadow without letting it swallow the light. "Patterns in Kanto that look arranged will have hands behind them. Not just one. The fallen Guardian, if the story is a story, won't be everywhere. They'll have a habit of using other people's roads and pretending to be helpful. If—when—we catch the edge of that habit, we do not pull it alone."

"We pull it together," Serena said.

"And we call the Rangers, the League, the old women who know which wind means what," Ash added. "We're not the only net."

She nodded. "And if the net rips?"

"We tie it in front of us and keep walking." He said it as if explaining how to breathe.

They let the plan lie on the table between the cups, between the little dish and the letter and the blue rose. Outside, Lumiose had moved farther into its night; the tram bell had changed timbre, as if a different driver had taken the route and brought with them a different whistle. The apartment smelled faintly of mint and wool and crushed lilac, the last of its green still clinging to her sleeve where the bouquet had leaned.

Serena exhaled. "So, Vaniville at dawn. Shrine on the way. Coumarine ferry. Vermilion. Pallet. Then Viridian's bell."

Ash's eyes warmed. "Then Pewter. Then Cerulean, Saffron, Celadon… and every edge in between."

She leaned in, elbows on the table. "Then I'm going to need to pack two dresses I don't mind bleeding on and three I do. And a ribbon the color of the ocean, so Vermilion knows I came to learn its tide."

Something like pride moved through his face, soft and bright, and settled. "I'll carry the heavy things," he said.

"I'll carry the light," she answered.

Riolu and Eevee had abandoned their balancing act in favor of a mutual grooming treaty conducted with excessive seriousness. Riolu would smooth one of Eevee's ears with careful paws; Eevee, affronted at the implication she was not already perfect, would immediately fix the very same ear, then pretend she was fixing Riolu's aura feelers and not mussing them on purpose. The tiny ritual made Serena's heart squeeze. It looked like the future in miniature; fussing, fixing, choosing again.

Ash glanced at the window, then back to Serena's face. "We should sleep," he said, regret in it only because the night had finally made a place that fit around his bones. "Dawn comes fast when you've decided to meet it."

"You can take the couch," Serena offered, then hurriedly added before he could refuse, "Please. It's clean. It's soft. And if you go back out into the city, I'll only lie there and stare at the ceiling thinking you're on a roof watching me sleep, and that's not restful for either of us."

He blinked, then smiled, then laughed in a single unfurling that made her feel like she'd opened a window and let spring in. "I'll take the couch," he said. "Thank you."

She stood to fetch a blanket; he rose with her, instinctively offering to carry something. When their shoulders brushed, the bond under her sternum hummed—not louder, just there, like a note tuning the air to a key you'd always known and had finally learned the name for.

He watched her cross to the closet and reach for the folded throw, and his gaze paused—not on the dress draped over the chair this time, not on the mirror with its notes, but on the vanity where the letter and the blue rose leaned together like two different kinds of light.

He reached up—hesitated, asked with a look, and touched the edge of the paper with a fingertip. "Keep walking," he read softly. "No matter what."

Serena turned with the blanket in her hands. "Together," she said.

He nodded, and the plan on the table stopped being a plan and became a road.

"Dawn," he said.

"Dawn," she echoed.

Far from the quiet glow of Lumiose, another room sat in silence. No mint. No laughter. Only the steady drip of water from a cracked pipe and the low flare of a lantern burning oil that smelled faintly of rust.

A hand—gloved, scarred, you could not tell—shifted pieces on a map. Not pins, not markers, but smooth stones carved with sigils that pulsed faintly blue when touched. Viridian. Lavender. Vermilion. Each stone left a faint trace, as though someone had rubbed ash across the page.

"You stir, finally," a voice murmured. It was neither male nor female, soft and sharp all at once, like glass wrapped in silk. "The net stretches thin, and where there are gaps, we will widen them."

Another figure lingered in the doorway, half in shadow, their shape blurred by the lantern's guttering light. "And the boy?" they asked.

The gloved hand stilled over Pallet Town. For a long moment, nothing moved but the oil's flame. Then, slow and deliberate, the stone was pressed down until its faint glow darkened to black.

"The boy has returned," the voice said. "And with him, the line that should have broken."

The map pulsed once, faint as a heartbeat. Then the lantern went out.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Crossing Thresholds

The city was still rinsing the last violet out of the sky when Serena woke. The apartment held that delicate hush between streetlamp and sun; a tram's far-off sigh; the soft tick of the clock; Eevee's little whuff in her sleep as she dreamed of outrunning the curtains. On the couch, Ash lay on his back with one arm flung over his eyes, cloak folded as a pillow, breath slow and even. Riolu sat at his hip in a sitter's doze, ears cocked as if listening to both his partner's heart and the hallway beyond the door.

Serena padded barefoot to the vanity, fingers tracing the letter's worn edge and the blue rose pinned beside it. She didn't take the letter down. Some things belonged where they were. She did pluck a single petal, cool as morning, and tucked it into the lining of her bag like a quiet charm.

"Morning," Ash murmured without moving his arm.

She smiled. "Morning."

They moved through the morning like a dance they hadn't rehearsed but somehow knew; mint tea while the kettle still remembered how; Eevee's paw-washing, then her ceremonial leap into Serena's satchel so she could monitor the packing process; Riolu holding open the door with a gravely important shoulder as if he'd been born a bellhop. Serena scribbled a note for the landlord downstairs—going abroad, back in a few months, advance sent—and taped it beside the buzzer.

Lumiose came awake in slow layers as they crossed town to the early train. Bakers tugged up half-shutters and yawned into the steam of their ovens. A street sweeper sang under their breath, the same three notes over and over. Serena bought two croissants and a paper horn of chouquettes—a tribute for the road—and they ate walking, sugar dusting Riolu's snout until he sneezed indignantly and pretended it hadn't happened.

On the platform, their reflections drifted in the windows; her ribboned braid and the pale shoulder of her traveling sweater; the long, simple line of Ash's cloak; two small guardians flanking like updated crests. The bond under her sternum didn't hum loudly; it rested, like a river at low water. When the train slid in with a polite chime and a rush of warm air, Ash's hand found the small of her back—guidance, not ownership—and she felt the line between them tighten in contentment.

They took seats facing each other, window to window. The city fell away in increments; stone to hedgerow, café to pasture, glass to dew. Kalos unrolled itself like an old tapestry—vineyard slopes with their winter braces, Rhyhorn pens of bent wood and patience, little chapels tucked between stands of poplar that had learned the language of the wind.

"Tell me about Vaniville," Ash said, eyes on the blur becoming detail beyond the glass.

"It smells like apples and laundry," Serena said, not thinking first. "There are four good hiding places for letters that my mother never found because she loves me and pretended she didn't. A stream with stones slick as glass. A field that turns into a painter's palette every spring. A woman who will ask if you're hungry twice, and then again after you say yes."

Eevee, who always assumed the plural "hungry" included her as a matter of human decency, perked up. Riolu chuffed, accepting this as sound intelligence.

"Does she race?" Ash asked. A touch of wonder colored the question; stories about Grace had lived in his letters like cameo appearances.

"When the mood takes her," Serena said. "She says the Rhyhorn are happier when they decide the race is happening, and she just tries to keep up."

"Good allies," Ash said, deadpan. "Supply lines."

She grinned at him until he grinned back and looked briefly, disarmingly young.

They reached Vaniville by midmorning, light like clean glass. The station was little more than a bench with a roof, a hand-painted sign, and a planter of pansies someone cleared of weeds more carefully than some people cleared their own heads. Beyond, the town was exactly as Serena had said and yet not at all; fruit trees bare and bone-delicate; hedges clipped with quiet pride; laundry lines humming between chimneys like bright staff notation.

The path to the house felt both shorter and longer than ten years. Serena's feet found their old cadence without asking; Ash's stride adjusted to her pace the way water adjusts to a pebble. At the gate, the latch had the same reluctant lift, as if it liked being shut and had to be sweet-talked open. She palmed it anyway; it sighed and swung.

The house breathed cinnamon even with the door closed. The curtain twitched a fraction, and then Grace was there, hair pinned up with a pencil and a ribbon she'd stolen from Serena's childhood, flour on her cheekbone like a fingerprint of the day.

"Mom," Serena said, and the word was a world.

Grace crossed the distance in three steps, hands on Serena's shoulders, eyes drinking her in as if seeing had to happen before any other verb. Joy landed first. Relief hit right behind it and nearly knocked the others over. Suspicion came last, not mean, maternal—directed not at Serena but at the long shadow behind her.

"Ash," Serena said, voice steady because the rest of her wasn't. "This is my mother. Grace."

He didn't reach out with his hand right away. He inclined, a small bow with more respect in it than some speeches. "Ma'am," he said.

Grace's eyes flicked from cloak to face, from the scars that didn't demand to be seen to the way her daughter stood a breath closer to him than to the door. The floury hand came up anyway, because that's what you did when a child brought the rest of her life to your threshold. He took it gently, palm warm and steady.

"You're taller," Grace said, because some introductions need to be set down in plain words first.

"And older," Ash said, with the courage to laugh a little at his own expense.

The laugh cracked something in Grace's reserve. She pulled Serena in like she'd invented the act and then, to Ash's surprise and Serena's relief, reached and squeezed his shoulder, briefly, like a blessing offered and withdrawn before it embarrassed anyone.

"Come in," she said, and the house took their shapes in immediately; the small entry catching a drift of cool air from the door; the kitchen holding the morning like a warm bowl; the table already thinking about how many plates it could bear.

Eevee exploded through the threshold as if expecting a parade. A sleepy Braixen dozing by the stove cracked one eye, made a sound that translated as good grief, and scooted its tail closer to the oven for one last lick of heat. Riolu sat very straight on the mat by the door, looking to Ash for orders he didn't give and then, in the absence of instruction, made some up; guard here; do not steal pastries; nod at the broom like it is a respected elder.

Grace collected bowls without looking, which meant she was very focused. Serena saw the number and smiled; three bowls when she was calm; five when she was worried; two now, because the third was for the dog, even if the dog wouldn't take it, because hope is just worry turned inside out. The pencil went from her hair to behind her ear to the counter, wringing out nervous energy by changing address.

"You'll have tea," she announced, not as a question. "And something that thinks it's a pastry but has sworn a secret oath to be a meal."

"We've sworn a few oaths recently," Ash said before he could stop himself, nerves maybe? He then caught the words and warmed them with a rueful smile. "Mint is wonderful, if you have it."

Grace poured water, set cups, and looked at him like he'd said a longer sentence inside that shorter one. "We have mint," she said. "And we have questions."

"Ask," Serena said quickly, before Ash shouldered a burden she didn't want him to carry alone. "We'll tell you what we can."

They ate at the kitchen table with their knees touching the underside like it was a boat. The pastry-that-was-a-meal turned out to be a shallow pie with a rough lattice and a filling that had thought long and hard about being savory and then put on a sweet coat because it was a special day. Mint steamed in cups. The house's sigh settled around them; Braixen took up a chaperone's post by the stove with the air of someone who understood propriety and also that it could be bent if a visitor scratched the right spot behind her ear.

Grace let them start without interrupting—two bites, a sip, a third bite, the ritual of feeding the body so the heart could speak. When she had convinced herself they weren't about to disappear if she looked down, she set her cup down very gently and folded her flour-dusted hands so she wouldn't reach for either of them and cry into their sleeves.

"I've had ten years to practice sitting on questions," she said. "I'm very good at it. I don't need the details that will put a knife in your day. But I would like the shape. My girl's letters told me there were rules. I minded them. Now I'd like to know what to mind as you go."

Ash glanced at Serena—your home, your lead—and she breathed once through the hum under her sternum and nodded. He set his words down like tools he'd oiled for this moment so they wouldn't squeak.

"There is an Order," he said, steady and unadorned. "Older than the League. Older than some maps. We don't put names to it in rooms that aren't ours, and we try not to make anyone carry it who didn't choose to. I did. Serena chose to carry a part I could share. She is my harbor. If I bring a truth, she keeps it. If I bring a burden, she shares it. If either of us cannot carry, we lay it down together."

Grace didn't flinch at the words she didn't have—Order, harbor—because the words she did have were enough. Together was a language she spoke. "You'll be careful," she said, not as a plea and not as a command. As a fact, she wanted the room to adopt.

"Yes, ma'am," Ash said, and it didn't sound like a boy humoring a mother. It sounded like a man accepting a real term.

"And you'll write," Grace added, turning to Serena with a look that could curdle milk but also teach it to sing. "Even if it's one line. 'Alive. Ate something. Won a ribbon. Didn't fight the moon.' You hear me?"

Serena laughed helplessly, tears pinpricking, and nodded. "I hear you."

Grace's gaze returned to Ash, weighing him without cruelty. She saw the small tells—the way he checked the window without seeming to check it, the reach-and-release gestures of hands that had learned to touch and not take, the tired tucked into his grin that meant he had slept with one eye open for longer than he should have. She saw the way her daughter sat a breath taller, not to look bigger, but because being seen had straightened a bend that letters hadn't fixed. A tightness in Grace's chest let go that she hadn't realized she'd been bracing against.

"Show me," she said softly, nodding at Serena's satchel.

Serena drew the Evening Star ribbon out and set it on the table. The kitchen light found the sheen of it and made a little constellation right there on the wood. Grace touched it with one finger, like it might spook. Then she smiled, and all the lines in her face chose the same direction at once: pride.

"You did that," she said.

"We did," Serena answered, glancing at Eevee, who was doing her level best to sit still and failing joyously. "And we will do more. In Kanto."

There it was; the road spoken out loud. Grace blew out a breath and let her mouth twist into the expression that had raised Serena through skinned knees, broken bows, and a hundred small firsts—oh, my brave girl, and oh, my foolish girl, and oh, my heart. She reached across and laid her thumb against Serena's cheekbone, right where tears had threatened earlier. Then she looked at Ash.

"You'll walk the road beside her," she said. Not a question.

"Yes," Ash said.

"And when the road splits?"

"We braid it," Serena said. "And we meet at the crossings."

Grace nodded, satisfied as much by the we as by the plan itself. She rose, moved to the sink, and put her hands in water not because a bowl needed washing but because some feelings needed a ritual to keep them from boiling over.

"The stage can protect," she said, staring at her own reflection in the dishwater, the old advice finding its moment again. "It can give you light, and the light can hold back some kinds of darkness. But it can also blind. People will tell you who they are when they stare. Believe them, even if the applause is loud." She glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow lifted. "Both of you."

"We will," Serena said. Ash inclined—obedience promised, not just to the advice, but to the source.

A deep thump shook the side yard, followed by a delighted, throaty snort that translated cleanly to company, and also I am very impressive. A Rhyhorn, the color of good slate and road dust, peered in through the back door like a tourist whose tour group had abandoned her.

"Right on time," Grace said dryly. "She has opinions about strangers."

Eevee puffed herself up to a terrifying eight inches and chirped a greeting. Riolu, who understood that some opinions came with horns, approached with polite gravity. Ash rose automatically, palms open, posture soft but ready. The Rhyhorn investigated him thoroughly, which in her culture meant three sniffs, one snort, and the gentlest possible bump to the sternum that still nearly put him through the pantry door. He took it without flinching, laughed breathless, and put a hand to the broad, scarred bridge of her nose.

"Thank you," he said solemnly. "We'll bring her back in one piece."

The Rhyhorn exhaled so forcefully, Eevee's ribbon fluttered; approval accepted.

Grace watched the exchange, lips tugging. The ledger in her head—fear and pride, caution and welcome—ticked a column closed.

"Eat another slice," she said briskly, turning back to the table as if letting them go were just an item on a list. "You won't get food that tastes like anything on that ferry. Then, help me pack you a basket so I can worry about smaller things, like whether you're carrying enough napkins to survive a gale."

"Yes, ma'am," Ash and Serena said in unison, and the house—because houses are not just wood and habit—smiled and made room for the goodbye beginning to gather.

They left with their pockets heavier and their hearts steadier. Grace pressed a wicker basket into Serena's hands—wrapped parcel, two apples, a heel of bread, a small jar of jam that swore it was compote—then pulled them both into a final, unapologetic hug that smelled like cinnamon and dish soap.

"Dawn isn't patient," she said, kissing Serena's forehead and then, after a brief hesitation that wasn't really one, Ash's cheek. "So don't make it wait longer than you have to."

"We won't," Serena promised. Ash inclined, a quiet yes in the line of his shoulders.

They stepped out into the lane. Rhyhorn escorted them to the gate and snorted once, as if blessing the road. The morning had ripened into that clean gold that makes every surface look newly washed; dew pearl-strung on hedges; a thread of mist unwinding across the stream; laundry lines bright as staff notation.

They took the footpath that cut behind the orchard and drifted up through a stand of beech and oak, the world cooling as leaves layered the light. Riolu padded half a pace ahead, scanning; Eevee climbed Serena's shoulder to survey the kingdom she would be leaving and chirped at a particularly fat Pidgey who pretended not to be intimidated.

"You were good," Serena said once the house had rounded itself out of sight. "With her. With the questions."

"It helps when the questions come from someone who wants answers to help, not to own," Ash said. He glanced sideways. "She loves you like a lighthouse."

"She loves you like a storm door," Serena said, lips quirking. "Letting you in with a check of the hinges."

"I'll take it," Ash said, and did.

The path narrowed. The trees grew older here; trunks shouldered one another like elders swapping weather reports. The air smelled of damp stone and leaf tan. Serena felt herself breathing deeper without meaning to, the way you do when the room you've entered expects it.

"Tell me about the bell," she said. "What am I listening for?"

"Not the sound first," Ash said. "The answer behind it. Every shrine is built near a place where the world is a little thinner. Bell metal carries aura across that thinness. When you ring with an intention, the Root answers—sometimes like a second note braided under the first, sometimes like the wind saying yes." His mouth tipped. "Sometimes not at all. That's not refusal; that's drift. Wood and time are alive. You try again."

"And the pattern?" Serena asked. "You said bell codes."

"For messages," he said. "Two longs and a short might mean a courier came through; one long, three short might mean 'guardian in the area.' For vows and registrations, we don't get clever. We just ring true. Anyone who's attuned will hear what matters."

She smiled. "I like that. No riddles to join the secret club."

"Oh, we have plenty of those," he deadpanned. "We keep them for doors we'd rather not have to bar."

"Logistics truth," she said, eyes bright.

He made a show of looking wounded. "Stop. I'm being typecast."

They followed a bend where the path crossed a trickle of spring water. Ash knelt automatically, cupping his hands to rinse, then offered Serena a handful as if he were passing her a shared sentence. The cold bit and cleared. He shook his hands dry, wiped them on the inside hem of his tunic.

"First time I rang alone," he said, like a story you tell the road because it's the only thing that will understand in the right way. "I was twelve. A storm had taken the road in Johto. We'd shepherded a caravan off the ridge and down to a plaza with a shrine built into a wall. The elder with us said, 'Your hands. Your bell.' I thought I'd break it. I thought I'd ring wrong and the Root would write my name down under fool. He told me, 'If you ring honest, the tree will forgive technique.' He was right."

Serena's eyes softened. "You worry about doing it wrong more than you let on."

"I worry about doing it wrong when it matters," he said. "The trick is learning what matters. The bell matters." he pauses a beat. "You matter."

The path opened onto a little green. The shrine crouched at its far edge; four thick posts of old stone and a shallow roof of lapped slate. Time had rounded the corners; lichen had written its slow script across the uprights in greens and gray. A small brass bell hung under the roof, darkened by rain and the oil of hands. Someone had set offerings where the stone met earth: a smooth river rock, a plait of grass, a child's pink ribbon gone sun-faded to shell. Over the lintel, nearly swallowed by the lichen, a carver had once cut an oak leaf with a vein running to the heart—familiar to Ash, new and quietly thrilling to Serena.

"It's beautiful," she said, hushed not by rules but by appropriate awe.

"Older than the road that walks to it," Ash murmured. He stepped into the little square of shade beneath the roof and bowed his head; Riolu mirrored in miniature. Serena came beside him and did the same, not because anyone had asked, but because bodies know how to be respectful in old places if you let them.

"What do we do?" she whispered.

"Hands first," he said, nodding at the little basin set into the stone at one side, clear water fed by the same spring they'd crossed. They rinsed. He shook his fingers dry again and reached up for the bell rope—the braided hemp dark and patched in places, the knot big enough to hold in a storm.

"Long, then still," he said, not looking at her but speaking to her. "You'll want to chase the sound as it goes. Don't. Let it come back if it wants."

He put his weight into the rope and drew it down slow. The bell's mouth opened; the tone rose round and warm, not loud, not thin, a coin of sound laid gently on the air. It rolled out across the green and into the trees; leaves shivered; a finch startled, looked around, reconsidered, and stayed. Ash released the rope. Silence layered over the note like a second skin.

Then— an answer. Not a second bell, not exactly. A tone braided under the first, faint as memory, sure as heartbeat. Serena felt it more than heard it—along the line under her sternum, in the soft place behind her ears. Her eyes pricked. She didn't move. She didn't make it about her cleverness. She let it pass through.

Ash let out a breath he didn't know he'd held. "They heard."

"They said yes," she whispered, surprised by her certainty.

He smiled—small, fierce, relieved—and reached for a little shallow dish set on the altar stone, twin to the one in her apartment. This one held a few thin slivers of pale wood no longer than a palm. He picked one up between two fingers, set it in his left hand, and with his right traced a line in the air just above it. It brightened briefly, like wood catching a sunbeam. When he set it down, the grain had a darker thread running through it in the shape of a curve intersected by a smaller line—the shorthand of the Order for harbor sworn.

"This stays here," he said softly, placing the slip back in the dish. "They'll collect it or let it weather. Either way, the vow is on record where it needs to be."

Eevee, who had been achieving tragic levels of solemnity, perked and delicately set a sugar crystal from the basket on the altar as an offering, then looked around to see if anyone had noticed how pious she was. Riolu, affronted that anyone would try to bribe a tree, found the blue rose petal Serena had tucked into her bag lining and offered her a look, 'May I?' At her nod, he set it beside the crystal with reverence. The petal's blue was almost shocking against the old stone. The bell gave a little sympathetic shiver, as if a string somewhere very far away had been plucked in answer.

Serena swallowed around the sudden thickness in her throat. "What does it mean for me now? Beyond… being yours." The word came out steady and did not embarrass her.

"It means when I ring, the Root expects your echo," Ash said. "If a message comes through for me while you're in reach, you'll feel the tug. If I'm hurt and can't speak to another Guardian, a bell rung by your hands will carry our line as if it were mine." He hesitated. "It also means… if someone with bad hands listens for threads like ours, they can hear there is a thread. Not what it says. Not where it begins. Just that it exists."

Serena nodded, accepting both gift and hazard without dramatics. "So we're careful. We don't ring for attention. We ring for truth."

His mouth tipped. "Exactly."

He stepped back to give her the rope. "Will you?"

Her fingers closed over the hemp. It was rough against her skin in a way she liked—honest, unadorned. She drew down once, steady. The bell answered her no differently than it had him, which seemed correct; the tree didn't care about keeping score. When she released, she imagined the sound making its way along roots and stone and air until some quiet hall in Johto breathed "yes" back into the world.

"There," Ash said, voice gone thick at the edges. "Registered. Harbor sworn."

"Together," Serena said, and the bell's last shimmer seemed to agree.

They stood a moment longer in the old shade, letting their pulses fall into the same count. Serena pressed her palm to the altar's cool edge and felt a faint warmth in the stone's heart, as if all the vows left there had given it a low, abiding fire. She wondered how many strangers had made promises on this rock that had shaped their entire lives and never told anyone but the wind.

"Is it silly to say thank you?" she asked the stone, the bell, the leaf carved overhead.

"It's exactly right," Ash said, and bowed his head again. Riolu bowed so earnestly that it almost fell forward; Eevee bowed with one eye open to make sure no one missed the fact that she had bowed.

They stepped back into the green. The birdsong changed key as if the woods had accepted the new information and filed it appropriately. The path downward looked different only because they did—worlds don't rearrange themselves for two people, but sometimes they held the door a second longer when those two passed.

"Train in an hour," Serena said, checking the little brass-faced watch at her wrist. "If we walk, we just make it. If we run, we spill the basket."

"Walk," Ash said. "Grace's wrath is worse than missing a train."

"Logistics truth," Serena said solemnly, and he rolled his eyes because it would become a bit now, and he had no one to blame but himself.

They took the slope at an easy pace. The valley opened under them—Vaniville neat in its winter apron; the station a thumbprint; Grace's roof a familiar patch of red tile between two apple trees stripped to bone. Serena squeezed his hand once, not for courage, but for joy in the motion itself. He squeezed back. The bell's answer lingered in her body like a second heartbeat singing far away in oak-dark halls.

At the lane, the Rhyhorn had wandered off to supervise a different miracle, and the day had warmed enough to make their breath less visible. The road to the station shone; the rails beyond that pointed like a promise toward Coumarine and the sea.

"Ready?" Ash asked, looking not at the horizon first, but at her.

"Ready," Serena said.

They went.

They made the noon train with a handful of minutes to spare and the kind of breathless, laughing relief that turns waiting-room benches into milestones. The conductor—a tidy woman with an Ampharos badge stitched to her cap—punched their paper tickets and tipped a nod at Riolu.

"Good paws," she said. "Won't give me trouble?"

"Only if the trolley runs out of pastries," Serena said solemnly. Riolu pretended not to understand Human Sarcasm and sat perfectly, primly upright until the conductor moved on—then flicked its ears with unbearable dignity. Eevee, draped over Serena's shoulder like an expensive shawl that purrs, did not even pretend.

They found a window booth and slid in opposite each other, the basket between them. Out the window, Kalos spilled its colors—pasture green stitched with stone walls, fields combed in pale winter gold, ribbons of river glinting as if someone had threaded silver through the land. The train shouldered past a viaduct, and the world fell briefly away, then returned in a wash of light.

Serena untied the basket with a flourish and produced Grace's parable-in-pastry, the bread heel, the two apples, and the jar of compote like a magician revealing the day's fortune. "Choose your fate."

Ash plucked up an apple, then the jar. "This is the one with brandied pears, isn't it?"

Her eyes lit. "You remember."

"I remember you called it 'winter sunshine for emergencies.'" He twisted the lid, the scent of fruit and spice curling out, and his smile went soft. "Smells like your house."

"It smells like my mother's coping mechanism," she said, laughing. "But yes."

They ate with the easy greed of travelers. Eevee stared at spoonfuls like they were moral tests Serena kept failing; Riolu accepted his piece of bread with both paws, bowed at the jar gravely, then set the crust on the windowsill to dry "for later," as if training austerity were a game he could win.

When the trolley did arrive—tea, paper-wrapped sandwiches, an alarming selection of nougat—Serena bought a tin of candied ginger "for the sea" and a pair of Lumiose galettes as if they'd offend the city if left behind. Ash fished exact change out of some hidden pocket and slid the rest of his coin to the trolley boy when he thought Serena wasn't looking. She was. She bumped his boot under the table.

"Stop being good in secret," she said.

"I'm in training," he said.

"For what?"

"For being good where you can see it."

She made a show of considering. "Keep it up," she said lightly, but the warmth in it reached him.

The countryside rose and shifted into terraced hills—stone steps laid into vine-scarred slopes where Skiddo grazed, sure-hooved on impossible angles. A farmer in a wool cap lifted two fingers from a fencepost as the train passed; Serena lifted her hand back without thinking. Ash watched the gesture—hers and the farmer's—and looked out at the small threads that tie a place together, the ones his work usually asked him to walk past without tugging. The hum under his sternum sat steady, companionable.

"Wanna play a game?" Serena asked, wiping compote from one knuckle with the pad of her thumb. "Like an understand-you game."

"I'm game," he said, smiling. "I'm not very… practiced though."

"Good," she said, smiling back. "Then I'll win."

He arched an eyebrow. "Is that how games work?"

"In my apartment it is," she said, then, "Three things. Lightning round."

"Go on."

"Favorite smell," Serena said, ticking a finger. "Favorite weather. One thing you like about yourself that has nothing to do with fighting."

He huffed, surprised. "Attack on three fronts."

"Logistics truth," she said, and he gave up with a laugh.

"Favorite smell," he said, eyes flicking toward the window as if to fetch it. "The first breath after rain on hot stone. The moment the heat and the water… agree." He watched the answer land in her face before he went on. "Favorite weather: mornings that start cold and turn warm enough your scarf feels like a friend, not a mistake. And—" he hesitated, as if this third bit required more courage "—I'm good at remembering people's better selves. Even when they aren't… being them. I don't forget."

Serena's throat worked. "That's a dangerous kindness," she said. Then she smiled. "It's a beautiful one."

"Your turn," he said quickly, as if deflecting a blow he wanted and didn't.

She tucked a loose hair behind her ear and pretended to think. "Favorite smell," she said. "Blue roses after rain—sweet and a little green, like they changed their mind halfway through being flowers and decided to try being wind instead. Favorite weather: the golden hour that happens in dance studios when the light hits the mirrors and the room looks like it knows a secret. And a thing I like about myself?" She tapped her lip. "I'm good at learning how to try again." She met his eyes. "Even when I'm tired."

He looked at her like she'd handed him a blade wrapped in velvet and asked him to keep it safe. "You are," he said simply.

They fell into quieter talk as the train threaded through tunnels and burst out onto bridges punched through the cliff. Serena told him about a contest judge who wore too much cologne and cried at all the wrong times; he told her about an elder who could set six cups of tea on a tray, cross a rope bridge in a gale, and never spill a drop—"He said the trick is pretending the cups aren't yours long enough to get them where they're needed." They bickered about whether Smeargle was an automatic win in Coordinating if the theme was "lines". Serena thought it would be a shallow tactic, while Ash found it strategic, with Eevee looking offended at the thought. They also discussed whether Machoke can ever look natural in a scarf. Serena was on team, absolutely not, while Ash thought they could 'train for it.' At some point, Eevee slithered into Serena's lap and fell sideways with a sigh that would've shamed a fainting couch. Riolu, stoic until his eyes betrayed him, dozed sitting up, paw unconsciously pressed to Ash's knee like an anchor.

"Now the hard one," Serena said, softer as the rhythm of the train settled into a heartbeat. "First date."

He blinked. It was so far from the halls and maps and bells that for a second, he looked genuinely wrong-footed. Then his smile turned boyish. "This is a date?"

Her mouth curved. "A train, a city, pastries, asking questions we could save for later, and aren't—if it isn't one, it's an audition."

He matched her tone. "Am I doing well?"

"You brought apples and a small sense of humor," she said. "You're hired."

He exhaled, some private strap loosening another notch. "Then… first date," he tried the words on his tongue. "Crepes by the water. A walk that goes nowhere in particular. One of us buys a ribbon from a stall—wrong color—and the other wears it anyway because that's what you do when you're choosing."

Her gaze snagged on his mouth. "That's… specific."

"I've read," he said, ears coloring. "And watched. And wanted." He held her eyes now. "What about you?"

Serena's voice found a level somewhere between bold and careful. "We split the crepe, and you take the first bite and pretend it's not too hot. Then I insist on paying for the ribbon because you bought the ferry tickets. Then I make you try on three and choose, and you refuse to be ridiculous, and then you are ridiculous, and I—" she faltered, laughed at herself "—and I fall for you harder."

Silence, warm and easy, spread between them. Outside, a gull—or something like it—rode the wind like a coin flicking, catching the sun and hiding it again. The land flattened and broke open to blue—a crescent of sea glittering under the cliff.

"Coumarine," Ash said.

The city unfurled from the cliff like a garden poured over steps; lower docks bristling with masts and cranes, upper avenues green with bowers and wind-bent trees, the monorail shining up the slope like a polished spine. A great old tree crowned the upper terrace, branches low and generous as if holding the whole place in one cupped hand. The train nosed into the station; the smell of salt and tar and crushed herbs climbed aboard, welcoming.

They disembarked with the small bustle of travelers who belonged; Serena resting the basket in the crook of one arm, Ash shouldering a modest pack with the other hand free, Riolu and Eevee weaving their practiced figure eight around knees and luggage like partners who'd rehearsed. Outside the station, a boy with a bell strapped to his ankle hawked sea bands for motion sickness; a woman sold strings of dried oran and sitris for sailors' luck. Street musicians plucked something sprightly under a pergola, and the breeze smudged the tune into new shapes.

"Upper city first," Serena said, eyes already glancing up to the gardens. "Then down to the docks."

"The ferry office is lower," Ash offered. "Tickets in cash, two bunks, no registry names."

"Two bunks," she agreed, then, teasing, "For now."

He choked on absolutely nothing. She pretended not to notice, a grace extended with great professionalism. "Come on," she added, mercifully, and tugged him toward the monorail.

The car climbed in a smooth arc, suspending them above rosemary hedges and the lantern glow of glasshouses. From up there, Coumarine's voices braided—gulls, ropes knocking hollow against masts, a gym bell somewhere striking a clean quarter-hour. A groundskeeper waved with a rake held like a standard; Eevee waved back with her whole body. Riolu pretended not to be fascinated by the view and then finally pressed his forehead to the glass like a kid.

They stepped out into dappled shade and thyme-scented air. The upper gardens were half terrace, half wild, with benches tucked into viney arbors and little plaques naming herbs in neat script. Serena drifted toward a stall that sold ribbons, naturally, and spun in a circle of fluttering fabric like a planet testing new atmospheres. A woman with silver hair and a smile like tea poured into a cold cup spread a fan of sea-colored choices.

"This one," Ash heard himself say before he could be shy about it, and pointed to a ribbon the exact green of whitecaps in sun. "Seafoam."

Serena lifted it against her hair, turned to the little pocket mirror the vendor held up, and arched a brow at him in question.

"It looks like you're about to make the ocean behave," he said, dead serious.

She watched his face—the unstudied sincerity of it—then lowered the ribbon and paid before he could argue, pressing coins into the vendor's palm like a secret. The woman tucked a second ribbon into the paper without comment—blue—and winked at Serena like she had been young yesterday and hadn't forgotten the trick of it.

They walked to the railing at the terrace edge and leaned their elbows on warm stone. Below, the docks jostled and shone—boats in neat rows, the long ferries hulking like patient beasts. Serena tied the seafoam ribbon into her braid without looking away from the water; Ash watched her do it like an old ritual he'd somehow been missing his whole life.

"Do I have pastry on my face?" he asked suddenly, because she was staring at his mouth.

"A little," she said, then reached up and thumbed a granule of sugar from his lower lip with a tenderness that was almost ceremonial. His breath caught; her cheeks colored; Eevee, scandalized, made a sound like a teakettle and then ruined her moral stance by begging for a bite of nougat. Riolu leaned politely the other way and studied an herb label with excessive academic interest.

"Thank you," Ash said, voice low.

"You're welcome," she said, eyes bright.

They hit the practicals to steady themselves. Ferry office; two berths in a shared cabin,

"If there's trouble, the noise wakes us," Ash said. "If there's not, we upgrade next time," Serena countered.

They paid cash; their names were practically smudges that the clerk would forget by morning. Serena bought seasickness bands because she believed in prevention; Ash bought a small tin of sailors' salve because he believed in hands that didn't split when the wind turned mean. They shared a crepe from a corner stall—lemon and sugar, the paper hot against their wrists—and took turns taking the too-hot first bite.

"You're ridiculous," she told him when he pretended his tongue wasn't suffering.

"You called it," he said around a wince.

They made for the lighthouse just to look, but the stairs were many and the time was short, so they stood at its foot and promised it a sunset another day. They watched a skiff come in under oars, a girl at the bow holding a line of glimmering Chinchou like a necklace against the water, and a boy on the dock waving so hard he nearly pitched himself in. A drunk argued with a Pelipper about wages and lost spectacularly. A Ranger pinned a notice to a board about odd lights reported off Azure Bay on the last new moon—observe, report, do not pursue—and Ash's eyes went there and then away, obeying his own advice about not hunting on your first day in a new room.

They checked their packs in the shadow of the ferry warehouse. Serena retied her seafoam ribbon tighter. Ash fixed a strap and checked the angle of the sun like a habit. Coumarine breathed around them, indifferent and welcoming at the same time. Serena felt the hum under her sternum stretch toward the water and then settle. He met her gaze and smiled, small and sure.

"First date," he said, as if testing the words against the wind one more time. "How are we doing?"

She let her shoulder brush his. "Crepe, ribbon, walking nowhere particular," she ticked off, then looked out to sea and let her voice soften. "And choosing."

He turned his hand palm-up on the railing. She laid hers in it for a moment—warm, uncomplicated, public in the gentlest way—and the bond thrummed once like a bell under oak.

Down at the dock, a horn gave a long, courteous bellow. A deckhand lifted three fingers, then two.

"Time," Ash said.

Serena's smile kinked into mischief. "Race you to the gangway?"

He glanced at the basket, at Eevee's solemn and immediate no, at Riolu's prim we are in public posture. "We'll call it a brisk walk," he compromised.

"Logistics truth," she said, and he groaned, laughing as they turned toward the ferry together as the third bell began to sound.

The ferry took them like a patient beast—broad-backed, and iron-ribbed, smelling of salt and old rope. The gangway thudded into place; deckhands called numbers; gulls heckled the enterprise from the pilings like critics who hadn't paid for tickets. Ash and Serena filed aboard with travelers and traders, their cabin keys tied to a splintered ring by twine thin as fishing line. Riolu took it all in with a soldier's calm; Eevee, having decided ships were merely very large, very noisy stages, accepted the adoration of three children and a bored Machop with regal dignity.

Their berths were two narrow bunks in a four-bed cabin, the other two claimed by absence and a pair of rolled tarps that smelled like work. The room's single porthole framed a thin cut of sea. When the engines thrummed to life, the glass vibrated—a heartbeat the size of a town. Serena pressed her palm to it and felt the bass note enter her bones.

"Seasick?" Ash asked, setting their packs into the wall cage. His hand hovered at her elbow, not quite a touch.

She rotated the sea bands on her wrist, amused. "Prepared is not the same as doomed. If I lean, will you steady me?"

"Yes," he said, so simply that her cheeks warmed.

They claimed the lower bunks. Eevee tested the upper one with a gymnast's leap, decided it was beneath her, and then stole Serena's pillow. Riolu curled neatly under Ash's bed, spine aligned with the ship's, eyes on the threshold like a door god.

They found the day's rhythm quick; bells and chowder, sea and sky, the deck angled underfoot like a sentence that ran a little uphill. Lunch was handed through a hatch by a woman with arms like dock pilings; thick fish stew with krill and carrots, bread torn from a long loaf and passed down the line by strangers who were strangers less with each piece. They ate shoulder to shoulder on a bench, steam fogging the small of Serena's throat. Ash pretended to find bones for Riolu to "inspect," at which Riolu pretended to be very stern, at which Eevee pretended to starve.

"Signal practice," Serena said when the bowls were clean, tapping two fingers against her wrist in a rhythm. "Daily, urgent, burn."

He wiped his hands, grew a shade more formal, and nodded. They stood by the rail, elbows friends. "Daily," he said. "Dawn or after-show, we say 'clear, cloud, wind.' We do it even when we're together."

"Rhythm," she echoed. "Not trust."

"Right." He lifted his palm an inch from hers over the rail. "Urgent: one pulse if words aren't safe; two if you want me to listen; three if you need me moving."

She lifted hers to meet, not touching, their hands making a small gate for the wind to pass through. "If I have to use three and you can't come right away—"

"Three back," he said. "It says, 'I heard. I'm on the road.'"

"And 'burn'?" Her voice was quiet enough that the wind almost used it as a pocket to carry itself.

"If the pattern we're walking becomes a map in someone else's hand," he answered, eyes on the line where blue met bluer, "we leave it. We drop public routes and move by shrines. We abandon wins we can't carry without carrying danger too." He grimaced, honest. "I'll hate it. But we'll do it."

She slid her pinkie against his. It wasn't a childhood promise, not exactly, but the echo of one. "If we burn," she said, "we carry what matters in us. The rest can drown."

He turned his hand and took her pinkie properly, then let it go again. "Understood."

In the afternoon, the ship settled into its crossing breath—a long inhale as it climbed swells, a shorter exhale sliding down. They walked the deck in that rhythm, counting steps between cleats, learning the ship's vocabulary by feel. Ash showed Serena how to stand so the roll lifted her, not shoved her—knees loose, spine soft, eyes on a near horizon rather than the far one. Serena showed Ash how to wear a crowd and not be worn by it—tilt the shoulders, occupy the middle of your own air, borrow another pair of footfalls to make yours less interesting.

They played crowd tricks for each other like children trading secret handshakes. Ash taught her the guardian's vanish—chin lowered, energy drawn thin, gaze unfocused just past people, so eyes slipped off you. Serena countered with stagecraft—shoulders back, light finding your cheekbones, breath that told an audience when to inhale. They took turns practicing in the cramped corridor while two sailors pretending not to watch delivered swabs and rope, and one finally clapped when Serena disappeared so effectively he had to double-take to find her.

"Stage wins," Ash said mildly.

"Only because the stage cheats," she replied, pleased.

At sundown, the ferry's shadow grew long enough to trip over its own feet. Lanterns bloomed one by one in their cages. The wind picked up a voice and tasted of iron. The crew tied extra lines without ceremony, a conversation with the weather that used their hands as grammar. Serena tugged Ash's cloak tighter around him without comment; he didn't argue.

The storm didn't arrive like a drumroll. It shouldered in sideways, a birthed thing, low and gray, chewing miles. Rain came knotted, the wind rose, and the deck turned slick as glass. The ferry creaked like an old song. For two long hours, the world narrowed to wet grip, to horizons erased, to the tastes of salt and effort.

Serena's stomach wobbled, considered a rebellion, then listened to the sea bands and stood down. Eevee made an enemy of the wind, bracing on Serena's shoulder with a tiny warrior face; Riolu lowered himself into a weather stance, paws wide, weight steady. A deckhand slipped near the aft stairs—only a flinch—but Ash moved without thinking, two steps, hand on collar, weight back on his heels like he was anchoring a kite. The deckhand regained his footing and shot him a look like who taught you to catch falling sky? Ash only nodded as if the answer were a thing with the right to remain secret.

Later, when the ferry had shaken the worst of the storm and the rain thinned to needles, they found a sheltered spot by the break of the bow, out of the direct bite of the wind. The sea heaved under the skin of night; from the west, lightning laced from cloud to cloud, heatless at that distance. Serena's hair had escaped in strands, the ribbon damp and dark. Ash reached to smooth an errant curl behind her ear and paused, asking with his eyes. She tipped her head for him, and he did it like it mattered, which it did.

"Teach me to listen," she said after a time, voice a little hoarse from weather and awe. "Not the bells. The other way. The way you hear when the world is going wrong."

He considered, then nodded, drawing her to a spot shielded by a bulkhead. Riolu posted a foot away; Eevee tucked into Serena's scarf as if to eavesdrop.

"Close your eyes," he murmured. "Let the big noises be background. Don't fight them—let them wash past you. Now—find something small. The tap of a halyard clip. The beat of your own pulse in your throat. The… tiny difference between wind across a rope and wind across a railing."

It sounded like nonsense, until it didn't. The big sounds fell into layers. Serena found she could hear a loose spoon in a galley drawer, a drip counting time at the base of a stair; the whisper of her own breath. And—beneath—something… else.

"There," she whispered. "A… wrong smoothness."

His mouth turned, pleased. "Good. The sea is busy. But here—tonight—there's a current under a current. Not strong. Just… coaxed." He tilted his head toward the dark, as if to a stranger across a room. "I've felt this in rivers where old mills used to be. The water remembers being told to turn. It's not a threat. It's a habit that shouldn't be here."

"Pattern," Serena said quietly.

"Pattern," he agreed. "And we don't pull it tonight. We note it."

They stood listening to the wrong-smoothness and the right-kind of noise until it passed, or they moved out of its path, or it simply stopped pretending to be a stream and went back to being sea. Lightning stitched the far clouds again. The ferry kept breathing.

At night, they learned the small details about each other. Serena stretched in the cabin, rolling her ankles, loosening her hips, and coaxing sore spots from her shoulders with a little cork ball while Eevee supervised like a toxic coach. Ash wrapped and unwrapped his hands, flexed fingers, rotated wrists, and ran through grip drills with a strip of leather he tied to the bunk post. He showed her how he keeps tremors at bay when he's tired—breathing into the fingers, not the palm, letting the shake have somewhere to go that wasn't his grip. She showed him the dancer's breath that smooths the line between big movements and soft ones, a way to make effort look like ease.

They traded stories like talismans. Serena confessed to once tripping over a stage monitor and turning it into choreography so convincingly that a judge sent her a note about the "bold, grounded shapes." Ash admitted to spending an entire winter in the Root failing a balance drill until an elder laughed and told him to stop fighting the tree and let it move him. They invented a running bit about Machoke in scarves that grew increasingly elaborate and may never be fit for public consumption. They kissed in the shadow of the bunk—soft, learning; then laughed into each other's mouths when the ship lurched and they bumped noses.

On the second night, the stars came out in a ragged spill between cloud banks. They lay on the top deck with their backs to the warm, damp planks, heads almost touching, and drew pictures with words instead of hands. Serena traced a line from one bright point to another; "There's the crown," she said, "and the net beneath it." Ash countered, "There's a road that goes away and comes home." Eevee fell asleep belly-up between them, paws ticking; Riolu sat guard with his chin on Ash's boot and drifted in a hover between vigilance and dozing.

"First date, day two," Serena said, smiling at the sky. "Grade us."

"Pass," he said.

"Just pass?"

"Pass with a note; see me after class," he murmured.

"What for?"

"For extra credit."

She turned her head, laughing. His profile in the star-wash made her breath catch—the line of his cheek, the old scar at his collarbone a ghost in moonless light. She reached for his hand without looking at it and found it waiting.

On the third morning, the sea lay like hammered pewter. The engines eased; the captain's voice came over a dented speaker with the calm of someone who had watched a thousand dawns change their minds. They queued for breakfast: porridge that could be sweet or salted depending on how your grandmother raised you, and an orange shared four ways. They shared a bolt of laughter when the Pelipper from the docks flew past, made scandalized eye contact with Ash as if continuing an argument, and dropped a fish onto the deck out of spite. Riolu retrieved it with dignified horror; a deckhand cheered as if salvation had come from a very small, very blue saint.

By the afternoon, the wind turned friendly again. Serena practiced ribbon figures in a patch of empty deck, the seafoam green carving loops through the air, lightly accepted and returned. Ash stood at the rail and looked not out but down, reading the ship's wake like lines in a palm. He sketched their route in his head the way the Order taught—edges and absence, what the water didn't say as much as what it did.

"Teach me to send," Serena said, panting, cheeks flushed, ribbon coiled at last around her wrist like a living band. "You said pulses. I want to try."

He stepped close, gentled her hands into his. "Small," he said. "A candle-flame, not a flare. The bond knows your name now. It'll come if you call."

They stood with foreheads almost touching, the world hovering politely at the edges while they did something that belonged only to them. Serena closed her eyes. In for four. Hold one. Out for four. She imagined the hum under her sternum as a thread she could pluck with one perfect, careful finger. It quivered—then sang, just a little. Ash exhaled as if a long-held breath had found its end. A warmth tickled his palm.

"There," he whispered. "I felt you."

"I—" she laughed, startled and proud and shy at once "—I felt me touch you."

"Again," he said, grinning now, and she did, once, twice, a third time, then reversed it—held still, and felt him pulse back, a soft hello on the inside of her skin.

Eevee butted their knees jealously; Riolu laid a paw on both their feet like a benediction. The ship sailed on, water hissing away from the prow.

That evening, crew stories circled the galley like gulls. A man with a scarred chin swore he'd seen St. Elmo's fire—blue light licking the masts—on a night much like this. A woman with tattooed wrists said odd lanterns were bobbing far out at Azure Bay during the last new moon—too regular to be fishermen, too quiet to be a storm. The petty officer rolled his eyes and told them to drink water with their rum. Ash listened, face still, the way he does when he's not a Guardian and he is. Serena, sitting close enough that their shoulders exchanged warmth, rested her head briefly against him and felt him answer by not moving, letting her weight ask what it needed.

On their last night at sea, clouds thinned to gauze. The lane between stars and water narrowed until it felt like the ferry might step off the edge of one and onto the lip of the other. They stood at the bow and watched nothing dramatic happen, which was the relief of it. He set his cloak around her shoulders without making a scene of the gesture; she tugged it closer and made no show of giving it back.

"Tomorrow?" she said.

"Vermilion," he said, and the word wore salt and iron and chance.

"And then—"

"Pallet," he said, and didn't try to hide the way his throat moved around it.

She took his hand, feelers of fear and hope meeting in the palm. "I'll be there."

"I know," he said, and for a long time, they let the water speak every word they didn't say.

Near dawn, a change came into the air—tar, rope, something like burnt sugar—and the birds grew louder, confident. The ferry answered a distant horn with one of its own; the engine tone shifted, eager and careful at once.

Ash glanced at Serena; Serena lifted her chin; Riolu stood; Eevee, affronted at morning, yawned a yawn that could have swallowed a city.

Ahead, not yet visible but close enough to taste, a harbor gathered itself to receive them. The sea narrowed to a throat; the sky paled.

They went to the rail together, fingers finding each other's without searching. Tomorrow would have a name. Tonight still belonged to the road between.

The harbor came first as smell—the tar, the rope, iron, the faint sweetness of fried batter from some brave stall that defied wind—and then as sound; gulls heckling, horns conversing in long vowels, the clack of hooks in rings and rings in ropes. The ferry's engines throttled down; lines sang off the capstans; a mate's whistle cut clean through noise and made it momentarily choose a key.

Vermilion rose like a shoulder from the sea—low warehouses with corrugated backs, cranes hunched like steel herons, a grid of streets that had learned to square themselves against storms. The long breakwater wore a seam of white water where tide met stone, but even there, something was… bent. Ash felt it as they eased in; a current under a current, the same wrong-smoothness he and Serena had listened to at sea, now braided thinly through the harbor mouth as if someone had once said turn and the water had remembered.

They stepped down the gangway with the practiced hush of travelers who were listening. Riolu touched the pier with one paw and set his stance; Eevee lifted her nose and sniffed the entire city, then sneezed like she had accepted the terms.

"Welcome to Vermilion," Serena murmured, eyes bright, skirt tugged by the salt wind. Posters flapped on a nearby board—shipments, crews wanted, a faded flyer for a "Thunder Cup" exhibition night at the Gym, and, below it, a notice sheet headed KANTO PERFORMANCE CALENDAR in block type. Serena leaned in; rougher venues than Kalos, fewer feathers, more smoke. Celadon Garden Showcase, Saffron Stage Residency, Vermilion Summer Festival, and more! She smiled, small. "They like their light louder here."

"It's a different light," Ash said, reading the room as if it were a person—work boots, patched jackets, stained hands. "But light still."

They let the flow carry them up the wharf road. Vendors recommended everything with the urgency of those who know rent was due at the same time every month; skewers of grilled tentacool flashing with oil and spice; paper cones of chips fried in fat that had known a thousand potatoes before; stalls hung with coils of line, brass cleats, battered lanterns. A man sold old league badges from a velvet board; Ash glanced once, catalogued fakes by weight and scratch, and moved on. A girl in a blue jacket darted through the crowd with a camera slung to her sternum, snapping pictures of seamen's hands; she had a ribbon threaded through her ponytail like a dare.

"The aura feels… heavier," Serena said quietly. It did—more iron filings in the magnet, more grit in the hum.

Ash nodded. "The city is built on work and weather. People here grow a layer against both. It makes the flow dense." He lifted a palm just above the tide of passersby, not touching anyone, and read the texture of motion like braille. "We blend better if we look like we're going somewhere."

"We are," she said. She took his elbow—public, ordinary—and steered them toward a side street where the wind ran less hard and the sun could find them.

They ducked into a narrow alley of shops that smelled like rope and oranges. Serena bought a roll of rosin for her shoes from a little bin near a stack of violin cases. The clerk didn't ask; everyone had a stage somewhere. Ash picked up a field kit—salve, wrap, a tin of balm whose label claimed to make calluses "behave"—and slid coins across without a name to tie them to. Riolu examined a crate of Pokéblocks with the clinical air of a customs agent; Eevee put one in her mouth, decided it had the texture of punishment, and spat it into Serena's palm like a complaint filed in triplicate.

Back on the main road, a crowd gathered abruptly near a hitching rail where a sailor and a dockhand were in the first messy notes of a fight. A spilled crate of Cheri and Nanab had rolled underfoot; someone had said a word too loud, and pride had taken over the task. The sailor was big and clumsy with drink; the dockhand was tired and dangerous with it. People made that half-circle humans make when they half-want to see a thing and half-hope it won't happen.

Ash felt it before it really had a shape—the string pulled too tight, the snap queued up on the nerve. He moved as if he were adjusting his cloak against a gust, stepping in between, hands open. The sailor's fist came like a falling bucket; Ash shifted two inches, enough to make the weight find air. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't force. He just gave the punch somewhere to go that wasn't a face. The dockhand's knee jerked toward a bad decision; Ash set his palm lightly to the man's sternum—not a push, a reminder—and the knee found ground instead.

"Hey," he said, calm, like water finding its level. "You almost stepped on your fruit. That's forty credits of sorry under your heel."

It was the right sentence. The dockhand startled as if someone had reminded him of his own paycheck. The sailor blinked and looked at his empty hand as if it had betrayed him. The circle breathed out. Ash bent, scooped two Cheri and a Nanab, set them neatly back in the crate. The men muttered apologies with the ragged grace of people who needed to leave with dignity. A gull laughed like it had seen better fights. The city moved on.

Serena was already moving again, but her glance brushed his cheek like a hand. That was risky, a thank you, and I'm proud, were in that glance.

He caught the first and answered it under the others. "I know," he said quietly. "We keep it small."

She slid her fingers along his sleeve for a heartbeat. "We keep it small and right." The hum under her sternum agreed.

They found the Gym without trying to—the building held its corner with square shoulders and a roofline like a jaw. A Thunderbolt sign, old but well-kept, crackled faintly in the damp. The doors were shut; a placard listed hours; a second notice—new paper, written with careful penmanship—announced an inspection had postponed two open-challenge days and rescheduled them to align with a festival down the coast. Ash felt the little click of a mental drawer opening; careful penmanship. It matched the packet's whisper. He didn't touch the sign. He watched who was reading it. Two boys in brand-name jackets and a woman in a high-visibility vest made faces of ordinary annoyance. A man in a plain cap didn't react at all. That was the reaction Ash was interested in. He remembered the cap.

"Festival board must be happy," Serena said, scanning the board beside the door. The performance calendar here duplicated the harbor list but with hand notes—Celadon adds projection rig, ask Bianca—and a crossed-out line where a Lavender memorial show had been cancelled "for structural concerns." Her mouth pressed sideways. "I could fill a month with this. It would be a mess, but a fun mess."

"We'll need at least one date in Saffron for your inventory and my questions," Ash said. "But not today." He glanced up the street toward rails that led out of town. "Viridian's bell calls first."

"And then Pallet," Serena said

"And then Pallet," Ash echoed quietly.

They ate standing up—paper boats of takoyaki so hot they made their eyes water, slashed with sauce and brightened with shaved bonito that curled like it wanted to dance. Serena handed Ash the first one as if testing whether he would learn; he burned only a little and grinned at his own failure. They drank calpis and water and laughed when Eevee stole a single bonito flake and made a ceremony of chewing it. Riolu accepted one meticulously de-oiled dumpling and sat with it like a philosopher considering an idea.

By the train spur that ran inland, they paused under an awning to share a quiet minute before the new road. A man in a long coat leaned on a bollard and watched the crowd with the mild patience of someone waiting for someone else. A girl in a contest jacket slipped off a different ferry two piers down, a ribbon pinned to her bag—Sinnoh blue—but her eyes were on the harbor, not them, and then a friend caught her shoulder and spun her, and the moment broke. From a crane's shadow above, another gaze—cool, unreadable—held them for three heartbeats and then slid away. Vermilion had a lot of eyes. Not all eyes meant danger. Some meant appetite. Some meant news. Some meant nothing at all. Ash filed the looks, not the faces.

They cut through the market to buy what the road prefers you to carry: a paper map of Kanto crisscrossed with pencilable routes; a coil of light line; a tin whistle because Serena said every journey should have one useless instrument; dried oran and pecha cut into strips for pockets that forget they're empty. Ash added a packet of Lavender incense without comment and felt the pinch of wrongness at the base of his skull ease half a notch as the scent threaded the air.

"Bus?" Serena asked, eyeing a timetable board that claimed to obey clocks.

"Foot," Ash said, eyes reading the sky and the city's shoulders. "We keep our own schedule until we have to answer to someone else's."

And they kept it.

The southern road out of Vermilion began like a promise and turned almost immediately into work—boardwalk over marsh smell, then hard-packed dirt between stands of wind-cut tamarisk, then a proper lane that tied itself to hedgerows and stone. Vermilion's noise washed thinner with every dozen steps until it became weather behind them. Ahead, Kanto lay sheathed in winter colors—stone walls, hill shoulders, small orchards holding their breath until spring. A sign pointed west toward Route 11 and Diglett's Cave; another at an angle offered Saffron by way of Route 6. Ash paused, set both paths in his head, then shook out the map and ran a finger over the lines.

"We should go to Diglett's Cave if we want fast and quiet," he said. "And to Saffron, if we want trains and eyes." He didn't say or trouble. He didn't need to. "Either way puts us on Viridian's road by dusk tomorrow if we move."

Serena studied the wind at the path's lip and the way Riolu's ears took its measure. "Diglett's Cave," she said. "Save the city for a day we want it."

He nodded, content, and they turned their feet toward Route 11.

Behind them, Vermilion continued being itself—a harbor full of honest theft and careful hands, a grid that wore weather like a coat, a gym that would open its doors when its penmanship said it could and not a second before. On the notice board by the piers, a new flyer went up over the Performance Calendar while they walked away: "Vermilion Summer Exhibition — Coordinators Welcome." A thumb smoothed the top edge flat. The thumb belonged to someone whose sleeve didn't match the job.

Farther up the street, in the reflection of a bait shop window, a plain cap turned just enough to follow two small shapes and the two larger ones they matched. Only for a moment. Only long enough to set a thought to steep.

On the road, Serena retied her seafoam ribbon and glowed like she had stolen a piece of the harbor's light to keep. Ash touched two fingers to the paper map, as if checking the world would agree to be the size it needed to be. Riolu trotted at his heel, scenting loam and salt turned to earth. Eevee rode Serena's shoulder, tail arched like a pennant.

"Viridian," Serena said.

"And then Pallet," Ash answered, and the way he said it made it both destination and door.

They left Vermilion with salt still in their hair and the taste of iron in their teeth, the city's square shoulders shrinking behind them until cranes were scribbles against a hard blue sky. The southern wind pushed at their backs, impatient. Ahead, Route 11 cut east like a vein, pale dust stitched between hedges, winter grass whispering to itself.

By late afternoon, the ditch birds had grown bold, and the road had quieted. The hedges lowered; the land flattened. A weathered sign leaned three degrees off true; DIGLETT'S CAVE — CAUTION: VIBRATION ZONE. Someone had tucked a little paper ofuda charm into a crack in the post. Serena touched it lightly, the way you brush fingers across a friend's shoulder as you pass.

"Single file," Ash said softly as the world sloped into scrub and stone. "Light feet. If the ground hums—stop. Let it pass."

Riolu dropped into a measured, narrow gait, feelers trembling. Eevee shifted from Serena's shoulder to the crook of her arm, eyes bright, her tail a metronome she consciously stilled. The cave mouth opened like a wound in the hillside—low, round, edges polished by generations of bodies. The breath that came out of it was cool and smelled of damp earth and the iron tang of old stone.

Inside, the light narrowed to a copper ribbon from Ash's hand-lamp and a second from Serena's, banded on her wrist with a strip of seafoam ribbon like a promise she'd tied to herself. The floor was packed clay, the ceiling low enough that Ash had to tip his head. The hum was everywhere—small paws in distant dark, the click and whisper of earth remade.

They went slow. "Listen with your feet," Ash murmured. "Not your ears. Keep your weight forward, ready to lift."

Serena did. It changed everything. The cave's music came up through her soles; a skitter there, a rumble far ahead, a gentle tapping like rain that had learned to walk. Once the ground buzzed, a quick, annoyed tremor like a reprimand; they halted, held their breaths. A Diglett surfaced a yard away, regarded them with the deeply offended dignity of a landlord discovering tenants, then slipped back under with a sound like a sigh. A minute later, the hum moved past down another tunnel. Ash breathed again, slowly.

"Offer," Serena whispered, remembering old stories about roads and the things that owned them. She slipped a strip of dried oran from her pocket and laid it on a flat rock as if paying a toll. The hum seemed to approve—no less present, but less bristled. Riolu's ears eased. Eevee, who doubted the ability of anyone to say no to her, batted the oran once toward the rock to improve the presentation. It stayed.

They threaded the maze by vibration and patience. Where the tunnel branched, Ash laid a fingertip to the wall and felt which way the ground was quieter; where the ceiling dipped, Serena reached without thinking and smoothed the back of his tunic so his head wouldn't clip stone, the gesture so ordinary and intimate it felt like a candle pushed deeper into the dark. Twice they stopped for a Dugtrio—the slow, rolling thunder of it moving under and around them like a living seam ripper—and once for a collapse deeper in the warren, a muffled cough and then a sigh as the earth resettled. They waited that one out with lamps hooded, hands linked, breaths counted together until the cave remembered itself.

When they finally blinked into daylight, the sun's angle had tipped toward evening. The exit gave onto a stand of pines; resin burned the air, sharp and clean. They emerged onto Route 2 a few bends north of Viridian, and the sudden green made Serena's chest ache. Not Kalos green—tidy, tended—but Kanto green, raw at the edges, hedged by scrub oak and stubborn stone.

The forest line lay to their right—darker trees, deeper shade—the edge of Viridian Forest swelling and settling like a living chest. The sight pulled at Ash with a hand he hadn't known was still on him. For a breath, his vision doubled; this grove, those shadows; that grove, that shadow, a roar; small hands hauling him over roots; the taste of copper and panic. The hum under his sternum lifted—not warning, recognition. He swallowed. The old fear didn't bite. It set its head on his knee and panted, tired.

Serena's fingers found his—no question, no speech—and squeezed once. He squeezed back. Riolu stepped closer, shoulder to shin, gaze steady. Eevee chirped something soft and ridiculous and perfect, and the world let go of his throat.

"Viridian," Serena said, not as a challenge to the woods but as a greeting to the road that ran beside them.

"Viridian," Ash answered, and the answer fit better now that the word wasn't just a map.

The city gathered itself without hurry—the red roof of a Pokémon Center peeking first, then the angled glass of a Ranger post, then row houses snugged against the wind. A fountain in a small square lifted its thin, brave water; two children held popsicles the color of illegal skies. The Gym sat sullen and still at the far end of town, its doors dark, a hand-lettered NOTICE in the window: Closed for inspection. Challenges rescheduled. The careful penmanship again. Ash let his gaze pass it the way you pass a sleeping dog—quiet, aware.

They cut south along a quieter street lined with laundry and lemon trees in terracotta tubs. A shrine stood where cobble turned to dirt; two stone uprights, a lintel with a carved leaf nearly lost under lichen, a little brass bell. This was the one Ash had named across an ocean, south road into Viridian. He felt it before he saw it—the way some places smell like rain before clouds.

He nodded toward it. Serena's mouth softened, the way it does when a plan touches ground, and they stepped off the road onto packed earth. Bells don't have faces; this one felt like it did anyway. They rinsed their hands; Serena set her palm to the altar stone, smiling at its stored warmth as if old vows lived there like banked ember.

Ash lifted the rope and drew down one long, two short. The bell's tone walked into the air and came back soft —three—braided under the last note like a second voice answering from far halls. He crouched at the fourth stone on the right, slid fingers into the cool seam, and found the packet tucked there—oilskin wrapped, sealed with a smear of resin that smelled faintly of smoke. He didn't open it on the shrine. He simply tucked it inside his cloak with a careful, ordinary motion, as if sliding a piece of bread into a pocket.

Serena set another blue petal, stolen from the rose at the vanity, beside a small coil of sailor's line someone else had left. Eevee considered adding a stolen bonito flake and was stopped by the hand of God in the form of Serena's index finger. Riolu bowed, solemn, then looked expectantly at Ash. He touched the bell again—just his knuckles, like a quiet thank you—and they stepped back to the road.

"Center?" Serena asked, glancing toward the red roof. "It would be nice to say hello."

"For a minute," Ash agreed. "Names light. No stories."

The Pokémon Center was all night-shift kindness even in the afternoon; antiseptic and coffee, a bulletin board with too many pins, a nurse whose smile had grown the callus it needed to survive and remain real. Chansey hummed to itself while sorting vials; a bulletin listed lost-and-found pokéballs, a flier for Ranger Volunteers, and a handwritten note; Stop leaving your boots in the lobby, you know who you are. Serena bought a coil of athletic tape and a stiff brush for Eevee's fur; Ash purchased a packet of Revives because it was easier to buy hope than admit he wanted it, and a map overlay with Ranger notations that ordinary travelers didn't know to ask for.

They didn't linger. The worst part about rooms like this is how they make you want to stay until you forget the road, and the best part is that they let you leave with a little more grace than you had when you came in. The nurse waved them off with two oranges pressed into their hands as if to make sure their blood remembered sweetness.

South of Viridian, the world opened. Route 1 rolled down through fields of winter stubble and hedges hunkered low against the wind. Crows argued in the bare top of a hawthorn; a farmer in a hat the size of a small barn lifted a hand without stopping his work. The light changed—gold longer, shadows more honest. Serena loosened her ribbon and retied it just because she could. Ash's breath set itself to the road's cadence and stayed there.

They talked like people who had worn each other's silences for days and found them comfortable. Plans, simple and low to the ground; where to buy thread in Pallet if they needed it; whether Grace's basket still had one more secret tucked in the napkin folds, which it did; two chouquettes, sugared, now joked about and saved because some sweets earn their own weather systems. Serena described the shows she could stitch to this new land; how she'd pull Viridian's pines into her staging with long green shadows and a ribbon pattern that felt like wind through needles; how Celadon might ask for flowers and then demand thorns.

Ash pointed out camp places he would choose if he were a man trying to be invisible for a night—how the ground dipped so you couldn't be seen from the road; how a bend of a stream made company for the mind. He showed her where he'd set a snare if he were hungry and had the right to be; she showed him where she'd set a stage if she were brave and had two lamps and an audience of three.

When the road rose, they stopped at its crown simply because it felt right to, and there it was: Pallet, small and bright, roofs like folded letters, fields patched in winter browns and the blue-shadow of low fences. Smoke made straight threads from two chimneys before the wind snatched them sideways. Beyond, the bay caught the last light and sent it back unbroken.

Ash didn't speak. Words were the wrong size. His hands were steady, but the breath he took had edges. The hum under his sternum climbed, not warning, but arrival.

Serena stood beside him and didn't try to fill the quiet with better, smaller words. She let her shoulder find his and held there until the press of it made them both taller. Eevee rose on her toes and chirped as if announcing she had discovered this village personally and expected to be thanked at a later ceremony. Riolu set his paw on Ash's boot and leaned in with the seriousness of a knight touching a banner.

"What do I say?" Ash asked finally, very softly, as if the hedges might hear and tell the house.

"Something true and small," Serena said. "Not an apology for the whole world. Just—'Hi, Mom. I'm home. Can I come in?'"

He breathed around the shape of it and nodded. The answer eased something nobody else could have named. He reached into his cloak and touched the oilskin packet once, a habit of counting tools before a climb. Then he reached into the basket and pulled out one of the chouquettes Grace had hidden and stared at it like a message. He put it back carefully. Some offerings were meant for doorsteps.

They walked again. Fences took over from hedges; winter cabbages dozed in neat rows; a cat regarded them from a sun-warmed step with the tolerance of a king humoring a parade. The road narrowed to the width of memory. The sign at the village's edge had been repainted recently by a hand that cared: PALLET TOWN.

Ash slowed at the last turn. Serena squeezed his hand once, then let it go. He took the corner like a man stepping into a story he'd left open on the table ten years ago.

The house was exactly itself; white walls the color of milk, red roof softened by years, a little garden put properly to bed, but already thinking about spring. The front step had been swept that morning; the broom leaned by the door as if it were part of the hinge. There was a pot by the rail with a succulent that didn't belong to Kanto or to winter and was doing just fine anyway. The window curtains were half-drawn, not in secrecy, but in habit.

Ash stopped at the gate. His hand found the latch and didn't lift it yet. He bowed his head once, not to a shrine this time, but to a place. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and clear.

"Hi, Mom," he said under his breath, trying the words on like a coat. "I'm home."

Serena stood square on his right, not behind.

He lifted the latch.

The hinge didn't squeak. The path accepted their feet. Somewhere, very close now, a kettle imagined boiling. The air smelled like sun on clean wood, and something else he hadn't let himself remember until this second; a tune with no name, hummed without thinking by a woman working with her hands.

The boy who had left in silence walked up the path with the man he had become, and nothing—not the house, not the road, not the world—would ever be the same.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Doorstep of Memory

The gate clicked shut behind them, and the little path up to the door felt like an old sentence Ash had once started and never finished. The garden was put to bed for winter—soil dark and patient under straw, a neat line of terracotta along the porch's edge. A stubborn succulent nursed its green beside the rail, fat leaves holding more courage than looked reasonable for a thing without a brain.

He wiped his boots on the old coir mat because his body remembered it should. Serena didn't speak. She slid the basket from the crook of her arm—the two guarded chouquettes under a napkin like a secret—and set it on the step so her hands were free if his needed finding. Eevee balanced on her shoulder with the solemn air of a herald at court. Riolu stood at Ash's heel, gaze forward, feelers lowered.

Ash turned the knob on the door. The hinge did not squeak.

Inside, the house smelled like sun on clean wood and starch in warm cotton. A faint thread of melody drifted from the kitchen—not a song exactly, just a little line of notes that moved with the rhythm of hands doing a task. The tune went quiet for a beat as the kettle picked up its breath and then returned; the house held it the way a shell holds the sea.

"Shoes," Ash said out of habit, and they stepped out of them in the entry's shallow light; two pairs side by side, city dust shaken off onto the mat. Serena's socks had a ridiculous ribbon stitched at the ankle; Ash's were plain and mended once at the toe. He slid his cloak from his shoulders, folded it once, and hesitated at the hooks on the wall—her hooks, their hooks. Serena took it gently and found a peg like she'd always known where it would be.

He could have called out. The words he'd practiced—Hi, Mom. I'm home. Can I come in?—stood up ready. He found that he didn't need to send them far. The kitchen was only two rooms away, and the house itself seemed to carry them.

"Mom?" he said, barely more than a breath, and the humming stopped so sharply that silence rang.

A chair leg scraped—just a twitch—and then quick steps, the kind floorboards remember. She appeared in the doorway with a dish towel in her hands, and the world changed shape around her.

Delia was smaller than his memory had kept her. Her hair was pulled back in a twist that had come loose in the middle of something; a pencil sat behind her ear like a bookmark in a day; flour left a small, rebellious white crescent near her temple because of course it did. For one full heartbeat she looked straight at him and didn't know what she was seeing—too tall, too scarred at the collarbone, too much of a man where a boy should be—and then the tilt of his mouth found her like a lighthouse catching its own reflection and recognition hit her hard enough that her fingers crushed the dish towel into a knot.

"Ash," she said, once, on a breath that sounded like she'd been saving it for ten years.

He didn't reach for an apology. He didn't reach for explanations. He crossed the space between them in three strides. He wanted his face where her hands could find it.

They did. One palm to his cheek, reverent and disbelieving; the other to the line of his shoulder like she was testing a post to see if it would hold a roof. Her thumb brushed the start of the old crescent scar at the base of his neck; she flinched, not away, but into fierceness, and then she was holding him the way you hold the first warm thing after a long winter—arms around his shoulders, dish towel crushed against his back.

He breathed in the scent of her—soap and tea and a little flour—and for a second, he was eight and the world made a sound like a net closing. "Hi, Mom," he said against her hair, voice breaking where boys' voices do when they grow too fast. "I'm home."

She didn't let him go; her laugh cracked under the weight of tears. "You are. Oh, you are." She leaned back just enough to see his face again, to map the differences and the similarities. "You're so tall," she said, because that was easier than saying Where have you been and How dare you and Thank God you're ok.

Ash swallowed; the corner of his mouth went helplessly up. "You're the same," he said, and meant everything the words couldn't carry. "You still hum when the kettle boils."

Delia huffed, which in some languages is how mothers say don't make me cry, again, and wiped at her cheek with the back of her wrist as if tears were flour and she could brush them off the counter. Only then did she see Serena—really see her—a step back, steady and quiet, hands folded around themselves to keep from fidgeting.

Delia's eyes took her in in one neat sew; the braid with the seafoam ribbon, the posture that said stage but not show-off, the way she stood close to Ash without crowding him and closer than anyone else had any right to. Her gaze softened, and the line of suspicion—that little guard mothers learn to carry in case the world arrives with teeth—turned into something else.

"And you," she said, voice gentle and curious without surrendering an inch of authority. "Are Serena. 10 years ago, you're mother, Grace, spoke highly of you in front of the other parents, and I hoped you and Ash would be friends."

Serena, surprised at the revelation, quickly recomposed herself and responded, "Yes, ma'am," Serena said, finding her warmth. "It's very good to finally meet you. I—" She stopped herself before she said I've loved your son for ten years. "Thank you for having us."

Us. Delia made a sound that translated cleanly to I'm deciding to like this one, tossed the dish towel onto a hook with a muscle memory's accuracy, and stepped forward. "Come here," she said, and folded Serena in with the easy competence of a woman who had hugged half a town and was proud of it. She smelled like the house, like mint and wood, and a little citrus oil rubbed into cutting boards to keep them honest.

"We brought you—" Serena began, remembering the napkin-covered contraband on the step.

"Gifts at the door are good luck. Let's not make the luck wait." Delia said, delighted.

Ash offered a hand for the basket. Delia ignored it and swatted his shoulder affectionately. "You seem to carry a world, yet you think I can't handle a basket," she scolded without heat, and went to fetch it herself. "Shoes off? Good, the floor was raised by me, and I won't have you scuffing the child."

They nodded, ridiculous and happy in their obedience. Riolu, taking cues like a pro, stepped onto the mat and lifted each paw in turn for an imaginary wipe. Eevee launched from Serena's shoulder and trotted into the kitchen like a visiting dignitary. Delia glanced down, paused, and smiled in a way that included them both with almost suspicious ease.

"And who are you two?" she asked, already fetching bowls she'd swear were clean but needed rinsing anyway.

"Riolu," Ash said. The little jackal bowed, solemn as a knight. "And Eevee," Serena added, and the fox curled her tail into a perfect comma of charm, then ruined the punctuation by popping up to put her paws on the counter in hopes of pastry.

Delia tsked and handed Eevee a tiny piece of apple, which Eevee accepted with performative gratitude. Riolu was given a sliver as well and received it like a sacrament. The kitchen expanded around this small ceremony into its old size; four chairs, one slightly loose table leg, a window with curtain tiebacks that had once been red and now were a noble, sun-tired rose. On the far wall, a growth chart marked pencil lines—six years tall, seven, eight—and stopped there, as if the pencil had put itself down and refused to draw without the subject in the room.

Serena's eyes snagged on that, not with judgment—never—but with tenderness so acute it pricked. Delia followed her look, and something pinched at the corner of her mouth. She crossed to the marks, laid two fingertips briefly against the little stack of numbers like setting a stone on a headstone, then turned back briskly as if to say, We will not linger there for now.

"Tea," she announced, because you cannot cry around boiling water—steam steals your performative dignity. "And dinner. Something that looks like a sweet pastry, but is savory at its core. Sit."

Ash sat. He didn't stop watching her. Not like a spy; like a boy who had forgotten some parts of a dance and was relieved to see the steps again. Delia moved like she'd been waiting for this role to take the stage; kettle lifted and set; cups counted; sugar pushed aside; plates down with that little hum that meant here we are. She inspected him frankly while she worked—the callus at the base of his fingers, the easy way he filled the chair and still sat like he was ready to stand, the quiet in his breath he had to have gotten from somewhere unkind.

"Have you been eating?" she asked, of course, because the body is the first clue to the heart's condition.

"Yes," Ash said. Then, honestly, "But, not like this, until recently."

She sniffed in satisfaction and turned her attention to Serena as a second line of inquiry. "And you've been feeding yourself?"

"In intervals," Serena said, laughing. "I'm better when I'm home. Worse when I'm on the road. I carry fruit for Eevee and forget to carry any for me."

"Mm." Delia handed her a slice of something that looked like pie and tasted like love that had decided to be practical. "You'll carry more for both of you now."

Serena blinked. "Yes, ma'am."

As dinner baked, the three of them sat with tea and plates, and the house breathed along with them. Words didn't pile up—there were too many and too few—but the important ones landed.

Delia reached, touched Ash's cheek again, gently as if reacquainting her palm with the geography. "You can tell me or you can't," she said, saving him from having to draw lines. "You owed me a goodbye, and I didn't get one. That isn't one of the choices now. The choice now is today." She hesitated and then let the soft thing show. "Are you staying the night?"

Ash swallowed. "We have the Professor's in the morning," he said carefully. "We… we thought we'd sleep here if—if you want us."

"If I—" She laughed, not unkindly, and swatted the table in that gesture people use when they have too much feeling and need a piece of furniture to share it with. "Boy."

He flinched at the word, not from hurt, but from the echo of it—and she saw the flinch and was very gentle with it. "Man," she corrected at once, and it cost her to say it, but she paid without complaint. "Yes. Of course. Your bed is made because I'm not an idiot and... Hope is cheap to launder."

The laugh came out of him like a sigh that had chosen to be brighter. He nodded, unable to speak for a second, and found Serena's knee under the table like a handhold. She anchored him with a small press of her shin.

Delia saw that too, and her eyes went wet in a way that did not ask permission from her pride. "And you," she said to Serena, voice steadying by force of will. "You are welcome. Not because you come with him, but because you come as you are. You may have the guest room"

"Thank you," Serena said softly. "That means more than I can put in a sentence."

"Sentences are overrated," Delia said, and got up to fuss with dinner even though it didn't need fussing.

Ash let the quiet open a little, then rose and drifted into the living room for a moment's breath as if he were surveying a map he used to know by heart. Serena followed at the shoulder distance you keep with someone who might want to be alone, and might also want you there. The room had kept its shape; the couch sagged in the right place; a low table with a ring from a glass he was absolutely guilty of once; a framed photo of him at eight holding a carp-like Magikarp with a grin so big it looked like a mistake and wasn't. Above the photo, a cheap frame held a program from some Pallet town play—The Oak and the Wind—and under that someone had written Good job, Ash! in a scrawl that had needed three tries for the J.

He touched the photo's glass with two fingers. Dust made a circle. The skin at the corner of his eyes tightened and softened, and the house did the thing old houses do when your throat gets thick; it handed you an extra breath and did not make you pay for it.

"Come see this," Delia called from the kitchen, saving them all from sinking too deep too fast. "The pie has decided to be sliceable, and I feel like we should witness the event as a family."

Family. The word hit them, gentle and right, like a blanket shaken over a bed just made.

They came back to the table. Delia cut the pie with ceremonial seriousness and served it to them like a judge awarding custody of something delicious. Eevee got a pinch of crust and made three small sounds of gratitude, each more dramatic than the last. Riolu, who had been a statue of propriety long enough to impress even himself, accepted a blueberry with a nod that suggested he would file a report on its excellence.

It couldn't all be light. It didn't have to be all at once. The first act only had to set the table for the next.

Delia set her slice down, looked at her son like she'd earned the right, and said, very simply, "I'm mad." She let the words sit, sink. "And I will be. Sometimes when I look at you, and sometimes when I look at myself, and sometimes when I look at the sky." She reached across and laid her hand over his. "But, I am also so glad that I could scream."

Ash's laugh turned to a rough sound that wasn't far from a sob and didn't need to apologize for it. He squeezed her hand like a promise and a plea. "I'll take both," he said. "I deserve both."

"You deserve dinner and a bed and to be told to wash your hands," she corrected, eyes bright. "We can get to the rest like reasonable people."

"Wash your hands," Serena repeated primly, and he made a face at her that put ten years back on him for one perfect blink. Serena smiled a warm smile.

Delia's gaze flicked between them and warmed like a stove coming to heat. "Good. Now sit. Eat. After, you'll show me how tall you are against that wall—no cheating—and then you'll tell me the part of the truth you can tell without breaking it." She cut another slice as if the knife could shape fate. "And then—if the world behaves for one blessed night—we will sleep."

Outside, Pallet's light thinned into an early winter evening. The little house, which had spent a decade holding one quiet person's life together, made room without complaint for two more hearts and two small, earnest guardians. The kettle breathed. The window clicked as it settled in the frame. In the photograph, the boy with the Magikarp kept grinning like he knew something the man at the table would need.

Delia poured more tea. "Tell me one small thing," she said, leaning her chin on her palm. "A detail I can keep while I'm stirring soup tomorrow so this doesn't feel like a dream."

Ash looked down at his plate, then up at her. "I still like the ends of bread best," he said, surprised at himself.

She smiled and shook her head, a sound halfway between exasperation and prayer. "Thank the Maker," she said. "Some things stayed."

They ate. They didn't rush. The house learned its shapes again, and for the first time in ten years, the music Delia hummed when she forgot she was humming wandered through every room and came back whole.

The tea had cooled to the agreeable warmth of things you can hold without thinking. The pie slumped a little on its plate as if relieved it had been chosen. Through the window, Pallet's light slid down the wall and pooled on the floorboards near the table leg that had always been slightly loose.

Delia didn't rush, but she didn't circle either. She set her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, and met her son's eyes with the expression of a woman who had spent a decade rehearsing this conversation and had decided she would speak its lines only once. "All right," she said, even, not unkind. "Tell me what you can."

Ash didn't look away. He set his palm on the table, fingers open, as if to show there was nothing in them. "I left with people who keep the balance when it wobbles," he said slowly. "Old, quiet work. We don't say their name in rooms that aren't ours. They found me because of what happened in Viridian when I was a child. I chose to go—" he swallowed, corrected himself— "as much as a boy can choose when every grown-up in the room believes the world will be safer if he does."

Delia flinched, not at the word boy—at the honesty of it. Serena's knee nudged Ash's under the table, the smallest keep breathing she could give.

"They taught me how to listen before I moved," Ash went on. "How to walk without making myself the most important thing in the room. How to read a road's temper and put a fire out before it gets a name. Some days it was beautiful. Some days it was hard in the way that changes what your hands look like on the inside. I got hurt sometimes." He didn't try to hide the scar at his collarbone; he didn't perform it either. "I got better. I learned when to stop and when to run. I learned I'm not a weapon unless I forget I'm a person."

Delia's breath hitched. The towel on the hook swayed in a breeze that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Letters," she said quietly. "Why weren't there any? Why—just—" She made a helpless gesture, fingers opening like a bird that didn't remember how to land.

"They wouldn't let me write home," Ash said, gentler than his own anger deserved. "If I had, I would have brought trouble to your door. Not rumor. The kind that comes with hands. The reason I was allowed to write at all… was distance. Serena was far. Her routes were watched by people they trusted. She was my—" he glanced at Serena and didn't look away— "is my harbor. I sent as much as I could in as many ways as possible, so that it wouldn't lead anyone back to you. It wasn't enough. It will never have been enough. I'm sorry." He looked from Serena to his mom. "Both of you."

Serena reached for his hand and squeezed it.

The apology wasn't a flourish; it was a brick he set down between them so they could both see it. Delia looked at it like a craftsman assesses a material; from all sides, for weaknesses, for strength.

"Did anyone hurt you to keep you?" she asked, and the softness left her voice entirely. It wasn't suspicion of him, it was the knife she would use on any hand that tried.

"No," he said at once. "They were strict. Sometimes they were wrong. They were never cruel. When I said no, it meant something." He let himself add, because she had earned this truth too, "When I was small, I didn't say no enough. I say it now though."

Delia nodded once. "Good."

Silence held for a few heartbeats—the good kind, where the air gets thicker because there's finally enough truth in it to weigh something. Serena reached for her cup and felt the porcelain warm her fingers. She could feel the bond under her sternum humming slow and steady—present, permissive. She caught Delia watching her, not with jealousy, but with a mother's accounting; who stands near my child when he shakes.

"I would like to be angry," Delia said finally, voice delicate with honest effort. "I am angry. At them. At the world for needing you that way. A little at you for going—" Ash looked down; she tilted her head until he looked up again— "and a little at me for not chaining you to the table when you were small, though I know that would have broken you in a different way." The corner of her mouth twitched, humor finding a foothold. "And I'm so proud of you I could turn inside out. None of this fits together, and yet it does because life is rude."

Serena laughed softly—grateful for the release valve. Eevee, who had been nosing a crumb like it owed her rent, hopped into Delia's lap without permission and curled there with the peaceful entitlement of someone who had decided on family ties five minutes ago. Delia blinked, then surrendered both hands to an efficient scritching of ticklish spots. "You," she informed Eevee, "are not part of my anger plan."

Riolu, as if deciding to balance the room's weight, slipped off his guard-post and padded to Delia's chair. He sat very straight, then leaned forward to set a small blue paw carefully on Delia's knee—permission asked without invading. The gesture wasn't trained; it was temperament, a knight offering fealty to a lady who had cooked for his liege. Delia's mouth softened; she covered his paw with her palm, surprised by how warm and alive aura-sense felt coming up through a small creature's bones. "Hello, little blue," she murmured. "You're very serious."

Riolu accepted the assessment gravely. Serena caught Ash's eye; They like each other. Good. He sent back the smallest nod. Good.

Delia drew in a breath like a thread and tied a knot in it. "All right," she said, business returning to the set of her shoulders—the kind of business you use to move grief from one room to another without spilling it. "You're here now. For how long?"

"A while," Ash said. "We'll be in Kanto—Gym circuit for me, the Coordinator circuit for Serena. We'll be on roads, but they'll be our roads. We'll come through. We'll sleep here when we can. I can't always say where we'll be, but I can promise I won't vanish without a word."

Delia's eyes narrowed in a way that meant don't make promises you can't keep.

He didn't flinch. "Serena and I have our own type of... system to check in on each other with different ways to tell if we're safe, concerned, or need help. Olus, we have sure ways of finding each other if we're ever separated. No more diapering acts."

Delia blinked. "You two have… a system?"

Serena's grin tilted. "He named it. I corrected it. We compromised. It's very romantic."

Delia sniffed. "Well, it sounds very useful. Besides, I approve of romance that folds clothes and puts them away."

Ash breathed out a laugh he'd been storing under his ribs. The room gave a small collective sigh in sympathy—table, chairs, the photograph frame with the boy and the Magikarp, even the kettle.

Delia reached for his hand again and turned it palm-up, tracing the new calluses with a thumb that had learned his old ones. "Did you have someone to look after you?" she asked, softer. "Not teachers. Someone."

He thought of an elder with tea that never spilled and hands that never shook; of a Ranger who wrote letters on bark and tied them into trees; of a Lucario who watched him sleep the winter he couldn't stop dreaming about a roar in the woods. He thought of Serena's letters with blue-ink smudges where she'd fallen asleep mid-sentence. "Yes," he said. "Not like this," he gestured between them, "But yes." He looked to Serena with a smile of a man that knows his anchor.

Delia accepted that. "When you need a place where the world cannot reach you," she said, tapping the table with one fingernail, "you come here. If that means I have to sit on the stoop with a broom and swat the world, I'll swat the world. I can be very undignified."

"Mom," Ash said, tipping forward, voice ruined with love. "I know."

She blew out a breath, then inhaled like she was re-threading the day through a new needle. "All right." She sat back. "Now you will both be useful. Ash, fetch the stepstool. Serena, the pencil, and the book from the hall table. We are fixing that growth chart."

He blinked. The order was absurd and yet felt correct. He rose; Serena darted out and returned with a pencil and a little address book whose back pages had long ago been repurposed for household math and secret recipes. Delia dragged the kitchen chair to the doorframe, where the pencil marks climbed and stopped.

"Shoes off," she reminded, even though they were, because rituals have beats. "Back against the wall. Heels down. Don't cheat."

"I would never," Ash said, already fighting a grin.

"You absolutely would," Delia said, bracketing him with her palm flat on his crown as if she were blessing him and marked the line, quick and deft. "There." She stepped back. The new mark sat so far above the last that for a second, nobody spoke. Serena's throat tightened; Ash's did too; Delia's didn't bother to hide it.

"Look at you," she said, almost cross with wonder. "I left a boy here, and a man walked in." She wrote the date carefully, her hand only shaking a little. "There. Now the wall knows what I know."

Serena swallowed and put the book on the counter before she could drop it. Eevee, sensing a crest in the room, performed a victory circuit around the kitchen, tail a banner. Riolu saluted the mark with absolute seriousness.

Delia exhaled and smoothed her skirt, which needed no smoothing. "All right," she said briskly, which is how some people say I love you when their mouth is full. "Enough standing. Sit. Eat a little more. Then—" her eyes flicked to the window, where the light had gone to apricot and the shadows of fence posts lay long on the grass— "you two take a turn in the yard and talk to each other while I wash things. Tonight," she added, quieter, "I want your voices in this house. I want to hear them while I put the kitchen to bed."

"Yes, ma'am," Serena said, smiling through the throb in her chest.

Ash reached for Delia's hand one more time, squeezing once the way he had when he was smaller and wanted to say I heard you; I'll be right back; don't worry while I'm in the yard. She squeezed back and added a little extra pressure in the middle: I will anyway; that is a mother's job; go.

They slipped out the back door into a yard that had kept its compact dignity; a square of winter grass, a patch of earth raked smooth for spring, a line where summer laundry would run again. The sky had thinned to that color that only happens in small towns in winter, when chimneys write shy sentences you can read if you squint. The fence on the far side had the exact same loose slat Ash had kicked when he was eight to hear it rattle. He reached out and rattled it once. It obliged.

They sat on the step. Inside, Delia turned on the tap and then turned it off; water doesn't need to run to make the sound of a house settling right. Serena leaned her shoulder against his, and he let himself do the same.

"I didn't say everything," he said after a while.

"You said enough," Serena answered. "And you'll keep saying more when you can."

He nodded. "I hate that I can't put her inside of what I carry."

"She is already inside you," Serena said. "That's where she's safest."

He breathed, and the breath came easier. In the grass, Eevee stalked a leaf with the focus of a general planning a war against foliage. Riolu sat upright as a post, then yawned in three stages, valiantly pretending he hadn't.

Through the open window, Delia's humming drifted out—a little tune with no name, just the sound of a woman setting cups in their places and telling the night by feel that it was welcome in the corners but not at the table. The house listened, and so did the boy who had left, and the man who had come home.

Ash and Serena drifted back into the house, finding their way into the living room, where Delia was waiting for them. The couch still had the same soft dip on the left side. The low table wore a faint ring from a long-ago glass that no coaster had saved. A knit throw lay folded over the arm in a way that said it had been refolded a hundred times because hands need small jobs.

Delia switched on the lamp with the leaf-shaped pull. Warm light steadied the room. Riolu took up a quiet post by the hallway, back straight, watching without hovering. Eevee hopped to the windowsill and peered out at the street as if she expected a parade.

Delia adjusted herself in the chair she always used when bills needed sorting or neighbors needed soothing. She looked at Ash the way mothers do when they are measuring what to protect and what to let happen.

"All right," she said. "What comes next?"

Ash eased onto the couch. Serena sat next to him, not quite touching, the distance small enough that it could close with a breath. "Professor Oak in the morning," he said. "After that, the League office in Viridian to register for the Indigo Circuit. We'll work our way north. I'm going to earn the badges." He didn't apologize for wanting it. "And I'll be… looking. Quietly. The roads feel off in places. We'll listen while we walk."

Delia absorbed that; the line of her mouth didn't harden, but it settled. "Badges don't make a man," she said. "But the work of earning them might."

"It did for me," Ash said, honest. "I want to measure myself against people who've chosen to stand for something in their towns. And it gives me reasons to be in rooms where news lives."

Delia turned to Serena. "And you, dear?"

"Kanto's performance schedule is messy," Serena said, smiling. "But it has heart. I'll route shows to match his gyms when I can—Celadon's Garden Showcase, Saffron's theater, Vermilion's summer nights. Some will be exhibitions, some judged. I'll earn my place one stage at a time." She didn't flinch from the practical part. "I'll also see things he won't—backstage talk, stagehands, bookings. People tell performers stories they don't tell challengers. I'll bring those home."

Delia's eyes softened. "Good. You'll have your own ladder to climb and still know how to hold the umbrella when it rains sideways." Her gaze went back to Ash. "You said the roads feel off. That business—the part you can't bring me into—wants a lot. Don't let it take the part that laughs at bad jokes and eats the heel of the bread because no one else wants it. Do you understand me?"

Ash nodded. "Yes, Mom."

"Look me in the face and say it," she said, without heat.

He did. "I won't let it take me."

She believed him enough to breathe easier. "Good."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "There's one thing I owe you. I should have said it the minute I walked in. I should have said it ten years ago. I didn't get to say goodbye. I can explain the reasons, but they don't fix it." He held her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Delia's jaw worked once; she nodded. "Thank you." She breathed. "You can't pay a ten-year debt in one night. But you can start. Being here starts it."

Serena shifted, testing the room. "If it helps," she said carefully, "he never stopped writing. To me, when he couldn't to you. Not full stories—fragments. The shape of a moon. The sound of rain on a ruin. The first taste of bread after a long day. He kept pieces to bring home."

Delia looked at her, then at Ash. "Good," she said. "Keep some pieces for yourselves, too."

They talked about smaller things because the big ones needed rest. Delia asked after Grace and filed away the answer with visible relief. She ran through practicals as if packing them in a bag; where the spare key lived now, which was under the second flower pot, not the first, the best market day, Saturday, who in town owed her a favor and would remember owing it. She made Ash promise to let Professor Oak grumble before hugging him, because men of a certain age organized their love that way. She asked Serena, with grandmotherly interest disguised as logistics, whether Eevee shed worse in spring or fall. Serena pretended to consider and said, "Always."

Eevee proved the point by swatting a dust mote with unnecessary force. Riolu glanced at Ash, got a nod, and did a slow, careful lap of the room, nose to skirting boards, reading the house like a book. He returned to Delia's feet and sat with quiet dignity. She reached down and rubbed the spot between his ears that made his eyes go soft. "You look after him," she said. "And you—" she looked at Ash— "look after him too."

"I do," Ash said, and it wasn't a joke.

Delia rose after a while, the day finally catching up. "I'm going to bed before I sit here and cry like a leaking kettle." She pointed to the hall. "Your room is as you left it; fresh sheets. Serena, you take the guest room. If either of you gets up in the night, mind the hallway rug—its edge catches, and I don't want my new floor dented by heroics."

Serena stood. "Thank you for taking us in, truly."

Delia waved it off like swatting a fly. "You two are not stray cats. You are mine and also yours, and my door is open." She turned at the doorway, something else on her tongue, then decided to say it. "If it gets dangerous, you do not protect me by staying away. You protect me by coming here. Understood?"

"Understood," Ash said.

"And one more thing," Delia added, lighter, a glint of mischief in it. "Don't let my son cook anything experimental in my pans without a note on the counter and a signed waiver."

Serena blinked, then grinned. "Noted."

Delia kissed Ash's hair like she might never get to again and didn't want to risk missing. She squeezed Serena's hand in a way that folded welcome and warning into one warm press. "Goodnight, loves."

"Goodnight," they said together.

Her door clicked shut down the hall. A minute later, water ran, then stopped. A drawer sighed. The house settled.

For a while, Ash and Serena just sat with the lamp on low, the room holding them. The growth chart in the doorway caught a slant of light; the new pencil line looked fresh enough to smudge. Ash rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as if he could still feel the pencil's weight there.

"You okay?" Serena asked.

He thought about giving a brave answer and decided against it. "I'm… full," he said. "In the good way and the hard way."

She nodded. "Me too."

They did the small tasks people do when the night needs a soft landing: reset cups in the sink so Delia wouldn't do it in the morning, folded the throw on the couch, checked the latch on the front door. Ash paused in the doorway of his old room and looked in; the bed was a little small now, a narrow bookshelf with a crooked row of paperbacks, and a wooden Rhyhorn figurine still guarding the windowsill. He didn't go in. Not yet.

"Fresh air?" he asked.

"Garden," Serena said at once.

They grabbed Ash's cloak. Riolu rose without a sound; Eevee stretched long enough to make her vertebrae count and then took her rightful place on Serena's shoulder. Ash turned off the lamp. The room held the shape of them for a second and then let it go.

At the back door, he lifted the latch carefully so it wouldn't click. The yard waited; cool, clean, smelling faintly of soil and old mint. The stars were a simple spill above Pallet, unbothered by city haze. Somewhere down the lane, a dog barked twice and then thought better of it.

They stepped out, the door eased closed behind them, and the quiet took them in.

The back step was still sun-warm where the wood held the day. Beyond the fence, the fields slept under a thin veil of cold. The sky over Pallet was honest—no city smear, just a clean scatter of stars and the slow blink of a distant Pidgeot crossing the dark like a thought.

Ash eased down, cloak around both of them. Serena tucked her shoulders under it, knees touching his. Riolu posted himself two paces out, facing the fence line, still but alert; Eevee hunted a single doomed moth with theatrical restraint, pouncing, letting it go, pouncing again.

Ash slid the oilskin from his cloak. The seal—the faintest smear of resin that smelled of smoke and pine—gave with a quiet crack. Inside, a folded map in soft, handled paper, three thin notes tied with waxed thread, and a pressed oak leaf so old it had gone the color of tea.

"From the Viridian shrine," he said, more to place the moment than to inform her. "South road cache."

He passed Serena the map and opened the first note. The script was tight and practical, the kind that doesn't waste ink.

Ranger Post—Viridian South Gate, two nights prior:
Harbor report matched on bell. Packet left under stone four. Port notices in Vermilion and Saffron stamped with the same hand—clear penmanship, exacting. Inspections 'coordinated' across districts. No official memo. Watch schedules, not announcements.

Serena's mouth tilted. "Your 'careful penmanship.'"

He nodded. "Same hand, two cities. That isn't logistics—that's placement. Someone is lining calendars so people are where they want them."

He opened the second slip. This one smelled faintly of salt.

Azure Bay, last new moon:
Lantern lights reported beyond fishing lanes. Patterned intervals (3–5–3). No flag, no nets in the water. Currents off by a hair—drawn in and released like a mill stream with no mill. Order guidance: Observe. Do not pursue.

Serena remembered the ship's "wrong-smooth" and rubbed her arms despite the cloak. "We felt a piece of that. It wasn't the weather."

"Habit laid on the sea," Ash said, eyes on the dark. "It means a hand, or a memory of one."

The last slip was shorter. The handwriting belonged to somebody older—strokes that had learned to be steady long after they had a right to shake.

Lavender–Saffron rail, three weeks prior:
Museum courier moved devotional objects under standard guard. No forced entry. Two crates arrived light by eight kilograms total.
Chalk mark on rail gate—oak leaf, inverted. Bells answered "muted" that night in two towns.

Serena looked up. "Inverted oak."

"The Order's sign flipped," Ash said quietly. "It's an old insult when it's drunks. It's a message when it's neat." He tapped the word muted. "Bells can answer soft if a storm lays on the ground. 'Muted' means the line feels—damped. Like someone threw a blanket over it."

He spread the map across his thigh. It was Kanto in winter colors, rivers penciled thin, roads traced by a hand that knew both the official routes and the footpaths people actually used. Three places were marked with small, careful crosses: Vermilion Gym (inspection delay), Lavender (rail theft), Saffron (coordinated notices). A fourth mark—a ring—circled Viridian Forest, and next to it, in the older hand, "tread soft—old lines waken."

Serena traced the ring with one fingertip. "And us."

"And us," he agreed. "We don't chase shadows. We set our road and listen." He tapped a path from Pallet to Oak's lab, up to Viridian, then the split; Route 2 to Pewter, with a notation toward Mt. Moon. "Badges give us cover. Stages give you rooms. We let the packet point, not drag."

She let the map rest on her lap and looked at him. "Don't keep me in the stands. If this line is ours, let me stand on it with you. Not as a decoy. As a partner."

He opened his mouth to say the thing that always comes next—I don't want you hurt—then shut it. She already knew that; it didn't answer the question.

"All right," he said instead, straightening the facts like a gear on a table. "Ground rules. In cities, we keep line-of-sight unless one of us is on a stage. If we split, we call our rally point and time; Pokémon Center, shrine, or water tower—always two options. We use the bond before bells—pulses first, rope second."

"Daily check; clear, cloud, wind," she recited, eyes bright. "Urgent one, two, three. 'Burn' if the map becomes someone else's."

"And a new one," he said. "If you ever have to ring and send no intent—just the sound and silence—do it three times with a pause. It will feel wrong to you because bells like purpose. That wrongness will tell me all I need to know."

She nodded, filing it. "And you? Rules for you."

He smiled, small. "Same rules. Plus one, I hate; if a pattern wants to pull, I don't follow it alone. I tell you, and we decide if it deserves us."

Serena considered him openly, then eased the cloak closer around both their shoulders, the gesture both practical and declarative. "Good. If a line tries to separate us, I veto it."

He lifted two fingers in mock solemnity. "Veto recognized."

"Next," she said, tapping the map near Lavender. "If devotional pieces went missing, someone wants more than money. Symbolic weight. Favor. Or leverage."

He thought of towers and chants and rooms that were supposed to keep people safe from the things they carried. "And bells that go quiet," he added. "If someone learns to put a hand over the Root without breaking it, they can make people feel alone even when they aren't."

Her jaw set. "Then our job is to make the room feel crowded—with us."

"Exactly." He tied the three slips back together and slid them into the oilskin, then paused with the old leaf in his hand. Up close, its veins were a little city of roads. He set it on the step between them, a quiet marker.

From the dark of the yard came a soft clatter; the loose fence slat tapping a post, just once. Riolu's head turned. He didn't tense; he listened, then let it go. A night breeze, nothing else.

Serena watched him watch the world. "Does the Order know about the inverted leaf?"

"They'll guess prank until it repeats," Ash said. "The old ones always do. They trust patterns. So do I. But whoever's flipping leaves knows we listen for patterns. That means they'll try to make noise that looks like a signal. We'll be careful not to obey the wrong music."

She shifted, studying his face in the starlight—older than the boy who'd left, not harder, just more deliberate. "You said you could tell me more out here."

He swallowed, the words heavier than the night air. "The Order gave me permission to share everything with you that won't put someone else in a grave. Names stay inside the halls. Places with children stay unnamed. Old work, current lines, this—" he tapped the oilskin "—are ours to carry together." He let the last, honest bit out. "It feels wrong that I can't tell my mother, but it feels right that I can tell you."

She leaned in and kissed him once—warm, steady, nothing showy in it. "Then we honor both; we keep her safe in the light, and we carry the dark together."

They sat a while, going over the map until the marks had turned into distances their feet could understand. Vermilion's harbor grit; Viridian's quiet roads; the climb toward Pewter, where gym battles weren't light shows but tests in stone; the long, humming ribbon of Route 3 to Mt. Moon, where rumors spoke of miners hearing voices that weren't theirs, a detail small enough to be true.

"Tomorrow," he said, folding the map so the creases lay clean. "Oak first. Registration after. Then the road. We start simple and keep our eyes open."

"We can do both," she said. "Simple can hold sharp edges."

He tucked the map away, then hesitated. He lifted a loose paver at the edge of the mint patch and slid the pressed leaf under it—one small, personal offering. The garden breathed. Eevee abandoned her moth to come inspect and approve; Riolu nodded as if a ceremony had been correctly observed.

Ash took Serena's hand. "One more thing."

"Mm?"

"If I start treating you like a mission instead of a person—if I make you an excuse to run toward something teeth-first—you pull me back."

"I will," she said, without drama. "And if I start treating the stage like a shield instead of a craft—if I use it to hide from what we're doing—you pull me forward."

He squeezed. "Deal."

The house behind them had gone fully to sleep. Delia's light was a warm coin under her bedroom door; the rest of the rooms held their breath in that way homes do when everyone in them is finally safe enough to rest.

They stood, not in a rush, brushed off their knees, and eased the back door open. On the threshold, Serena looked back at the yard—the mint, the pavers, the fence that remembered him as a boy—and then at him.

"Tomorrow," she said.

"Tomorrow," he echoed.

They slipped inside on quiet feet, the cloak's edge whispering against the doorframe, and let the night keep their plans.

Ash woke to a house that was already awake. Not loud—never loud here—but quietly in motion; pipes clearing their throats; the faint clack of a cupboard; the tidy cough of a match, then the low rush of a stove catching. For a moment, he just lay there and let it be what it was—home doing its small work.

Riolu slid out from under the bed and pressed his forehead to Ash's knuckles once. Morning. Ash answered with a stroke between the ears and sat up. The room was smaller than his shoulders remembered, walls a touch closer, the ceiling fan two inches nearer than felt reasonable. On the dresser, a little wood Rhyhorn still stood square to the window, guard posted through a decade. He turned it a fraction to face the door and smiled at himself for the habit.

Serena's door clicked open across the hall. She stepped out in a soft sweater and the seafoam ribbon retied, Eevee a warm stole draped across her shoulders. The sight made something unknit inside him. He didn't say so; he didn't have to. Her eyes did the same soft thing when they found him—you—and for a beat the bond hummed like a steady note.

Without thought, he walked up to her and gave her a morning kiss.

"Morning," she whispered. Pleasant shock on her face.

"Morning," he grinned back.

They padded to the kitchen. Delia was at the stove in a robe and apron, hair caught up, sleeves pushed to the elbow. The kettle was already working; a skillet sizzled in rhythm, pancakes browning into a pattern she'd long since perfected. On the counter, sliced apples, jam, and a loaf with its ends missing because some habits die hard.

"Sit," she said without turning, the word automatic and fond. "Tea's ready. Coffee, if you must. Pancakes in one minute. Riolu, if you and Eevee sit like civilized people, you'll get a blueberry each. I can be bribed."

Eevee hopped onto a chair with such careful manners it was theatre. Riolu sat on the mat and adopted his most neutral expression, which made Delia snort despite herself. Ash poured tea and tried not to hover; Serena set out plates, cutlery, and the little pitcher of syrup as if she'd been drafted by the house and didn't mind.

They ate like a family that had practiced on other days and was glad to recall how. Delia's pancakes were thin and crisp at the edges, the kind you can roll around apple slices and pretend it's reason. She insisted Serena take seconds, and when Serena protested, Eevee loudly volunteered to absorb any surplus. Delia compromised by making a small extra one for Eevee that was mostly air and love. Riolu accepted his blueberry like an oath. Ash took the end of the bread and spread it with jam without thinking; Delia nodded to herself like a tiny box had ticked in the universe.

"It's been a good first night," Delia said, pouring more tea, not asking a question she'd rather not have to carry. "Let's not make the second happen too far down the road."

"It won't," Ash said. "We'll be back."

"Mm." She reached behind her and brought out two small parcels wrapped in waxed cloth and tied with cotton string. "Leftovers. Sandwiches, a bit of fruit, and a scandalous cookie apiece. If you return the string, I'll pretend not to notice you've eaten every crumb."

"Noted," Serena said, touched in a way she couldn't joke past. She tucked the parcels into her satchel like contraband.

Delia wiped her hands and placed three things on the table like awards at the end of a school term: a needle case with a dozen sharp, a little tin of salve that smelled faintly of lavender and something herbal Ash couldn't name, and a wool scarf—plain, dark, careful. "For the practical among you," she said. "Needles for the stages and rips. Salve for the hands that work. And a Scarf because my windows know your neck will pretend it's not cold."

Serena ran a thumb along the needle case, marvelling at the neat rows inside. "I'll make them earn their keep."

Ash wrapped the scarf once and found it fit, not too new. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome." She hesitated, then leaned in and smoothed the back of his hair like she had when he was small and late for school. "Professor Oak at nine," she said, pretending to consult a clock that didn't need consulting. "If he grumbles, let him. It means he's happy. Come home by supper if you can stand it. If you can't, leave a note. If you forget the note, I reserve the right to be theatrical."

"Understood," Ash said, meaning it.

They cleared plates while she pretended to object and failed. The house approved—cups nested properly, the cloth hung to dry square. When they'd done what could be done and said what could be said without starting a new ache, Delia kissed her son's cheek and pulled Serena into a tight, quick hug that made Serena's eyes flash damp and proud. She kissed the top of Eevee's head and told Riolu—serious, carefully enunciated—"I am counting on you." Riolu nodded once, an acceptance of command.

Outside, Pallet had shifted into morning. Same light as yesterday; different day. They stepped onto the porch, the succulent on the rail plump with dew, the path swept. Delia stood in the doorway, hand on the jamb, not leaning, not blocking, simply there.

"Go on, then," she said, as if letting them past her were a daily miracle she didn't want to make a fuss over.

They went.

The road to the lab wound up a low hill and along a white fence, the kind kids run their fingers along to make it sing. Ash's hand hovered but didn't touch; Serena let hers skim once, a soft note that made her smile. The air smelled like cut grass, salt from the bay, and the kind of clean you only get on a morning after a night where nothing went wrong.

Neighbors waved. A fisherman in rubber boots raised his thermos and said, "Back already?" like he meant "welcome." A pair of schoolkids—one with a backpack almost bigger than she was—whispered and stared, then pretended not to when Ash looked their way. He gave them a little lift of his palm anyway; one waved furiously back, scandalized by her own audacity.

The lab sat where it always had, part farmhouse, part research station, part myth. A weather vane clipped a slow circle on the roof. Panels glinted on the south face. Behind the main building, a spread of pasture sloped away to corrals and a scatter of shelters where you could sometimes see whole flocks of Pidgey take to the air like confetti when someone laughed.

They took the path past a small pond where a lazy Poliwag made bubble rings just to see them grow. A Taurus bellowed once and then reconsidered the effort. Somewhere behind a hedge, Ash heard the familiar chitter of a Squirtle, the measured stomp of a Bulbasaur uncoiling its first stretch of the day. He swallowed. The last time he'd walked here, he'd been all edges and questions; today he felt… aligned. Not complete. Not fixed. But standing on his own feet.

"You okay?" Serena asked, same words as last night, different shape.

"Yeah," he said, and laughed softly at himself. "No. Both." He wiped his hands on his cloak because he'd always done it. "I'm about to knock on a door I ran past for ten years."

"Then knock," she said, squeezing his fingers once. "And if he grumbles, you let him. It means he's happy."

He huffed. "You two should conspire less."

"We conspire against you because we love you," she said matter-of-factly, and released his hand so his knuckles could find wood.

He stood for a beat with his fist raised, breathing the smell of varnish and old paper that clung even to the outside of this place, and then he knocked. Three dull, familiar sounds to tell the room who it was.

Footsteps, not rushed. A bolt slid back. The door opened on a rectangle of warm light and a man whose hair had chosen silver and whose eyes took longer to adjust than they used to.

Professor Samuel Oak stared for exactly one second as if a story he'd half-forgotten just spoke from a page.

"Ash Ketchum," he said, and the words came out equal parts accusation and relief. "Young man, you are—"

"Late?" Ash offered, grinning despite everything.

Oak's mouth twitched. "—due for a lecture," he finished, and then the sternness cracked and he reached, not for a handshake, but for Ash's shoulder—a quick, strong squeeze that said everything he wouldn't write in a paper. His gaze flicked to Serena with the sharp politeness of a man who always noticed more than he said. "And you must be Serena. Come in, come in, both of you. We've a road to plan and a world to catch up on."

Behind them, Pallet's morning went on. Ahead, the lab smelled like dust, ozone, and possibility. Ash stepped over the threshold with Serena at his side, and the door swung softly shut on the first night home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: First Steps, First Stages

The lab smelled like dust that had read a lot of books. Light slanted across benches crowded with beakers and trays of labeled seeds. The old rotary wall phone wore a new digital cousin beside it, as if history and modernity were roommates who had decided not to fight. From the back field came the contented clatter of morning: Pidgey gossiping and the thump of a lazy Tauros leaning into a fence post on principle.

Professor Oak did the thing he always did when a story he cared about walked in the door; he put his hand on Ash's shoulder, squeezed once, then looked past him to take stock of the room in one sweep. The gaze snagged on Serena and warmed.

"Serena," he said, offering a palm that had ink in its lines. "Samuel Oak. You've been threatening to meet my lab for ten years."

She shook it, smiling. "I thought I'd ease in gently and start with the front door."

He barked a laugh. "You'll do." His eyes dropped to Eevee, who executed a practiced curtsey, then to Riolu, who stood with soldierly stillness beside Ash's knee. The professor's tone softened. "And you must be the blue knight."

If anyone looked, they'd see Ash's eyes with a look of surprise and suspicion at the well-informed Oak.

Riolu bowed, solemn. Oak studied him, not like a collector measures an acquisition, but like a botanist meets a tree he's only seen in drawings. "Not a common sight in Kanto," he murmured. "And yet you look as if the air here was made for you." His eyes flicked to Ash's collarbone, then to Ash's eyes. He didn't ask. He didn't have to. "Come on. Let me look at you somewhere that isn't a doorway."

He steered them into the main workroom with the easy command of a man who'd given this tour a thousand ways to a thousand people. A slab of polished wood served as examination table and breakfast surface both; a pot of pens shared space with a jar of sitris candies whose label read FOR STUDENTS in Oak's own stern hand.

"Tea?" he offered. "No? Very well. Business, then pleasure."

He reached beneath the bench and set a case on the wood. The hinges sighed. Inside lay a Pokédex—not the old red clamshell, but a sleek, matte device about the size of a paperback, edges rubberized for travel, screen edged in a subdued gunmetal. A tiny crest was etched in the corner; an acorn and a quill crossed—Oak's mark.

"This is the KGS," Oak said, proud in the way of craftsmen who pretend they aren't. "Kanto Global Sync. Silph provided the shell; the software is ours. Field research suite, specimen index, communications, encrypted, and, most importantly for your purposes, League Compliance Keys. You'll register it today; it will do a great deal of smooth talking on your behalf so you don't have to."

He turned it on with his thumb; the screen welcomed: KGS — INIT and then KETCHUM, ASH, with a checkbox that looked, somehow, like it had been waiting ten years to be ticked. Oak nodded toward Riolu. "And that brings us to the question every official asks at least once: Where is his ball?"

Riolu's ears tipped back. Serena glanced at Ash.

Ash exhaled. "He doesn't live in one," he said, and the way he said it made it a fact, not a rebellion. "But we know League policy; every partner has an ID'd ball for registration, safety protocols, arena control. I don't want to start this journey by fighting receptionists."

Oak's mouth twitched. "A noble path. Fortunately, there's a middle one." He reached again into the case and withdrew a Friend Ball—green, apricorn-smooth, gold lattice glinting faintly under the lab light. Not common. Not decorative. A tool made with a particular philosophy.

"From an old Johto colleague," he said. "We don't give these to tourists." He set it in Ash's hand. "Here's what we'll do. Consent capture—your partner touches by choice. The device records the bond; the League gets its ID and panic-button compliance; the ball remains yours to carry, not to wield. You won't recall him without asking. And he will know he can refuse."

Oak didn't look at Riolu when he said it. He looked at Ash, because the promise would be made by him, not for him.

Ash turned and went to one knee so they were level. The Friend Ball looked very small between his fingers. "Rio," he said softly, their private nickname breathed like a word with childhood in it. "We need a registry entry to walk the rooms we're going to walk. I won't force you. I won't use it as a leash. If you agree, you touch, you go in, and you come out in the same breath. It will live on my belt as a name, not a cage." He held it out on his open palm.

Riolu's eyes searched his for a long, bright second. He lifted one paw, rested it lightly on the shell—I hear you—then tapped the button. The ball opened with a soft, pearly flash; air folded; the light took Riolu like an inhale, and in the same heartbeat, Ash pressed the release. The room exhaled. Riolu stood there again, eyes clear, ears forward.

The Friend Ball chimed in Ash's hand; LINKED — ID 7A-… A second chime touched the Pokédex screen; PARTNER: RIOLU — STATUS: FREE-ROAM (RESEARCH EXEMPTION)

Oak's eyebrows lifted, pleased. "Good. Now the machine will argue with other machines, so you don't have to argue with people." He slid an envelope and a small card across the bench to Serena. "And for you, a letter of introduction for the Viridian Contest Committee and a lab credential card with a lanyard, of course. It gets you backstage for research, which is to say 'easier loading and unloading.' Use it for good."

Eevee, who had been pretending to be a scarf, popped her head up at backstage with a face that said finally, civilized access. Serena twined a finger through the lanyard strap and smiled. "We will."

Oak fitted the Pokédex with a slim region band—a wafer-thin module that clicked flush to the spine. "This band says you're traveling cross-region on an active study. It speaks a dozen languages that the border officials care about. Until you're through Kanto, it'll take the form of my signature on anything that needs one. After that, other professors will do me the favor of pretending they know you."

Ash blinked. "You're sponsoring us?"

Oak gave him a look that was half-grumble, half-grandfather. "I am insulating you from administrative foolishness so you can get on with the useful kind. I'm selfish. I want the data."

He turned to Riolu with the gentleness of a doctor examining a child. "May I?" he asked, palm up. Riolu considered, then placed his paw there. Oak's fingers were steady. He didn't poke; he listened—to muscle, to breath, to the small vibrations you only notice if you know the instrument. "Your sync is unusually tight," he said, glancing at Ash. "More like a field team that's wintered together than a trainer-partner who met last week. You'll gain a lot from that. You can also burn each other out if you're not careful." He tapped Ash's sternum lightly. "When he is very tired, you will think the world is heavier. That's not poetry. That's chemistry. Respect it."

"We will," Ash said, eyes slightly narrowing without meaning to, as he figured out this puzzle. Riolu squeezed his hand once like a small vow.

Oak's hand lingered a moment on Riolu's paw, then fell away. His gaze cut to Ash—not as a mentor checking a pupil's work, but as someone confirming an oath already sworn.

"You wondered, when you stepped in here, how much I know." His voice was softer, a shade meant for the three of them alone. "You wonder even now." Oak sighed a moment and continued, "The Guardians don't make house calls, Ash. But they don't leave their charges without a port in a storm either. Every region has a keeper of records, someone who knows the difference between myth and memory. For Kanto, that's me. I'm not one of them; I'm a professor, not a sword, but I keep their confidences. And when a child disappears from a summer camp in Viridian under circumstances the world couldn't swallow, it was my hand that signed the quiet reports."

Ash absorbed that with the calm of someone who had half-suspected it. Serena, wide-eyed, glanced between them.

Oak continued, practical again. "So yes—I know where you've been. I know who you've been with. And I know you'll need to walk both paths now; one under the League's sun, one under their shadow. My job is to make sure the first never strangles the second. And to make sure the second doesn't consume the boy who once swore he'd be a Master."

Ash nodded a single understanding.

With a sigh to break the silence of the room, Oak motioned them toward the back door. "Come now. If we don't let Eevee charm the parlor, she'll unionize."

The yard was a patchwork of pens and open pasture. Bulbasaur in a tidy line practiced extending and retracting their vines under the watchful gaze of a grad student with a clipboard and a thousand-yard stare. A cluster of Squirtle in identical headbands did pushups because they'd started a club. Tauros pretended they didn't care about any of this and then cared intensely for one minute because Tauros.

"What's the State of Kanto?" Ash asked as they walked, quietly, the way you ask for news from home after a long trip.

Oak's face became the map he kept on the wall, lines and legends overlaying his eyes. "Mixed," he said. "Good class of new trainers this year; the kids are serious and less inclined to film themselves falling off cliffs for laughs. Ranger chatter's thickened; poaching syndicates pushed north out of the south coast, someone's organizing thefts that don't look like thefts until you put the receipts in a stack." He nodded toward the city. "Viridian Forest has had three reports of… quiet nights. That's not the same as peaceful. It's the kind of quiet that happens after something knocks on a door and all the sensible creatures decide to sleep somewhere else."

Serena's shoulder brushed Ash's. He thought of the wrong-smooth current and the packet's ring around Viridian. "Lavender?" he asked.

Oak's jaw flexed. "The museum courier logged mass loss on two crates with devotional items. No broken seals. No one's admitting to a switch. Somewhere between the rail and the display, the past took a walk." He let out a breath. "Officially, I'm supposed to tell you to keep your nose in your lane and leave the long shadows to people with badges. Unofficially—" his glance was flint and fondness both "—you have a good nose. Use it. Quietly."

Ash didn't say I will. He nodded once, absorbed the assignment without theatrics, and felt Serena absorb it too.

Back in the lab, Oak set a small tray on the bench. On it lay a trainer card—blanked and waiting—beside a simple league band for Ash's wrist. He slid a similar, slimmer band toward Serena—Contest Accreditation in fine letters. "Register in Viridian with these," he said. "The systems will know my devices. Don't make a habit of telling them secrets; machines gossip worse than people."

He turned the Pokédex toward Ash, pulled up a screen marked PERMITS — SPECIAL. A toggle waited; COMPANION EXEMPTION (FREE-ROAM) with a line below it; SPONSOR: OAK / TERMS: BALL-ID ON FILE; VISUAL CONFIRMATION; RECALL BY CONSENT. He tapped it green. "That will keep most desk clerks from turning into philosophers about policy. In arenas with strict safety protocols, you may be asked for a brief recall demonstration at check-in; a touch and release like you did today will suffice."

Riolu made a skeptical face at the concept of desk clerks. Eevee, who respected receptionists as gods of the backstage portal, smacked his shoulder with her tail. Serena coughed delicately to hide a laugh.

Oak watched their nonsense with unfeigned pleasure and then sobered. "Two last requests from an old man who has learned the long way to ask for what he wants." He looked at Ash. "Send me your boring data. Times. Temperatures. Plant names. Trainer names. Your KGS will log all of it. Patterns show up where poetry doesn't. And—" he looked to Serena "—no matter how charming the room, if something feels wrong at the hinge, don't perform your way through it to be polite. Walk out. Close the door. The stage will exist tomorrow. You may not."

Serena took that like water. "Understood."

"Good." He clapped his hands once, the way teachers end lectures. "Now that we've done the grown-up things, I have one retro indulgence left."

He reached into a drawer, rummaged, and produced a rung of caps—old-style, new-stock—red fronts, white backs, the bill just right. He held one out to Ash with the particular dignity of a man offering a tradition, not cloth.

Ash's throat did something unhelpful. "Professor, I—" He took it. The fit was muscle memory. He set it on his head and felt ten years and ten minutes line up for a second.

Oak pretended to straighten the brim and used the moment to hide whatever moved in his face. "Good," he said briskly. "Now you look like someone I can yell at properly when you forget to eat."

Eevee leaped onto the bench and placed a paw—delicately—on the Contest letter Oak had given Serena. It had the seal of the Viridian Committee in green wax, a little laurel around a stylized wing. Serena slipped it into her satchel like a treaty.

Ash slid the Friend Ball into the first loop on his belt. He didn't cinch it tight. It didn't need it. The Pokédex chimed once as it paired with the league band. The screen flashed REGISTRATION READY and, beneath it, a small, optional field: TRAVELING NAME. He left it blank. He was done with hiding in plain sight.

"Go on, then," Oak said, shooing them toward the door with a scholar's impatience for getting theory into practice. "If you hurry, you'll beat the line at the Viridian registry and still have time for lunch before orientation. If you see that old Ranger with the scar at the south gate, tell him I still owe him a bottle of something we can't afford."

Ash's eyes lifted. For a breath, something crossed between them—shared history, the shape of a secret properly kept. "We'll tell him," Ash said.

Oak nodded as if a silent bell had chimed. He bent and scratched Eevee under the chin until her back foot did an undignified dance, patted Riolu's shoulder with the exact amount of respect Riolu required, and held the door.

"Bring the road back with you when you can," he said as the winter light pooled in the threshold. "In stories. In numbers. In the smell of your coats. The lab likes to know where you've been."

"We will," Serena said.

Ash hesitated half a heartbeat, then reached out and gripped Oak's forearm. The professor returned it, brief and strong.

"Go on," Oak repeated, softer. "Kanto waits."

They stepped out into the clean morning, caps and ribbons, bands and promises, their first official tools warm against the bones of their wrists. The lab door snicked shut behind them, and the road north lay like a sentence they could finally finish out loud.

They left the lab with the road in their pockets—Pokédex warm against Ash's palm, Serena's lanyard tucked safe beneath her ribbon—and cut back down the white-fence lane toward home. The morning had sharpened; the bay threw coins of light into the air and let the wind spend them.

Halfway down the hill, the path turned between two low orchards and gave them a stretch of quiet. Ash slowed. Serena matched him without asking.

"Feels different," he said, eyes on the neat rows, "having Oak say it out loud. That he knew. That he signed the silence so Mom didn't have to hear the worst rumors." He exhaled, fogging the chill. "I've spent a lot of years being the secret in other people's rooms."

"And today you weren't," Serena said. She slipped her hand into his, simple as breathing. "Today you were a son in a kitchen, a student in a lab, and a partner on a road. The secret can ride along, but it doesn't get the front seat."

He huffed a laugh, surprised by the image. "Deal."

They stopped where the fence dipped to a view of the water. Riolu trotted ahead, polite enough to give them a few paces; Eevee took the hint and occupied herself with investigating a clover patch like it was contraband.

"Look at me," Serena said softly.

He did. Close up, the cap made him look like the promise he'd once shouted at a campfire; the scar at his collarbone made him look like the cost of it. She reached up and straightened the brim.

"Pulse?" she asked.

He nodded. They didn't need to close their eyes anymore. She pressed her fingers to his wrist; he set his hand at her waist; the bond hummed once and steadied, a warm line running between them like a candlewick catching. Here. It traveled both ways.

He kissed her then—unhurried, sure, the kind of kiss that tells a beginning the door is open. No drama, no stage lights. Just him and her and the salt on the air and the road behind and ahead.

"First date, day three," he murmured against her temple when they broke. "Extra credit?"

"Full marks," she said, smiling. "Now let's go say goodbye before your mother decides to come find us with a broom."

They cut through the back lane, careful of the loose slat he'd rattled last night. The Ketchum house waited as if it had been watching the hill. Delia met them at the door with that particular mix of brisk and tender she wore when pretending not to have been listening for their footfalls.

"You look like yourself," she said to Ash, approving the cap with a single glance. She looked over at Serena, "And you look like you have somewhere important to be. Good."

Inside smelled like tea again and something citrus she'd wiped the table with. Delia didn't fuss with food this time; she fussed with hands—taking each of theirs in turn, turning them palm-up as if reading a weather map. "Strong," she pronounced, letting them go. "Try to come back with ten fingers each."

"We'll aim high," Ash said.

"I made one last thing," Delia added, almost offhand, which meant she'd thought about it too much. From the little bowl where keys and coins slept, she lifted a small charm—thin silver leaf with a tiny green glass bead set at the stem. "Pallet doesn't do grand jewels. We do useful and lucky. Pin it to your ribbon case, Serena. For Viridian. For beginnings."

Serena cupped it like a drop of water that had decided to be solid. "It's perfect," she said, and meant it. She fastened it to the inside lip of her case so it would catch the light when she opened it and nowhere else. "Thank you."

Delia nodded once, satisfied, then surprised everyone, herself included, by pulling both of them into a hug at the same time—an efficient bundling that smelled like soap and comfort and the kind of courage kitchens make. Eevee sprang up to tap Delia's shoulder with her paw as if to add a seal; Riolu stood very straight at their side and bowed his head, and Delia reached down without looking and squeezed his paw too.

"Write a note on the table," she said when she let them go, businesslike again. "Where you're heading and when you plan to darken my doorstep next. If plans change, I will accept a call, a bell, or a teenager with a message written on his forehead. I am magnanimous."

Ash dragged a scrap of paper toward him and printed in block letters, the way he had when he was smaller and thought neatness could fix anything: REGISTRATION → SERENA CONTEST ORIENTATION → CENTER. CALL YOU. LOVE, He added a quick sketch of a tiny cap and a ribbon because he couldn't help himself. Delia pretended not to smile, failed, and tucked the note under the little stone by the phone.

"Two last things," she said, ticking them off on the air. "Eat actual lunch, not just whatever's on sticks. And—when you win, either of you—call me before you call anyone else so I can cry first."

"Yes, ma'am," Serena said, eyes bright.

Delia kissed her son's cheek, squeezed Serena's hand hard enough to say You are in this family now, and her voice softened to the thread you only hear in rooms like this. "Go on."

They stepped onto the porch. The succulent glowed with tiny drops from the morning mist. Ash turned back once. Delia stood framed in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other on her hip like she was about to fight dust and time to a draw.

"Be safe," she said.

"We will," he answered.

The gate clicked behind them with that same small, satisfying sound it had made yesterday—the beginning of a sentence finished at last. Pallet opened its lanes, the road gathered itself into direction, and the day leaned toward Viridian.

Route 1 didn't announce itself so much as it allowed them on; two ruts through winter grass, hedges holding their breath, low stone walls storing a day's sunlight for later. The morning had the clean taste of water poured from a clay jar. Riolu trotted at Ash's knee, posture loose but listening; Eevee rode Serena's shoulder like a small, opinionated epaulet, tail flagging every time a hedgerow sparrow argued with a hawk and won.

They let the first hour be quiet work. Ash fell into a moving meditation the Root had drilled into him; eyes soft, breath set to steps, attention out at the edges where trouble starts. Serena matched him with a dancer's walk; weight forward, hips loose, the spine's little spring that makes long miles less cruel. When the wind veered, they tasted brine from the bay; when it dropped, they could hear the hum of someone's distant tractor arguing with soil.

They ate Delia's sandwiches by a ditchside willow; bread ends, of course, jam like thin sunlight, a slice of cheese that had already made up its mind to sweat and didn't care who judged it. Riolu accepted his share with ceremonial gravity; Eevee executed a theft so elegant that Serena congratulated her on it and then pretended to scold.

Training came after. In a cropped field with frost still hiding in shadows, Serena stretched a ribbon line of seafoam green and let it write in the wind; figure eights, spirals, a sudden fall to stillness that made the tail shimmer before being caught again. Eevee practiced on cue—Quick Attack popped like a camera flash, Baby-Doll Eyes softening, then a clean Double Kick with both hind paws on a chalk-like X Serena drew with a pebble.

Ash watched her ribbon flow through the air and the pause she built before the lift. He hesitated, then tilted his head.

"Would you like a Guardian's perspective?" he asked. "On how it feels from the outside?"

Serena glanced back at him, considering. Then she smiled. "Always. Go on."

"The pause," he said, stepping around to see her from the angle of an audience. "It sings because you earn it. Don't rush the lift—let the silence make them lean in before you bring it back. That's where your strength shows."

She tried it, the ribbon falling still like a note held too long. When she raised it again, even the hedgerow seemed to lean closer. Serena's grin answered for her; he returned it without words, the bond hummed like a struck bowl.

Riolu took the field next. Ash set a pair of pale stones ten paces apart. "Force Palm through stillness," he murmured. "No rush. Feel the line through your shoulder, not just your paw." Riolu centered, exhaled, then drove a clean palm-strike into the cold air. The shock popped like a knuckle. Again. Again. On the fourth, Ash stepped to the side. "Now—Feint. All your weight in, but none given." Riolu's body twitched as if to strike and didn't; the air bit on the bait. Serena felt the old thrill—the pleasure of craft done well—rise with the mist off the field.

Then she folded her ribbon across her arm. "My turn. Want a Coordinator's perspective on your fighting style?"

Ash's mouth quirked. "That sounds like trouble. But yes."

"When you and Riolu move, it's powerful," she said, tone thoughtful. "But on stage, or in a battle where everyone's watching, raw strength can look rushed if it isn't framed. Add a half-beat of stillness before the strike, like Riolu is deciding, and the impact will land twice as hard. You make it a story, not just a hit."

Riolu, listening, folded his arms and gave a short nod that looked suspiciously like agreement.

Ash blinked, then laughed. "All right, fair. Guardian and Coordinator, huh? We'll trade notes."

"We'll trade notes," Serena echoed, pleased.

They moved on as the sun climbed higher. The hedgerow told its story in scraps; Rattata prints pressed into soft dirt, a Starly's feather caught in hawthorn, and a piece of twine left where no farmer would drop it. Ash paused at the twine, brow creasing. The birds had been noisy all morning; here, though, they went suddenly quiet, as if a blanket had been laid over a cage.

"Feel that?" he asked.

Serena did—the wrong-smoothness, not water now but the air, as if the road had learned to expect a hand and braced for it. Eevee's tail went down from pennant to question mark; Riolu's ears angled, not at a sound but at the absence of one.

Ash and Serena looked at each other and nodded, following the wrong-smoothness.

They weren't far off the route when they found the snare in a clump of rye; crudely set wire anchored to a stake, sprigs half-heartedly thrown over it. Someone had baited it with a smear of mashed Oran. A Nidoran lay on her side, breathing fast, foreleg looped hard; the wire had cut the skin. Serena went to her knees without ceremony, voice pitched low and even.

No time for anger yet.

"Hey, pretty one. We've got you. Shh. Don't fight the wire; fight me instead." Eevee slid off Serena's shoulder and set herself near the Nidoran's nose, purring nonsense so soft it might have been prayer. Riolu planted himself facing the hedgerow, unreadable.

Ash set a palm a handspan from the wound, not touching. Aura work is like tuning a violin—you don't wrench the peg; you turn and listen. A coolness traveled from his chest to his fingertips and took the edge off pain. Not gone. Just blunted. The Nidoran's breath loosened half a notch. Serena worked the knot with deliberate fingers, not tugging—rocking—creating slack where there wasn't any. When the loop gave, Ash slid two fingers between wire and skin. The wire lifted free with a hiccuping little jerk. Serena pulled the stake, snapped the loop with her boot heel, and pocketed the pieces.

The leg was angry and raw, but not broken. Serena opened Delia's salve, the tin lid clicking like good sense. "This will sting," she warned, then painted a thin line with a fingertip, smooth, light, no pressure. The Nidoran flinched, then settled. Eevee licked her cheek once as if stamping a document; Riolu let his stance soften, just a fraction.

Ash stood, eyes on the hedge. "The snare-setter will check before sundown," he said, voice flat.

"Is there a Ranger post nearby?" Serena asked.

He nodded. "South gate of Viridian, we'll leave a note on their board." He pulled the KGS from his belt, snapped a photo and geotag, then logged a line in a research field Oak had asked for: SN-01: wire snare, Route 1, simple, baited. Nidoran superficial injury. Trap removed. If machines gossip, then let them gossip about this.

They shepherded the Nidoran to the ditch line. She hesitated once, tested the leg, then bolted into cover with a last glance that was not gratitude but recognition; you did the right thing; now I owe you nothing. Ash approved. He preferred wild things left unpaid.

They were back on the road, a half a mile out from the south ridge, a natural rise of land acting like the border between Pallet and Viridian, when the day went sideways. A Raticate; scarred, winter-lean, half an ear missing; shot from the hedgerow like a thrown brick. It didn't feint. It did not negotiate. It went for the food bag at Serena's hip because hunger does math with teeth.

"Riolu—intercept it! Force Palm!" Ash's body was already moving. Riolu hit the Raticate mid-lunge, palm strike driving a shock clean through its muscle. It skidded, rolled, and came up furious. Two Rattata ghosted out behind it, flanking low and fast; pack behavior, ugly and efficient.

"Sand Attack—now!" Serena snapped. Eevee dropped like a stone, scooped with both hind paws, and kicked a sheet of grit into the leader's face. It blinked, blind, and screamed. One Rattata went right for Eevee's hind leg, but Serena was already pivoting her weight, letting Eevee spring to the inside of her calf where teeth couldn't find purchase.

"Feint—left—follow with Quick Attacks!" Ash read the angle, not the animal; Riolu shivered a fake, drew the Raticate's snap, then ghosted past its shoulder and hammered two Quick Attacks into its ribs and flank. No head shots, no throat; just disable, don't mutilate.

The second Rattata darted for Ash's boot; he let it—weight forward—then shifted back so its teeth scraped leather and not his instep. He stamped with the edge of his sole, not to crush, but to warn; hard enough to make it change its mind about the business model. It fled three body lengths, then reconsidered because hunger is stupid.

"Eevee—Double Kick!" Serena's voice had iron. Eevee planted and snapped both hind feet into the Raticate's chest. The air left it with an ugly bark. Riolu turned on the last Rattata with a low growl that wasn't from his throat. Something in the line between him and Ash hummed; the little rodent's courage fell out of its pockets. It skittered into the hedge and stayed there, swearing in rodent.

The leader thought about one more charge—failure written all over its hide—and then broke. It vanished into the crub, dragging its bad ear like a flag. Silence collapsed. The hedge birds started talking again, nervously.

Ash stayed crouched a second longer, one palm pressed to dirt, listening for the echo of more. Nothing. He stood slowly, breath even. Serena was already at Eevee's side, hands on fur, eyes scanning for nicks. A shallow rake on the shoulder; a kiss, a dab of salve. Eevee pretended to hate it and licked Serena's knuckle to make sure credit was properly assigned.

Riolu shook his paws out—small, neat, like a fighter resetting balance—then rolled his shoulders. Ash set his forearm against Riolu's for a heartbeat. The bond hummed, sweat-and-adrenaline bright, then settled.

"You all right?" Ash asked Serena, eyes on her, not just her partner.

"Fine," she said, breath steady. "Hungry, grumpy, territorial. Smart enough to hit me where it would hurt. Not smart enough to live with the consequences." She glanced toward the hedge where the Raticate had vanished. "I'm not sorry we didn't kill it."

"Me neither," Ash said. He caught her eye. "We might not get that choice every time, though."

"I know," she said with no theatrics. "But today we did."

They moved on with the hedge to their right and a little more empty inside their pockets where fear had knocked, then left something useful in its place. The road rose, dipped, found a stone marker with an old leaf carved into it, lichen softening the veins. Ash brushed two fingers over the carving in passing—not prayer, not habit, something in between.

By midafternoon, Viridian's roofs showed through the trees—red tiles like coals banked on the hills. The smell of resin and cold shade lifted off the first stands of pines like memory. Serena's ribbon hand twitched; she stilled it. Ash's jaw flexed once, then unclenched.

At the Ranger post near the south gate, they pinned a neat note to the board: WIRE SNARE—ROUTE 1—COORDS ATTACHED—TRAP REMOVED; NIDORAN TREATED; WATCH FOR RETURN. Ash added Oak's device signature because machines take machines more seriously than men, then spoke briefly with a young Ranger in a faded vest who looked relieved to have something he could mark as Actionable instead of Rumor. Serena handed in the evidence in her pockets, and the Ranger promised a sweep at dusk. He glanced at Riolu with a mix of curiosity and respect he hadn't learned in a book, then at Eevee, who posed like a patron saint of backstage passes, and then bid the party farewell.

They walked the last slope into Viridian City as the light turned low and kind. Banners had gone up along the main street—VIRIDIAN CONTEST — SEASON OPENER in green script, laurel leaves printed along the borders. Food stalls tested their burners; a woman on a ladder fussed with a lantern that wanted to be stubborn; somewhere, a pianist ran scales with a patience that came from rent being due.

Serena's step changed—not faster, not slower, but tuned. The city saw it and went in tune with her. Ash watched the exchange and smiled to himself, small.

"Center?" he asked.

"Center, then Committee," she said, adjusting the lanyard under her ribbon so it lay neat. "Orientations are usually posted by twilight. I want to do it tonight so I can practice in the morning."

"Good," he said. "We'll eat something that didn't come out of a pocket. Then we'll walk the block once to learn the corners. No surprises inside where there don't need to be any."

They crossed the square. A bell at the little shrine near the fountain wore a new rope. Ash didn't ring it. Not yet. The day's earlier notes were still in his bones. Serena's hand brushed his as they passed, knuckles greeting knuckles. Eevee lifted her chin, already imagining the stage light; Riolu took everything in and filed it where doors and exits live.

The Center's doors opened on warmth and bustle. The board by the desk had three sheets tacked up and a fourth being pinned as they stepped inside: REGISTRATION — GYM / CONTEST. Serena's gaze cut to the green-stamped page. Her mouth tipped. The future had put a hand out.

"Ready?" Ash asked.

"Ready," she said, and for a heartbeat, the room felt like a stage that hadn't met her yet but was going to be very glad when it did.

The Viridian Center split itself cleanly down the middle; League on the left; badges on posters, maps with neat red lines; and Contest Committee on the right; silk banners, programs fanned like wings, a little bowl of spare bobby pins on the counter as if the city understood emergencies.

"Split and reconvene?" Ash asked.

"Split and reconvene," Serena echoed, and for a moment they lingered in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by a tide of trainers and coordinators peeling off in every direction. Riolu tugged at Ash's pant leg, Eevee flicked her tail, and that settled it; time to move.

They traded a small nod, then turned; Ash toward the League's green-tiled counter, Serena toward the velvet banners of the Contest desk. Each disappeared into their own current of voices and forms.

The clerk at the league desk wore a vest the color of good moss and a face that had seen too many kids bluff confidence for the first time. "Name?"

"Ash Ketchum," he said, setting the KGS on the pad. The screen paired with a soft chirp.

The clerk's monitor scrolled: REGISTRY: INDIGO CIRCUIT — SPONSOR: PROF. S. OAK — COMPANION EXEMPTION REQUESTED (FREE-ROAM)

"Companion is… Riolu," the clerk read. A glance to Ash. "Ball ID on file?"

Ash held up the Friend Ball. "Registered. We use consent recall only."

"Demonstration for the log?" the clerk asked, already kinder than the phrasing.

Ash knelt to Riolu's eye line. "Quick in, quick out?"

Riolu's paw tapped the button. Light folded, the ball chimed, LINKED, Ash pressed release, and Riolu stood on the tile again, steady as a post. The clerk's screen ticked COMPLIANCE OK and added a green tag; ARENA VISUAL CONFIRMATION ACCEPTED.

"Right," the clerk said, businesslike but pleased. He slid over a trainer card still warm from laminate, a rulebook thin enough to read and thick enough to be useful, and toggled Ash's league band to live. "You're official. Welcome back to Kanto, Mr. Ketchum. Try not to pick fights with our paperwork."

"I'll do my best," Ash said, and meant I brought a professor to do it for me.

On the other side, the Viridian Contest Committee had turned a meeting room into a small apostolic church of beauty; dress forms in muslin, a rack of neutral capes, clipboards lined like choirbooks. Behind the counter, a woman in her forties with tidy hair and a quicker smile than her eyes took Serena in at a glance, the ribbon, the posture, the calm fox on her shoulder.

"Competitor or exhibition?" she asked.

"Competitor," Serena said. "Serena Yvonne from Vaniville, Kalos." She slid Oak's letter across, then set her lanyard on the sensor.

The reader blinked, thought, and then pinged in a brighter register than the desk expected. The woman's brows lifted. On her screen: ACCREDITATION: VIRIDIAN RIBBON CONTEST — SPONSOR: PROF. S. OAK — CLEARANCE: TIER-2 (RESEARCH/ BACKSTAGE)

"Well," the woman murmured, now smiling for real. "Professor Oak has already been here today, apparently in spirit." She reached into a drawer and brought out a slim, matte unit the size of a little notepad; Coordinator Registry Device, locals called it the Co-Dex. Soft grey, pale green edge, a discreet laurel stamped near the power key. "Your credential flags you for an upgraded issue. This will track your registrations, stage notes, judges' rubrics, rehearsal slots, and, if you choose, public portfolio. It also opens our backstage doors without making you juggle charms."

Serena's heart did a small, incredulous thing. "Thank you."

"You can thank him when you next see him," the woman said, amused. She slid over a license card with Serena's name and a clean headshot the camera had just taken from the stand; SERENA YVONNE — KANTO CIRCUIT — VIRIDIAN #021. "Orientation at sixteen hundred in the south hall. Pull one performance order token from the bowl, then book a tech rehearsal for tomorrow morning. Rules—" she tapped a printed sheet "—are Kanto-patchwork yet simple; Round One: Appeal (90 seconds). Round Two: Performance Battle (1 vs. 1, 3-minute clock, style and control judged in addition to damage). Final: 1 vs. 1 showcase battle, best of 5 judge points. Props approved if they pack in thirty seconds and don't endanger anyone's eyebrows. No dry ice. Someone abused dry ice."

Eevee made an innocent face that fooled no one.

"Music?" Serena asked.

"We have a house pianist and two licensed tracks," the woman said. "Or you can go no music. Audiences in Viridian respect quiet if you make it worth their while."

Quiet was Serena's friend. "Noted."

"Draw your number," the woman added, lifting a ceramic bowl painted with laurels. Tokens clinked softly.

Serena reached in, felt the round tiles, and pulled 13. She wondered if some people would grimace. She smiled. "Lucky."

"That's the spirit," the woman said, stamping a small green laurel on Serena's license that meant paperwork complete. "Stage access opens at fourteen hundred if you want to walk it."

"I do," Serena said.

"And Miss Yvonne?" The woman lowered her voice a hair. "If anyone backstage tells you Kanto contests run on charm alone, they're selling something. They run on craft. You look like you know that, tho. Good."

Serena inclined her head. "I do."

They found each other by the Center board, where someone had pinned a handmade flyer for a noodle stall that claimed its broth improved coordination. Ash handed Serena a paper cup of barley tea; she offered him the Co-Dex and license like show-and-tell.

"Tier-2?" he said, impressed and not surprised.

She tapped the tiny laurel. "Oak's doing. It opens real doors. And they gave me a Co-Dex."

"Perfect," he said. "Now the machines will gossip about you too."

They ate soba at a street stand under a green banner that flapped with opinions. The broth was clean and deep; the noodles had the right chew; a boy at the next table argued passionately that Saffron judges were too hard on Fire types. Ash let the talk wash over him and mapped the block; the way the alley behind the hall kissed the side street; which lamp posts were out; where the emergency exits opened; the route from stage door to the Center if you had to move fast without being seen. He didn't look like he was scouting. Serena didn't look like she noticed. They were both very good at their jobs.

At fourteen hundred sharp, they checked in at the side door where a chalkboard read STAGE ACCESS — COMPETITORS ONLY in neat block caps. A stage manager with clipped hair and fifteen yards of gaffer tape looped around her wrist pointed them up the stairs. "Boots clean, hands clean, leave it better than you found it."

The Viridian stage wasn't grand. It was honest. Planked floor, a coat of resin waxed just enough to hold light, tape marks for the 5-meter and 8-meter radii. High above, a catwalk skeleton; at the wings, coils of cable and two battered fans labeled WIND A/B. A piano sat stage left, its lid up like a listening ear; a stool beside it already held someone's sweater.

Serena stepped onto the boards and felt them answer. The space breathed different from the Kalos halls—less velvet, more wood—but wood is friendlier if you respect it. She walked the diameter—heels, toes, turn—counted the beats from center to lip, looked up into the grid to spot the lights that would carry warmth and which would carve shadow. Eevee rode her shoulder and then jumped to the floor, paws whispering, testing grip, sliding once, and adjusting.

"May I?" Serena asked the stage manager, indicating a strip of seafoam ribbon coiled like water.

"Two minutes, no tosses into the rig," the manager said.

Serena nodded and set her entry. No music. She breathed the room full, then let the ribbon write in the air; a rise, a fall to stillness—the held breath—then the lift Ash had asked her to earn. It worked in this wood. The stillness had texture. When she finished, there was no applause yet—only the small sound a room makes when it decides it wants to hear more tomorrow.

"Good," the stage manager said, which was the currency here. "Book your tech slot—we're starting at eight. Keep your hair away from the wind fans; they're enthusiastic."

Serena penciled 8:40 on the sheet. Eevee signed it with a paw print no one asked for, and somehow no one minded.

In the south hall, orientation put thirty coordinators into folding chairs and thirty heartbeats into a single rhythm. A judge with square glasses outlined scoring without preamble; creativity, control, cohesion in Round One; damage, defense, display in Round Two; judges' discretion in the final if the clock tied. The house pianist played three bars so competitors could feel the room; the sound was warm and present.

Serena clocked faces without cataloging them like enemies. A boy in a red scarf soothed a Pidgeotto with a low hum; a woman with a severe bun whispered to a Vulpix whose tails moved like language; a stocky kid in a patched jacket stroked a clean-coated Nidorino and didn't posture, which Serena respected. They weren't rivals yet. They were witnesses to each other's beginnings.

By the time the sun cleared the line of pines, admin was done. Serena tucked the Co-Dex away, linked it to her schedule, and found Ash leaning against a pillar by the exit like he'd grown there.

"How's the floor?" he asked.

"Friendly if you listen," she said. "They banned dry ice."

"Civilization advances."

They lingered in the square as lanterns shook awake one by one. Someone tuned a violin on a corner; a pair of Ranger bikes whispered past; the fountain lifted its slender note to mark the hour. Ash watched the hall doors as if they were a horizon.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"Hungry," she said, smiling. "And a little in love with this stage." She touched the silver leaf charm Delia had given her, hidden on the inside lip of her case. "Tomorrow, I make it mine."

He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers. "Tomorrow, you let it make you bigger."

They walked back toward the Pokémon Center, slow enough to memorize corners. At the little shrine by the fountain, Ash paused and brushed the bell rope with his knuckles—no ring, just a greeting. The rope swayed a fraction, as if promising to hold news when they needed it to.

In their room, they laid out what needed laying out: Serena's case by the door; Ash's cloak on the chair; Eevee curled at the pillow edge; Riolu on the mat, eyes open, listening to the city rest itself. They didn't talk strategy anymore. The work was set. They called Delia as promised and settled in.

Viridian's lights thinned toward midnight, and somewhere in the rafters above an empty stage, the first ribbon of the season rustled against its hook like a promise deciding where it would go.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Curtains Rise

Viridian woke soft and early, a city that preferred to clear its throat before anyone asked it to sing. Steam lifted from street grates; a baker's door cracked and sighed; the fountain in the square tapped out its patient note, counting minutes no one else needed. In a Pokémon Center room, Serena lay awake and let the morning come to meet her, not the other way around.

Eevee was a warm crescent against her neck. When Serena inhaled, Eevee's whiskers tickled her jaw; when she exhaled, Eevee's tiny chest rose a beat later, a heartbeat syncing to hers by habit and choice. Across the room, Riolu sat at the window on the mat they'd rolled out the night before, watching the city's reflection soften in the glass. Ash, half-turned in the bunk below, was awake too—quiet in that particular way he did when he was letting another person's nerves have the room.

"Morning," Serena whispered into the quiet.

"Morning," Ash answered, voice low and steady. "Pulse?"

She smiled in the dark at the ritual. She pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist when he offered it up over the rail; he tapped two knuckles against her shoulder in return. The bond thrummed once—warm, present, not demanding. Here. The word traveled both directions.

They let the room stay dim while they did the small, necessary things. Serena slipped out from under the blanket and folded it with the diligence of a performer who knew superstition liked neat corners. She tied back her hair with the seafoam ribbon, then untied it and tried again until the little tail lay just so. Eevee accepted a bristle brush with the dignity of a queen and tolerated a damp cloth with the magnanimity of a saint.

Ash opened Delia's little tin of salve and worked a breath-thin smear into his hands, then into Riolu's forepaws and the pads of his feet—habit, not fussing. He checked the Friend Ball's latch and set it back on his belt, not because he planned to use it, but because systems behave when their pieces know where to live. He looked over, gauging her shoulders and breath. "Would you like coffee," he asked, "or quiet?"

"Quiet first," she said. "Then porridge. If I try to dance on coffee, I'll end up telling the pianist how to do his job."

"Even the gods don't need that," Ash said, grinning.

They took the stairs down and slipped into the Center's kitchen between the nurses' second cup and the early trainers' first. The porridge was honest and hot. Serena cut an apple into clean wedges and let them fan along the bowl's rim; Ash stole two and left his apology in the shape of extra honey. Eevee got three slivers and then pretended she had not. Riolu drank water like it mattered.

"Would you like a Guardian's perspective later?" Ash asked as they ate, not looking up from coaxing a stubborn knot out of the scarf Delia had given him. "On your entry. Not as a fix, just… how a room feels right before someone chooses to breathe."

Serena twirled the spoon once, thinking. "Yes," she said. "And I'll trade you for a Coordinator's perspective on your ring work. Not as a critique—framing, timing. Making a hit land twice because the story around it is true."

"Deal," he said, and the bond hummed its assent like a small bell agreeing between them.

Back upstairs, she laid out her choices on the bed: the silk in pale ocean that caught light without showing off, the simple fitted jacket with a hidden hook for the ribbon tail, and tights tough enough to survive a stumble and pretend it was part of the plan. She pinned Delia's silver leaf charm to the inside lip of her case, where only she would see it, where it could flash at the exact moment before the stage went quiet. Then she opened the Co-Dex and checked her slot: #13 — Appeal: 10:50. She didn't flinch. She wrote it on her wrist in tiny numbers anyway because sometimes it helps to carry a promise where your pulse lives.

They walked to the hall by way of the square, letting the city lend them its rhythms. A woman set out chairs at a noodle stall and whistled with absolutely no regard for key; a Ranger pair jogged by with their bikes kitted for a day that expected to be clean and had learned not to assume. The Contest Hall's backstage door was propped open for deliveries; inside, the air had the varnished sweetness stages carry when they've slept and are trying not to admit they were dreaming about applause.

A stagehand with gaffer tape wrapped to her wrist like a bracelet glanced up from a clipboard, saw Serena's lanyard, and pointed with her chin. "Competitors' sign-in is down the hall. Green room to the right, tech table straight on. No glitter anywhere you can't vacuum."

"Understood," Serena said.

The green room was a long, windowless space dressed in institutional cheer; two rows of mirrors with bulbs, a row of garment racks, and a table of complimentary hairpins. Competitors were already carving out territory with bags and posture. Serena recognized a few faces from orientation—the red scarf boy with the Pidgeotto, the calm woman with the Vulpix. They were adjusted to the room the way stones adjust to rain.

"Registration?" called a voice to her left. The woman from yesterday's desk—hair tidy, smile fox-sharp—sat at a folding table with a binder of names and a bowl of safety pins. "Serena Yvonne?"

"Yes," Serena said, stepping forward and sliding her license across with the lanyard.

"Number thirteen," the woman said, stamping the little green laurel beside the time. "Warm-up lane opens at ten twenty. The house pianist will be in the wings for cues. If you need the wind fans, tell Marin—she'll set A or B. Props on and off in thirty seconds, or you feed my stagehands donuts later."

"Noted," Serena said.

She found a mirror and set her case beneath it, letting the room look at her and letting herself look back: seafoam ribbon, simple hair, eyes steady. Eevee hopped up onto the narrow counter and settled into the oval of light like it belonged to her, and maybe it did. Serena worked a touch of color into Eevee's ear edges—just a warm gloss that would read as health under lamps—then checked paw pads, whiskers, tail fan. Eevee endured with patience and the occasional dramatic sigh, which somehow made the work easier.

"Pretty ribbon," someone said. Serena glanced in the glass. A girl a year older, maybe two, leaned on the next table over with an expression too relaxed to be authentic. Her dress was Celadon-slick, all deep green and a slit that pretended to be accidental. A Butterfree perched on her shoulder and twitched its antennae like it was trying to pick the room's radio station.

"Thank you," Serena said. "I like your hem—the weight will read clean on spins."

The girl's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile; almost. "Viridian's a tough first ribbon," she said. "Judges here get allergic to easy pretty. They'll want to see teeth beneath the bow."

"Then it's good I have both," Serena said, tone perfectly pleasant. Eevee's tail flicked once, the exact measure between rude and regal.

A voice farther down the row called names for a warm-up lane. Serena bent, pressed her forehead to Eevee's for a breath, and felt the little steady click of them slide into place. She looked up—and Ash was already in the doorway, not intruding, just being there in the way of a lighthouse that has learned to look like a lamppost.

"May I?" he asked, lifting a hand toward the ribbon, not touching.

"Please," she said.

He circled behind her, eyes on the mirror, not her. "On your entry," he said softly, voice pitched only for her, "let the first shape be smaller than you want. Make the room lean in—that's where you take their balance. And the stillness? Hold it one heartbeat past comfort. If they exhale before you lift, you own the air."

She nodded, the advice tucked where it needed to go. "My turn." She tipped her head toward the hall. "In your first exchanges with Rio, give me a half-beat before impact. If the audience can feel the decision land, the strike will read twice. You'll look powerful and precise, not just fast."

"Understood," he said, and Riolu—who had nudged up to sit by her boot—cut him a sideways look that said the boss had spoken.

"Warm-up lane now," called the stage manager from yesterday—Marin, tape on wrist like a badge of office. "Ten twenty to ten thirty, numbers nine through fourteen. No music, no props; this is for feet and lungs."

Serena rolled her shoulders once and felt the room do the same back. She touched the silver leaf charm with her thumb, more habit than hope. Eevee leapt to the floor and landed without sound, all promise and poised joy. Ash stepped back, making space like he had all morning—there, solid, not in the way.

"Clear, cloud, wind?" he asked, their shorthand.

"Clear," Serena said. The word sat warm in her mouth. "You?"

"Clear with a breeze," he said, the corner of his mouth easing. "I'll be in the wing's shadow—second curtain, stage right. If you need eyes, find mine."

"I always do," she said, and it wasn't performance when she said it.

They moved together down the hall until the corridor narrowed and the rules of the stage took over who gets to cross which line. At the tape on the floor that read COMPETITORS ONLY, Ash stopped. Riolu sat at his heel, precise as punctuation. They didn't need to say anything; they had already said what mattered.

Serena stepped into the warm-up lane. The wooden boards had that faint, waxed give underfoot that tells you they've held both triumph and tears and learned not to judge. She walked center, marked the five-meter radius with her eye, and let her lungs measure what the room would take.

"Number thirteen?" Marin called from the wing.

"Here," Serena said, raising a hand.

Marin looked up, assessed in a sweep, and nodded once. "Good luck," she said, which, from a stage manager, means do your job so I can do mine. "You're on at ten fifty. Make Viridian remember your name."

Serena smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

She closed her eyes for one heartbeat and pictured the room as it would be: lights, faces, that beautiful hush right before sound. When she opened them, she didn't imagine it anymore. She let it be today.

From the corridor behind the wing, Ash glanced at his band as if it were a clock and then didn't look at it again. He watched the place where she'd appear. Eevee looked back over her shoulder and winked, because of course she did. Serena breathed, and the stage breathed with her.

Viridian drew a breath of its own. And the day, at last, began to sing.

Backstage smelled like rosin, linen, and nerves trying to act like they didn't exist. Marin's tape clicked against her wrist as she counted bodies with her eyes. "Nine through fourteen, places," she called, and the hallway contracted into purpose.

Number twelve—a boy in the red scarf with the Pidgeotto—went ahead of Serena. He and his partner darted through a clean aerial figure, feathers catching the front lights like coins. Polite applause rolled back through the wings. Marin lifted two fingers toward the fan tech. "Wind A at one for thirteen," she said. A low hum answered, a faint breath moving across the boards.

Serena pressed her thumb once to the inside lip of her case where the silver leaf charm lived, then shut it. Eevee looked up; Serena bent until their foreheads touched. Clear? The bond hummed back. Ash stood in the shadow of the second curtain, where he'd promised, a steady point in a room full of spinning things. He didn't gesture; he didn't need to. She felt the small pulse, grounding clear through the line between them.

"Thirteen," Marin said, voice softer now that it was only for one person. "On you."

Serena walked into the lights.

Viridian's hall wasn't grand, but it knew how to hold a hush. No music. She let the quiet fall like a cloth over a table—neat, deliberate. She set her feet on the five-meter mark, placed the seafoam ribbon between both hands, and made her first shape smaller than she wanted. The arc rose to shoulder height, not overhead, a breath a room could share instead of something it had to chase. People leaned in. She felt it as a weight shifting forward on a hundred chairs.

Hold, one heartbeat past comfort.

She let the ribbon drop to stillness. Not a twitch. The fans' low breath lifted a whisper of silk and then thought better of it. Ash's advice sat in her bones like a known chord. When the silence had earned its keep, she lifted. The ribbon climbed as if it had found the warm air on its own. The first spiral drew without wobble—elbow loose, wrist clean. Eevee slid into motion at the cue—no scuttle, no scramble, just a quiet Quick Attack that kissed the inside edge of the spiral and made it glow in the audience's eyes without a single light cue changing.

Serena framed her partner rather than presenting her like a prop: a low sweep that wrote a parenthesis around Eevee's leap; a half-turn with the free hand open, showing look, here is the breath of the piece. Baby-Doll Eyes wasn't a charm now but a lighting choice—Eevee's gaze widening at the exact instant Serena stilled the ribbon again, the hall's attention pulled to a point no wider than a coin.

She felt the half-beat she'd promised Ash to feel. Every time a strike or landing threatened to rush, she let a breath sit between decision and action. It made Eevee's Double Kick read twice; first as potential, then as punctuation. The second kick landed on the downbeat of Serena's ribbon drop, the silk lying itself across the boards like a line drawn with a ruler.

Thirty seconds. Forty.

She took the risk she'd reserved for today; a thread-the-needle pass—ribbon arcing in a narrow hoop as Eevee dived cleanly through. No toss. No rig. All timing. Eevee cleared it by a whisker's width and flared on the landing into a poised crouch, tail fanned, chest proud.

Applause broke—small at first, then warming—and Serena almost missed the slight rise of the floor under her left foot as she set her next pivot. There—an old seam in the planks, wax thicker by a breath. Her heel kissed the seam, not enough to betray her but enough to steal a grain of momentum. The ribbon caught a tiny hiccup in the air. Eevee felt it and turned the would-be wobble into a beat of stillness on purpose, a poised ear-flick that made three rows gasp because they thought it was choreography.

Serena bought the recovery with an extra heartbeat of quiet and then drew the last figure eight wider, letting her earlier smallness pay off now. The ribbon settled at the end, not dropped but laid, and Eevee stepped forward into the center of the coil to stand, one paw lifted, the picture composed. Serena's free hand completed the frame—a simple, open palm. No bow yet. Let the image live.

The room made the little sound that rooms make when they're pleased with themselves for having recognized something true. Then the applause came proper—Viridian's brand of approval; not roaring, but present.

She and Eevee bowed as one. The ribbon didn't so much as twitch on the floor. Serena turned cleanly and walked for the wing without breaking the spell by hurrying it to an end.

"Clear," Marin murmured as she passed, and it was the highest compliment a stage manager could give. "Good save at the seam."

"Thank you," Serena replied, breath steady now that it was allowed to be.

Ash was there in the shadow, a hand at her elbow for exactly one step—support, not rescue—and then gone again so she could take her own air. Riolu, at his heel, gave Eevee a single, dignified nod. Eevee tried to look above such things and failed by wagging once.

Behind them, number fourteen's music came in too loud. The contrast made Serena's choice shine brighter in hindsight. She didn't gloat; she cataloged it. Choices matter more when you can feel their opposites.

They slid into the green room amid the low thrum of post-appeal adrenaline. The boy with the red scarf grinned at her; she returned it. The Celadon-slick girl with the Butterfree gave a slow, unreadable smile that could grow teeth later. Serena uncoiled the ribbon with a care that was almost domestic, looped it, and hung it—not to flaunt, but to rest.

A bell chimed in the hall. The judges' table lit a pale green. A display board above the stage doors began to fill with names and numbers as runners fed clipboards to a harried volunteer at a terminal.

The panel consisted of three judges: Ms. Tanaka, with square glasses and a pencil that never seemed to dull; Mr. Iwasaki, a former choreographer with a dancer's carriage; and Nurse Haru, standing in for the Pokémon Center with the calm authority of someone who had seen applause and injuries in equal measure.

Serena didn't crowd the board. She let the first five posts scroll—names she didn't know, scores she stored for a sense of the room: Creativity / Control / Cohesion on a ten-point scale, tallied to thirty. The red-scarf boy posted 8.6 / 8.2 / 8.1 — 24.9. The Celadon girl—clean, clever use of wing dust without the mess—took 9.0 / 8.7 / 8.6 — 26.3.

Serena's line blinked up next:

SERENA YVONNE — EEVEE
CREATIVITY: 9.1 — "Silence as design; earned." — Tanaka
CONTROL: 9.0 — "Breath-led timing; excellent partner awareness." — Iwasaki
COHESION: 8.4 — "Micro-slip at 0:58, recovered elegantly; final image strong." — Haru
TOTAL: 26.5

A murmur slid through the green room—a polite acknowledgment that someone had arrived. Serena let herself exhale once through her nose, a smile finding her mouth before she could stop it. Not perfect. Hers.

Ash didn't say I told you so. He didn't really say anything at first. When she looked up at him, he tipped two fingers against the side of his cap in a private salute and let a small, warm pulse slide across the bond. Here. See what you did.

"Top sixteen advance," Marin called from the door, because someone had to keep the world on rails. "Battle brackets in twenty. Hydrate, don't get clever with snacks, and if anyone has glitter on their person, I will have words."

Laughter relieved the tension just enough to make room for the next kind. Serena gave Eevee a wedge of apple she'd tucked into the case; Eevee took it as if it were a medal. Serena rolled the ribbon once more, replayed the seam in her head, and filed it under floor maps to memorize tomorrow before finals. She didn't wallow. She learned.

Across town, a clock was striking the hour over the Viridian shrine, the bell's voice carrying clean through the winter air. In the hall, Ms. Tanaka made another neat note; Mr. Iwasaki adjusted a lamp by a finger's width; Nurse Haru checked the med-kit by habit. The board finished populating. Serena—6th.

"Round Two pairings on the way," Marin announced, already moving toward the copier with a predator's focus. "If your name's on the left, you report stage left. On the right, stage right. Three-minute clock. Judges' points break ties. Don't bleed on the piano."

Serena breathed once, deep and even. The day kept singing. The song had teeth now, and that was exactly how she liked it.

The board finished spitting out names, paper still warm when Marin slapped a copy on the wall with two deft pins.

ROUND TWO — PERFORMANCE BATTLE (3:00)
STAGE LEFT: Serena Yvonne & Eevee (#13)
STAGE RIGHT: K. Mori & Mankey (#07)

A few murmurs bubbled behind Serena—"Fighting-type? Rough draw for a first-timer."—the kind of helpful commentary strangers offer when their own hands are shaking. Serena didn't rise to it. She pressed a palm to Eevee's shoulder.

"Left with me," Marin said, already moving. Ash caught Serena's eye as she passed; he didn't mouth good luck. He just gave the cap-brim a touch and let a steadying pulse cross the bond; not heat, not blaze—poise.

Stage left wing smelled of pine resin and tape adhesive. Across the boards, K. Mori rolled his wrist, loose and cocky, the corner of his mouth bent like he'd already won. His Mankey paced tight circles, shoulders bunched, eyes glittering with the kind of energy that knocks furniture over just to hear it fall.

"Three minutes," Marin reminded, voice flat as the clock. "Judges call. Don't bleed on anything that can't be mopped."

The house lights cooled. A single bell pinged somewhere above the grid—a stagehand's signal. The clock appeared in the corner of the proscenium, red digits at 3:00.

"Competitors… begin."

Serena didn't shout. "Eevee—on me," she said, and stepped cleanly into the five-meter ring as if beginning a dance, palms open. Mankey lunged—not a feint, not a test, just hunger—and the audience felt the air move.

"Karate Chop!" Mori snapped, and Mankey's hand flashed down in a sharp blade meant to end conversations.

"Baby-Doll Eyes," Serena said on a half-breath.

Eevee's gaze went wide and soft at the exact beat before the strike. It wasn't cute—it was timing. The Mankey's arm hit that living stillness and flinched, the chop pulling by a hair. Judges' lights flickered; Control +0.2 (Iwasaki). The audience noise tightened; not applause, but the inhale people make when they recognize a line being drawn.

"Circle—small," Serena murmured. Eevee took the five-meter like a rail, paws whispering. Mankey gave chase, breath already hot.

"Cut her off—Low Kick!" Mori barked.

Eevee felt the rhythm of the foot sweep coming more than she saw it. "Hop—inside!" Serena called, half-beat before the blow. Eevee slipped in under the arc like a coin sliding past a door, the kick dragging air where fur had been. Judges' lights; Defense +0.3 (Haru).

"Make them feel the decision," Serena had told Ash. Now she practiced what she preached. "Feint, then Quick Attack—hold—now!"

Eevee shivered forward, a stutter of speed that wrote intention without committing. The Mankey bit, stepping to meet a strike that didn't exist; Serena bought the half-beat—and on now, Eevee Quick Attacked past the Mankey's flank with a flourish that never became showboating. The judges saw story where there could have been chaos; Display +0.4 (Tanaka).

2:14.

Mori's mouth tightened. He wasn't a fool; he was being made to look like one. "Get in close—Fury Swipes!"

Mankey darted, hands flashing in a furious drumroll aimed to shred points if not fur. Serena didn't answer with speed. She answered with space.

"Sand Attack—now!"

Eevee hit the boards hard with both hind paws, kicking a fan of grit up and left—not into the eyes because Viridian hated cheap shots, but across Mankey's hands. The fine dust biting into the skin. The next swipe stuttered when its fingers wanted to blink.

"Thread left—Double—hold—Kick!" Serena called, voice like a metronome.

Eevee slid along the inside rail of the eight-meter mark, planted, and snapped a Double Kick—one/hold/one—punctuation instead of a flurry. The first beat drove Mankey back a step. The pause made the second land like a sentence ending. Judges' lights; Cohesion +0.4 (Tanaka), Damage +0.2 (Haru).

1:39.

Mori's jaw set. "Enough dancing. Seismic Toss!"

The word put a jolt through the hall. Mankey lunged to lift, arms surging to haul Eevee's small weight and swing it into a hard arc.

"Stop the hands!" Serena cut in, sharp. "Baby-Doll Eyes —now!"

Eevee's eyes went liquid right into Mankey's face at the exact grip beat—not pleading, present—and hands that wanted to grab… hesitated. It was only a fraction of a second, but in that fraction, Serena stole the show.

"Under—Quick Attack!"

Eevee slipped out and across Mankey's chest, fur brushing forearm, a powered Quick Attack turning escape into a line the judges could read from the balcony. Control +0.3 (Iwasaki) lit like punctuation.

1:02.

They were not winning by damage. They were winning the room. Mori knew it. He pushed.

"Rage—go!" he growled, and Mankey's movement gathered that ugly momentum angry bodies use—sloppy, terrifying, effective.

Serena felt the stage tilt toward mess and refused to go with it. "Eevee—stop."

Her partner stopped dead in the center. The decision rang through the wood and the air. The room fell into a hush so sudden it squeaked.

Rage hating stillness, Mankey overran, momentum out in front of thought.

"Now," Serena said, voice barely louder than breath. "Inside turn—Double Kick!"

Eevee pivoted on one forepaw, a clean inside turn that borrowed Mankey's speed and returned it with interest. Both hind paws thumped, not gouging, but clean to the ribs where a judge could see control in the angle of the strike and not just force. Display +0.4 (Tanaka), Damage +0.3 (Haru).

0:22.

Mori threw the last of his chips. "Focus Energy into Karate Chop!" The Mankey drew a breath that steadied, eyes narrowing, hand cutting air mean and flat.

Serena didn't run. She set the picture. "Meet and melt—Quick Attack— and fade!"

Eevee met the line nose-on like a dare—half-stepped—then melted right, the Quick Attack, a blur that didn't contest the strike—it reframed it. The chop landed where a ghost had been. The audience finished the sentence for her.

The buzzer went soft and inexorable at 0:00.

Silence. Then the hum of air returning to people's lungs.

The judges conferred with little cards—Tanaka's pencil moving in small, satisfied notes; Iwasaki's finger measuring a gesture he'd liked; Haru's glance taking stock of breath and balance.

SCORE — ROUND TWO
Serena & Eevee: Display 4.6 / Defense 4.3 / Damage 3.7 — Total 12.6
Mori & Mankey: Display 3.2 / Defense 3.4 / Damage 4.6 — Total 11.2

Applause rose proper now, Viridian's brand of pride when a newcomer shows craft. Serena let her knees soften once—private relief—then bowed with Eevee, who added a flourish of tail that she pretended was an accident.

At the wing, Mori stalked over, mouth flattened into something uglier than a line. He stopped, looked at Eevee's stance, at Serena's calm, at the judges who were still writing. He exhaled long, and something left his shoulders that hadn't been earning him points anyway.

"Didn't think you'd take it," he said, not quite contrite, not quite combative. "You didn't run."

Serena wiped a dust smudge from Eevee's chest with two fingers. "You hit hard," she said. "It reads. But when you make the pause, the room hears you better."

Mori rubbed the back of his neck, eyes quirked. "Huh. Maybe." He stuck a hand out, sudden, like he'd decided to be a better version of himself this minute rather than next. "Good match."

She shook it. "Good match."

Marin slid between them like a tide, tape flashing. "Finals list in five," she said, already moving. To Serena, low so only she would hear, "That 'stop' call? That's how you make a room hold its breath. Just be careful not to use it every time."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Serena said.

Ash was there at the edge of the wing, exactly where she knew he'd be. He didn't rush her or hold her or talk over the thunder in her blood. He just was, steady as the stage when the house empties and you can hear the floor remember everything it's carried.

She leaned, briefly—shoulder to chest, the shortest rest—and then stood away, breath settling. He tipped his head. "You made the pause," he said softly, pride warm and contained.

"And you taught me how to hear it," she answered.

Riolu offered Eevee a solemn fist. Eevee bumped it like a queen accepting tribute.

The board blinked to life again, names sorting themselves into a final ladder. Serena Yvonne slid into the last column—Finals—opposite a familiar line: M. Hanamura & Butterfree. Celadon-slick's slow smile from the green room sharpened like a knife being tested on a thumb.

Serena rolled her shoulders once, small. Eevee hopped to her mark, eyes bright. Marin clapped twice—sharp, efficient, the sound that makes rooms obey.

"Finals to places," she called. "Three minutes on the clock. House will be watching for teeth under your bows."

Viridian's lights shifted, warmer at the edges, shadow in the middle. Somewhere above, a ribbon rattled faintly against its hook. Not promise. Not yet. But rather, possibility.

The house dimmed to a warm hush that made the boards feel older. Marin's hands were all angles and certainty as she set the last tape mark and gave the wing a look that meant we do this clean or we do it again. Above the proscenium, the scoreboard for the final slid into place—five pale dots per side, waiting to be claimed.

"Finalists to places," Marin called, voice low and even. "Three judges' points decides it. Respect the room."

On stage right, M. Hanamura stepped out with the easy poise of someone who had done this in rooms that mattered. Her Butterfree glided into the light as if borne there by the audience's breath, wings beating in slow velvet—no glitter, just the natural dust that made air look lit from the inside. A murmur rolled through the front row. Appreciation mixed with a little intimidation. Hanamura nodded to the judges with practiced grace, one hand resting lightly against her thigh like a dancer waiting for a downbeat.

Stage left, Serena walked out with Eevee at her heel. No music. No ribbon. Just the clean line of presence and a partner who met the room with bright, steady eyes. They bowed, simple. At the wing, Ash stood in the second curtain's shadow as he'd promised. She didn't look to find him. She felt the small, warm pulse through the bond: Here. Breathe.

Ms. Tanaka raised a hand; Mr. Iwasaki and Nurse Haru mirrored it. The house held still.

"Begin."

Hanamura didn't waste a beat. "Butterfree—Stun Spore!"

The powder came down like a soft rain that meant to end movement. Serena's answer was ready. "Eevee—Sand Attack! Upward, now!"

Eevee hit the boards with both hind paws and kicked a fan of grit straight into the falling spore. The two veils met and swirled into a thin brown-gold fog that broke the pattern of descent and drifted uselessly off the lip of the stage. The audience exhaled as one—the sound people make when someone disagrees with physics and wins for a heartbeat.

"Gust!" Hanamura snapped, and Butterfree's wings beat in a hard downward wash, trying to drive the remnants onto Eevee's fur.

"Eevee—Quick Attack! Diagonal right—go!"

Eevee became a clean streak across the boards, punching past the falling sheet and breaking its angle before it could settle. Judges' lights flickered—Display point: Serena. The first pale dot on Serena's side bloomed green.

Hanamura's mouth curved, not displeased. She changed colors. "Butterfree—Psybeam!"

The beam lanced out in a prismatic ribbon that would have looked pretty if it hadn't meant to break things. Serena saw the vector, saw the steel trap set two paces left.

"Eevee—Quick Attack! low line—now!" The fox cut under the beam so close Serena felt the heat of it in her bones. The second volley came faster at a crossing angle that Hanamura had split by instinct and practice.

"Roll!" Serena called, and Eevee tucked clean, the beam scoring a line of light a finger's breadth from her flank. When Eevee came up, a small patch of fur along her side glowed faintly—grazed, not struck. Nurse Haru made a tiny, satisfied mark for Damage—point: Hanamura. The board ticked 1–1.

"Hold," Serena breathed. "Eevee—Baby-Doll Eyes."

Eevee's gaze lifted—wide, almost shining—timed a heartbeat before Butterfree's next wing-beat. It wasn't pleading. It was presence, a picture Serena placed into the room. The pause it bought was microscopic—but enough. Butterfree's next beat hesitated, and Serena took the space.

"Double Kick! Meet the dip!"

Eevee launched, meeting the valley of the wing-beat—the instant Butterfree's body dipped to gather air—and snapped both hind paws up in quick succession. Not a brawl, but clean form. The thump carried across the boards like a hand clapping once in a quiet church. Mr. Iwasaki's eyes lit with the pleasure of a choice that respected movement; Ms. Tanaka's pencil made a fast line for Control/Display—point: Serena. 2–1.

Hanamura let out a slow breath at the edge of a smile. She'd underestimated nothing; she adjusted. "Butterfree—Sleep Powder! into Gust!"

The blue-silver drift mushroomed outward; the follow-up Gust hammered it down, turning air into a trap. Serena's answer had to be right on the grit.

"Eevee—Quick Attack! go through it—now! … Sand Attack!"

Eevee burst forward, the first step punching a hole through the descending field—then kicked grit up in a tight fountain behind her own wake, a rough turbulence that broke the powder's smooth face. Half a breath late—Serena felt it—one filament of silver dust kissed Eevee's ear and clung. Eevee shook and blinked once too slowly. The judges saw the shade of a mistake; Nurse Haru's card flipped—point: Hanamura for forced control. 2–2.

The audience tightened; the boards remembered everything they'd held and waited to see what they'd hold next. Hanamura's voice cut the air like a clean line. "Butterfree—Bug Buzz!"

The sound came low and physical, an ugly vibration that wanted to turn knees to water. Lamps shivered in their housings. Hair lifted. Eevee's paws skittered a quarter-inch left as the resonance tried to unwrite her stance.

"Eevee—Quick Attack! forward—break it!" Serena called, sharp.

Eevee drove into the sound rather than away, nose down, body a bright line that refused to shake. She popped out of the worst of the resonance at Butterfree's close—almost under her—where the pressure wasn't coherent yet.

"Double Kick!" Serena timed it to the fall of the hum, not its peak. Eevee's paws snapped up again, tapping center mass without wildness.

Hanamura answered without a breath between. "Confusion!"

Butterfree's eyes narrowed; the air around Eevee thickened—not a hold, a tilt, as if the stage had decided to lean. Eevee staggered a quarter-step, fighting a sideways gravity that wasn't on any map.

"Baby-Doll Eyes! Now!" Serena cut across the trick, voice steady.

Eevee looked up into that pressure with that same bright stillness, and for a sliver of a second the grip wavered—not broken by pleading, but by the exactness of the moment. She shook free and landed square.

The room heard the choice beneath the moves. Ms. Tanaka raised a flag; Mr. Iwasaki matched it. Point: Serena.

The flags hung for a breath, yet the board didn't tick.

Marin's hand went up from the wing, two fingers splayed—judges' conference.

Hanamura had her own card up signaling a challenge on the basis of contact; did Eevee's Double Kick include a slip from the Confusion's tilt that should count as loss of balance? The judges conferred in clean, professional murmurs—Tanaka referencing notes, Iwasaki measuring with two fingers the angle of Eevee's plant, Haru indicating vitals with a practiced eye.

The flags came down. Ms. Tanaka lifted hers again—point: Hanamura. On review, the panel awarded the exchange to Butterfree; Eevee's plant had skidded a hair on the Confusion tilt before the Baby-Doll Eyes broke it. Not a fault—a cost. The board flashed the final dot to Hanamura's side. 3–2.

The audience sighed; not in disappointment, but in the satisfaction of a close thing done clean. Then the applause rose for what it was: a newcomer who made the room hold its breath, and a veteran who answered with craft.

Serena stood very still for a beat, took the loss in, and then bowed with Eevee, form perfect. On stage right, Hanamura bowed in return, then crossed the center line when Marin's nod said the floor would tolerate informality.

"That was earned," Hanamura said, voice pitched for Serena and the first two rows. Up close, her smile had more warmth than edge. "Your sense of timing is… dangerous. Don't lose it to crowd noise."

"Thank you," Serena said simply, and meant it. She ran two fingers lightly along Eevee's ear where the Sleep Powder had kissed it and found only a memory. "Your Butterfree reads the room as well as you do."

Hanamura's eyes softened. "We practice listening." She lifted her chin, looking at Serena with a competitor's grace. "See you in Celadon."

They parted without theater. Marin slid between like a tide, issuing cues with a finger and an eyebrow; trophy handed to Hanamura, the ribbon raised, the flash of an official photo in light that wasn't cruel. The applause swelled again and settled.

At the wing, Ash was a steady shore. Serena reached him on her own two feet. He didn't tell her she'd been robbed. He didn't rush to fill the air.

"Three–two," she said, the numbers clean on her tongue.

"Three–two," he agreed. "And you made them hear silence."

She blew out a breath and let a small smile touch the corner of her mouth. "Next time I'll make them see it."

"Next time," he said, and the bond answered without words.

Eevee leapt to Serena's shoulder and nuzzled her cheek as if to insist that medals were a poor substitute for knowing. Serena laughed once, soft, and scratched under Eevee's chin until the little fox purred.

Behind them, the ribbon found its winner's hands. Ahead of them, the hallway opened toward the green room and the world outside. The finals had ended the way beginnings often do when they're honest—close, earned, leaving space for the next step.

Marin's voice cut across the wing with the sound of work continuing. "Winners' photos in five. Everyone else, clear the deck and drink some water. No one faints on my boards."

Serena glanced once back at the stage—at the lights cooling, at the quiet wood—and then turned toward the hall with Ash at her side, Eevee bright and proud on her shoulder. The day had drawn bloodless lines. Tomorrow would redraw them. And somewhere beyond the applause, something in Viridian had begun to move.

Winners' photos clicked and cooled; the ribbon found its hook on a new shoulder; the hall exhaled the way rooms do when a song is over and the rafters keep humming out of habit. Serena signed the last release with a steady hand, thanked the stage manager, and stepped into the Viridian evening.

Lanterns had come up along the square, small moons strung low. The fountain kept time for people who no longer needed clocks. Ash was already waiting beneath the laurel banner, hands in his pockets, cap shadowing a smile that had learned to be quiet. Eevee took the high road, Serena's shoulder, and nuzzled shamelessly. Riolu matched Ash's heel as if the day had been measured in his steps.

"Three–two," Serena said, not apologizing for it.

"Three–two," Ash agreed. "You and Eevee were amazing. I admit I got lost in the performance. And like I said, you made the room hear its own silence."

She huffed a laugh that wasn't bitter. "And like I said, next time, I make them see it."

"Next time," he said, nodding, warming the bond with a light pulse.

They crossed to the little shrine by the fountain, the one with the new rope and the old stone. The brass bell hung under its eaves, clean and ready. Serena touched the silver leaf charm hidden in her case and then the rope. "Together?" she looked to Ash.

"Together," he said.

They drew the rope down as one. The bell's voice went out clean like bright metal over winter air and came back to them off roofs and glass, a circle drawn in sound. For a heartbeat, Ash felt the way he had as a kid by a different bell in a different forest—how the world sometimes answered back when you asked it to.

He leaned his forehead to hers the way they did when the words could wait. The kiss wasn't for cameras or for closure; it was the kind that builds houses. Eevee made a pleased chirrup and pretended to be scandalized. Riolu watched the square with a sentry's calm and allowed himself a blink.

"Dinner?" Ash asked, eventually. "Then I map the alleys like a boring man and you sketch the stage in your head like a magician."

"Deal," Serena said. "And tomorrow, we call Oak. I want his notes on Confusion tilt and floor seams. Then I book Celadon. After that—Saffron, Vermilion. And you—Pewter Gym. I think we owe a museum a hello as well?"

"A bow, at least," he said.

They turned from the shrine, the bell's hum still trembling the air into something kinder—and the world flickered. It wasn't a full blackout; it was a hiccup in the city's confidence. The lanterns along the east side of the square blinked and steadied. A low, wrong whump came from the direction of the hall's loading dock, the kind of sound that's mostly air being told to move someplace fast.

Ash's head came up. Riolu's ears stood at attention. Serena's hand tightened on the strap of her case.

"Back door," Ash said, already moving.

They cut through the alley that ran behind the theater—a spine of brick and old posters, a stack of milk crates, a mop abandoned mid-drip. The dock door stood open, light pooling in a trapezoid across the pavement. Two stagehands stood in that light with the look people get when the shape of their day has been taken out of their hands.

Marin was there first, because of course she was, tape on her wrist, fury under control like a knife in a drawer. A maintenance panel hung open at the dockside wall, its wires neat as a diagram; bridged with a slim black box that looked like nothing, yet something to someone who knew the system. A trunk sat cracked open nearby; velvet padding inside printed a neat hollow where a small crate had lived.

"What did they take?" Ash asked, voice level.

Marin looked up at him, at Serena, at the Pokémon who had already set themselves between problem and people. She pressed her mouth into a line. "The laurel reliquary," she said. "From the shrine. We were going to bless the season with a procession tomorrow—ring the bell, bring the old laurel into the hall, start clean. They took it off my dock two minutes ago while I was telling a volunteer that glitter is a sin."

"How?" Serena asked, already scanning for angles, exits, routes.

"Power sagged for three seconds—just long enough to make the cameras smooth their own memories," Marin said, flicking a glance at the panel. "Truck backed to the curb. No plates. Three bodies, black coats, gloves. Moved like people who lift for a living. One stayed by the panel. He wore a ring."

Serena's pulse ticked in her wrist where she'd written 10:50 this morning. The bond brought her Ash's steadiness; she gave him back her clarity. "Did anyone see an insignia?" she asked. "A patch? A mark?"

Marin looked at her for a long half-second, weighing honesty against panic, then reached into her pocket and brought out a folded card. It was heavy paper, good stock, white, unmarked but for a red wax seal pressed crooked, as if applied standing up. The seal was a single letter, simple as a brand: R.

"They left this," Marin said, as if the paper had offended her personally. "On the trunk. Like we were supposed to know a message was being sent and feel clever about it."

Ash didn't touch the card. He didn't need to. The air around the dock had that wrong-smooth again—the ripple that wasn't wind or heat. It wasn't aura like his. It was aura that had been handled. Damped. The way relics sometimes make the world polite, where it should be wild.

He crouched by the panel, close but not close enough to add his fingerprints to someone else's story, and let the bond settle into listening. "They were here less than five minutes," he said quietly. "They cut the feed, not the line. They didn't run. They walked. People who practice walking."

Marin blew out a breath through her nose. "So not kids. Not a prank. A Crew?"

"A Crew," Ash agreed.

Serena looked down at the wax seal, then back up at the opened trunk. She felt the sting of losing a finals she could have won—and then felt it become smaller in the face of this, not diminished, just… framed. "We file with the Rangers," she said, calm. "We give them your details, Ash adds the device signature so the machines gossip to each other, and then we—"

"Then you go to your room," Marin cut in, deadpan, "and eat something with actual protein and try not to chase a truck you can't catch. Because that's what children with more courage than sense do. And because if you fall over on my dock, I will make you mop it yourself."

Serena almost smiled. "We don't fall over," she said, and meant we have learned to choose when not to run. "We plan."

Marin's eyes softened a fraction. "Plan somewhere not in my loading bay. I like you. I don't like you enough to identify your bodies."

They let her have the last line. At the Ranger kiosk by the south gate, they filed a report that used all the words it needed and none it didn't. The officer on duty took the card with the wax seal using a little envelope tool he pulled from his breast pocket—a man who had seen this brand before—and said nothing out loud about it. His jaw said enough.

Back in the square, the lanterns were steady again. The shrine bell hung as it had before. But the laurel reliquary, the old leaf in its ring of oak, was gone.

Ash stood by the fountain with the city's thin spray colder on his knuckles than it needed to be. He looked at Serena. "Tomorrow," he said, quietly, "We go to the Forest. The south path first. I want to feel what's been moving at the hinge. I want to know if this was a one-off theft or the latest theft in a chain. Then Pewter after. We'll make a trail that holds weight."

"Tomorrow," she said, just as quietly. "I'll book Celadon and learn how to make a room hear me through Confusion and Sleep. They don't get to take anything I can make. Tonight… we eat, train light, you can map, and I'll write a letter to our moms."

"Tonight," he echoed. "And then we sleep. Because if we don't, we won't hear the bells when they decide to speak."

She slid her hand into his. The bond did the small, generous thing it does when people tell the truth to each other; it hummed, steady as a heartbeat that had decided to be brave. Eevee pressed her head against Serena's jaw from her perch; Riolu watched the alley mouth where the truck had been, memorizing the sound of a nothing that meant something.

They turned toward the Pokémon Center. The square smelled faintly of sesame and winter. Somewhere, a violinist tried the same bar again until it agreed to be music.

At the edge of Viridian, a box truck rumbled into a warehouse painted with false company colors. Inside, the air smelled of oil and damp cement. Men in black coats worked quickly, hauling in the crate stolen from the contest hall. They set it on a table beneath bare bulbs.

The foreman pried open the lid. Inside lay the laurel reliquary from the shrine; oak ring cradling a preserved leaf, its brass fittings worn but solid. He whistled low, more impressed by the craftsmanship than the object itself.

"Doesn't look like much," one grunt muttered.

"Not for us to say," the foreman snapped. He lifted a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, the bottom pressed with a crooked red wax seal: R.

"They pay, we deliver. That's the job. Don't start thinking about what it does."

Another man shifted uneasily. "Still… felt strange carrying it. Like the air went thin."

"Then be glad we don't have to keep it." The foreman tapped the crate twice, signaling for it to be resealed. "The client knows what it's worth. That's all that matters."

From the far end of the warehouse, a door groaned open. A figure stepped inside — not Rocket muscle, but the contact. Tall, coat hood pulled low, voice smooth as polished stone.

"You have the item," the figure said, not a question.

The foreman slid the crate across the table. "As promised. From Viridian. Untouched."

The figure's hand brushed the reliquary. The room felt colder, though no one mentioned it. The Rocket men only exchanged looks, unease buried under obedience.

"Good," the figure said softly. "Payment will arrive as arranged. You've done well to deliver."

The foreman nodded, relieved. "Then our business is done."

"For now," the figure replied — and carried the reliquary away, its weight shifting the air with every step.

Back in the square, Ash paused mid-stride, frowning as if some part of the night had just pulled too tight. Serena touched his hand, and he let it go. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, the path would start.

But tonight, in Viridian's shadow, Team Rocket and this mysterious contact had made their first move.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Shadows of Viridian

The Contest Hall had cooled to memory by the time they reached the Pokémon Center. Evening laid a thin shine over Viridian, lanterns pricking on one by one along the square like patient stars. Inside, the Center's dining room hummed with the soft busyness of the end of the day; cutlery, quiet talk, the burble of a coffee urn doing more than it should.

They ate simple: rice bowls, miso, and a plate of pickled greens that looked sterner than they tasted. Eevee curled like a small comma in Serena's lap, the weight of her settling something delicate back into place; Riolu sat upright beside Ash's chair, posture relaxed but listening, always listening. The loss didn't sit like a bruise between them; it sat like a new muscle—sore, promising.

They lingered until the room thinned. Trainers came and went, wearing the road in their clothes and their voices, gossip rolling in small tides; Pewter rumors, a new route hazard, a shop that sold better tape than the Mart if you knew to ask. Over by the wall screen, a Nurse Joy and a Ranger talked softly, heads bent; their hands made maps in the air without needing paper.

Ash finished his tea, set the cup down with that clean, exact care he gave to things that had served him, and looked at Serena. "I want to walk the city," he said. "See how it breathes at night, if that's alright?"

Serena liked that he asked, even when he didn't need permission. "That sounds good. I'll write," she said, tapping the notebook she'd tucked under her arm. "Two letters. One for home, one for your home."

He smiled at that—your home—and kissed her temple in the plain, untheatrical way that had become part of how they said goodnight even when they weren't sleeping. "I won't be long."

"Don't make me come find you with Marin's tape," she warned.

"Terrifying," he said gravely. Riolu stood without a sound. They slipped out into the winter-lit square, two shadows that knew how to be seen only when they chose.

Serena claimed a corner table and spread out her small camp of tools: notebook, pen, the Co-Dex face down so it would stop trying to help, Delia's silver leaf charm set beside the page as if it might weigh the words into place. Eevee climbed to the table and arranged herself in a crescent against Serena's forearm, purring with scandalous volume for such a small creature.

She began with Grace.

Maman,

Viridian is not Kalos, but it knows how to listen. The hall today had a wooden floor that held breath like velvet. I was runner-up—three to two, a clean loss that felt honest. I learned more in three minutes than I did in a month of practice about what stillness can do when you let it be part of the music. The judges were kind and exacting. You would have liked the woman with square glasses; she writes like a metronome.

Eevee was brilliant. She made the room sigh all at once, and then she laughed in my ear and demanded an apple slice. I gave her two, because I am weak and she is soft.
I am not disappointed. I am… hungry. We go north tomorrow. Viridian Forest is older than the stories we tell about it. Oak says it remembers, which is such a Professor thing to say, and somehow true. If you were here, you would tell me to stretch and to drink water, and to let failure turn into better lines. I'm doing all three.

Love,
Serena

She slid the page aside to dry and began the letter that felt like writing into a warm kitchen.

Delia,

Your charm lives in my case, where only I can see it. It flashed right before I walked onstage and reminded me to breathe. Thank you for lending me a piece of your house.

I didn't win, but I did the work. Ash was at the wing like a lighthouse pretending to be a lamppost, exactly where he said he'd be, and somehow that made the floor softer under my feet. We rang the little bell by the fountain together. Tomorrow we go to the Forest. I'll take care of him, and he will take care of me.

With love,
Serena (and Eevee, who has left a paw print on this envelope because she lacks boundaries)

Eevee obligingly planted a paw at the corner, leaving a faint print that would make Delia squeal and mount it on the fridge the moment it arrived. Serena sealed both envelopes with the Center's courtesy stamp and set them on the tray for outgoing mail. She watched Nurse Joy add them to the rack with the care of someone who understood that sometimes letters carry more weight than parcels.

Alone with the hour, she let the quiet fill in around her.

Ash let the city take his measure and then gave it the minimum it needed in return. Viridian by night wasn't a different town; it was the daytime version with its shirt untucked. Shopfronts wore their security grates like half-closed eyes. Alley mouths breathed cold air that smelled of paint, damp cardboard, and the ghost of fryer oil.

He moved like someone doing an errand he didn't need to explain. Riolu padded at his knee, ears angling in small adjustments that had nothing to do with sound, but with pressure changes, and the way streets carry tension the way rivers carry silt.

He checked corners and forgot none of them. Laundromat with a back room that hummed louder than the machines should have, the door never quite closing; a pawnshop whose owner had the long patience of a man who sells hope; a tidy security company van idling by the curb with a logo too new to be anything but a disguise. In the bead of condensation at the back window, someone had drawn a tiny R and then rubbed it out until it was only a smudge. Kids. Or men who remembered being kids and were trying to turn it into a joke.

At the alley off Laurel and Ninth, an old concrete wall showed graffiti layered ten winters deep. New tags rode on top in fat black lines—clipped letters, practiced arrogance. Beneath, half-obscured, somebody had once chalked a spiral within a leaf. Not Guardian script; older than that, not language so much as promise. He traced the air where the chalk had been without touching the stone; Aura listened and brought him back nothing but the memory of rain.

They hooked the river road from a block up and took its measure too: warehouses with paint that denied they were ever open, a dock gate with a padlock someone had learned to open with polite efficiency. Tire tracks told a short story and then ended at the asphalt, as tire tracks always do.

He didn't ritualize it, but he made a map in his head, which alleys fed which alleys, the line of lampposts with two bulbs out that made a shadowed corridor you could use or be used by, the camera above the florist that had a blind spot you could sidestep if you had practiced stepping. He spoke twice, once to a night watchman with tea in a thermos who'd seen a box truck with clean tires two hours ago—no plates; once to a woman closing her stall who remembered three men in black coats carrying nothing and therefore everything. The words on his tongue were the exact number required to pass as a young man doing his business without being asked what business that was.

He didn't press. He filed.

Back past the square, the shrine bell hung quiet and golden, the new rope, a neat rope, and not an omen. He stopped because he always did, brushed it with his knuckles because he always would, and then took the long way back to make sure the long way was still there.

He found Serena where he'd left her, at the corner table, envelopes gone, pen capped, Eevee asleep on the notebook like a punctuation mark that had decided to be fur. The Co-Dex lay face down like a scolded child. Her eyes were clear; the hurt wasn't gone, it had learned to stand without leaning.

"Walk?" he asked simply. By which he meant: tell me what you wrote; I'll tell you what I saw.

"Walk," she agreed.

They took an indoor circuit—down the hall, past the bulletin board with roommate ads and a flyer for a lost Ekans who was probably less lost than hiding, past the vending machines that sold things no human should eat and trainers swear by. In the quiet space beside the laundry, he drew the city with words, a napkin, and a dull pencil; X for the laundromat with the humming room; a line for the alley with the broken lampposts; a circle where the security van had idled; a dot where the watchman had stood; a square for the dock gate.

"Rocket activity?" Serena asked, keeping her voice level.

"Parts of it," he said. "Possible fronts. Lookouts. A clear mark on the loading dock that you can see if you used your knuckles to think instead of your eyes."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion small and clean. "Anything on the reliquary?"

"Gone," he said. "Moved with practice. The Rangers have the report and the brand on the little card. The men who took it weren't children."

"And the figure they delivered it to?"

He shook his head. "Who knows. A contact of some sort. Likely not in Rocket uniform. The air thinned when they touched it. Not like my work, but like… someone using a glove to hold a hot pan. They don't need to know what aura is to know it can burn."

She chewed that, not frightened so much as filing the shape of the problem under tomorrow. "Then tomorrow we go north," she said. "We get out of their shadow and into the Forest's. We'll call Oak first thing. We talk about Confusion, Sleep Powder, floor seams, and the way air changes when sound is the move."

He smiled because she'd said we. "Tomorrow," he agreed. "Before the road, porridge."

"You and your porridge," she said, rolling her eyes fondly. "One day, I will make you admit you like honey too much."

"Impossible," he said. "I like you too much; honey is a distant second."

Eevee woke and stretched, making the little prrrk noise that meant she had remembered she was perfect. Riolu flicked an ear and accepted the evening as complete. They climbed the stairs, quiet feet in a quiet hall, and shut the door on the city's hum.

Serena brushed her teeth at the little sink and made a face at the water that only sometimes knew it was water. Ash rolled his shoulders and laid the cloak over the chair, then took it back and hung it properly because he'd learned that if you respected your tools, they tended to respect you back. Riolu claimed the mat by the window. Eevee claimed the pillow and permitted Serena's head to share it.

In the low lamplight, Ash touched two fingers to Serena's wrist. "Pulse?"

Her mouth softened. "Here."

He lay down facing her; she turned toward him. The bond drew its little line—warm, patient, not demanding. Tomorrow, it said for them. Tomorrow, and the trees, and the old road that once scared us and doesn't anymore in the same way.

"Tell me one thing you didn't put in your letters," he asked.

She thought. "That I'm proud of myself even though I didn't win," she said finally. "That I would have been proud of myself even if I'd fallen on my face, because I picked up the ribbon from the floor like it was a violin and made it sing. And that next time, I'll make it hang in the air without needing a seam."

"Good," he said softly. "Tell me one thing you want me to pretend not to worry about so you don't have to be brave for both of us."

She laughed under her breath, surprised and warm. "That I am still afraid of that first step into the Forest," she admitted. "Not the Forest. The first step."

"I'll take it with you," he said. "Then you can take the second before I do. We'll trip the fear and make it fall on its face."

She reached across the small gap and touched the scar at his collarbone, not like a wound, like a doorbell. "Tell me one thing you didn't put in your map."

He exhaled slowly. "That I saw a leaf and a spiral under the graffiti and wanted to put my hand on the wall and ask it to remember me," he said. "And I didn't. Not yet."

"Tomorrow," she said.

"Tomorrow," he echoed.

They put out the lamp. The Center sighed around them—distant footsteps, a door closing, the soft chime of some machine that looked after the business of healing without demanding attention. From the square, the shrine bell didn't ring. It didn't need to. The promise had already been made.

Sleep came with the clean weight of earned quiet. Outside, Viridian kept its counsel, which isn't the same as keeping its secrets. Inside the room, two trainers, two Pokémon, and one bond listened to the city turn over and make room for the kind of morning that changes the shape of a road.

Dawn came in pale and patient, the kind of light that asks before it enters. The Pokémon Center murmured in its sleep—soft wheels, a kettle's sigh, a door's hush. Serena woke to Eevee's whiskers against her cheek and the ghost-warm imprint of Ash's hand where it had settled on her wrist sometime in the dark.

"Pulse?" he whispered, a smile in the word.

"Here," she breathed, pressing two fingers to the steady river under his skin. The bond hummed once—warm, present, not demanding. We're awake. We're us.

They moved without hurry. Serena braided her hair at the little mirror, the seafoam ribbon sliding into place on the second try. She brushed Eevee in long, even strokes until the fox went limp and ridiculous in a puddle of bliss. On the mat by the window, Riolu balanced on one leg with eyes closed, then sank into a low stance that made his breath a visible thing. Ash mirrored him for three cycles, then crossed the room to uncap Delia's salve. A thin smear to his palms, to Riolu's pads—ritual, not fuss. The Friend Ball clicked once as he checked the latch out of respect for systems.

"You sleep?" he asked, softly.

"Mostly," she said, tucking a stray wisp behind her ear. "The three points keep replaying. Not the loss, really, but the choices."

"That's just how it works. You train a muscle, it aches. You train a skill, it stings when you miss. Means it's working."

Ash sighed, shaking his head,

"Listen to me, sounding like one of the old Guardians again. You'd think I swallowed a book of riddles."

"You do sound like you're auditioning for cryptic forest hermit number three." Serena said, smirking, "What's worse is I keep catching myself copying you."

"Guess it's contagious. Or maybe you're just better at sounding mythic than I ever was." Ash says with a laugh.

They went down early while the dining hall was more tile than voices. Porridge, honey, sliced apple. Ash stole an extra wedge and tried to hide the crime behind his cup; Eevee witnessed and demanded equal treatment, which Serena provided with judicial neutrality. Riolu drank water as if it were work.

"Shall we call Oak?" Ash asked.

Serena nodded, and they crossed to the comms desk—a small booth with a screen and a privacy half-wall scuffed by a thousand shoulders. Nurse Joy keyed them through with a smile that knew every expression of nerves.

Professor Oak resolved on the glass in a wash of light, hair more untamable than the day, eyes quick and affectionate when he saw who it was. "Well now," he said, "if it isn't Viridian's newest troublemakers. Serena, I watched the feed they archived—clean work. That held breath before the lift? That's craft."

Serena let herself accept the praise, chin tipping. "Thank you, Professor. I lost three–two. I'd like not to do that again for the same reasons."

Oak's mouth twitched. "A worthy goal. I assume you called because you need something?"

"Two things," she said, steady. "The move Confusion, what it is to the body, and how do I read and counter it without turning crude. Second, Sleep Powder. How do you keep it off without looking like I brought a leaf blower on stage?"

"Very fair questions," Oak said. His tone slid from genial to teachable, the way it does when a man who loves an idea gets to explain it. "Confusion, in most cases, is psionic pressure that tips your vestibular system and interrupts the motor loop. It feels like the floor has decided to lean, and your limbs forget what center is. Counters?" He ticked them with a finger. "Anchor the eyes to a fixed point, like a center line, the judge's light, or a mark on the floor. Ground yourself; a deliberate heel-to-toe plant to remind the body of which way is down. And—" he smiled at Serena "—the micro-stall you used with Baby-Doll Eyes is sound. A clean pause can break a caster's rhythm if it's earned."

Serena nodded, filing each piece where it would live. "And Sleep Powder?"

"That one's physics," Oak said, cheerfully unromantic. "They're particulates. Airflow, adhesion, and timing. You did right, kicking a Sand Attack into the fall; turbulence breaks the sheet. If you have an ally with Gust or even a Rapid Spin, it's legal to clear—just don't endanger the front row." His eyebrow arched. "For Eevee herself, a light coat of Rawst or Pecha oil can reduce adhesion. Test a patch with the nurse first so you don't irritate her skin. A Chesto slice just before the stage can shorten the drowse window if something gets through. And—if you'll forgive a bit of Kalos tech—Safety Goggles exist, though they announce themselves. Aesthetics are part of your craft; I won't tell you how to dress."

Serena glanced at Eevee, who seemed personally offended by the notion of goggles. "We'll test the oil, keep a Chesto on hand, and choreograph the turbulence."

"Good," Oak said. "And Ash—try not to fight the forest. It doesn't take kindly to being conquered."

Ash's smile tilted. "I plan to ask," he said. "We're heading north after supplies."

Oak's expression gentled, the way it does when a man remembers two children in a different forest. "Viridian remembers its debts," he said. "Walk carefully. And call your mother when you can; she has learned to let patience be love, but she's still your mother."

"I will," Ash said, the bond humming warm with that promise.

They signed off. The screen went to a polite wash of color that pretended it wasn't listening anymore.

"PokéMart?" Serena asked.

"PokéMart," he said.

They checked their packs first, because lists on paper matter less than lists confirmed by hand. Rope coil—good; flint, stove, two canisters—good; compresses, tinctures, wraps—good; spare socks, because misery often begins at the seam—good. At the counter, they bought Antidotes, Paralyze Heals, a pair of Full Heals because Oak's voice still lived in their ears, Repel tags from the Ranger kiosk that smelled faintly of citrus and smoke, a satchel of Chesto and Pecha slices in wax paper, and a tiny vial of Rawst oil with the nurse's note; test behind one ear; wait ten minutes.

Serena did exactly that in the idle shade of the Mart's awning. Eevee closed her eyes and leaned into the touch with theatrical abandon, then sneezed once in surprise when the oil tickled. No redness bloomed; no offense taken. "All right," Serena murmured. "Light coat only for show days. Not today."

At the Ranger gate on the north road, a woman with a sun-reddened nose and the posture of a person who had seen all flavors of trouble took their names and tapped them into her terminal. "Two-day permits," she said. "Report any poaching signs to the outpost. A Beedrill swarm was marked to the southwest. Keep wide of it. A Pidgeotto pair's nesting has been spotted near the second footbridge; don't make me fine you for curiosity."

"We'll be polite," Ash said. He showed the KGS; Serena showed her Co-Dex. The gate stamped both with a small chime that meant if you need us, we know where you are. The ranger tilted a chin at Riolu and Eevee. "They look like they'll mind you."

"They mind themselves," Serena said. "We try to keep up."

The morning had warmed from silver to soft brass. They paused by the little fountain one last time. Ash brushed the bell rope with his knuckles, and it swayed the smallest bit, an answer too brief to be sound. He glanced at Serena; she saw it too.

"You ready?" he asked.

"No," she said, honestly. "But I want to be on the other side of the first step."

"Then we take it," he said.

They did. The cobbles gave way to packed earth, then to the worn green of a road that has been walked more by roots than by feet. The Viridian arch of trees received them with the cool of shadow and the smell of sap and old rain. Birds argued two hollows over; somewhere far off, a Beedrill hive thrummed like thought.

They stopped once, inside the shade but still in sight of the gate. Ash took her hands. The scars along his knuckles were pale ridges in the filtered light. She mapped them with her thumbs as if committing a coastline.

"Tell me the thing we'll forget if we don't say it," he said.

She looked past him into the trees, then back. "That this forest is the same and isn't," she said. "That we're the same and aren't. That I'm walking in with the girl who dragged you out and the woman who can drag us both through."

Something in him eased at that, the way a bow eases when a string is tuned true. He leaned his forehead to hers, their breath making one small shared space. "Then here's mine," he said. "I am not here to finish a story that started without me. I'm here to listen to the part that waited."

They let the moment stand. Riolu stepped forward until his toes touched the leaf line, then looked back, solemn. Eevee hopped over the threshold, tail high, and then turned as if to say See? The world did not end.

They went.

By midmorning, they'd moved from road to path, the ground springing underfoot with old roots braided like muscles. Ash set an easy pace—no swagger, no haste—eyes busy without being busybodies. Serena walked a half-step behind to watch how he watched, learning the rhythm; when he glanced up for canopy shading, when he bent to press two fingers to a scuffed patch of earth, when he paused at a wind shift like he was reading a page.

They spoke in low lines made to fit between birdsong. Professor Oak's counsel turned into practice. Serena picked a knot in the bark twenty paces ahead and used it as a visual anchor while she walked. "Center," she murmured when the ground dipped suddenly. Ash smiled, hearing her build a counter into bone and breath.

At noon, they ate beneath a pine that had learned to be a cathedral. Cheddar, brown bread, and the last of the apples. Eevee begged with such artistry she might have been hired by the theatre; Riolu pretended he was above it and then took his share with grave courtesy. Serena tried the Chesto slice—bitter, clean—and tucked the rest away.

"Confession," she said, lying back on a root and watching the light stipple through needles. "I almost wrote the ritual down."

"Why didn't you?" he asked, lying beside her, hands folded behind his head.

"Because the paper would have kept only the shape," she said. "Not the sound of it. Not the way it feels when the air agrees to be part of your skin."

He turned his face toward her, eyes soft in the green light. "We'll write it in other ways," he said. "On stages. In rings. On mornings where porridge is a sacrament."

She snorted. "Blasphemy."

When they rose, the path bent narrower and the forest's voice changed—fewer birds, more low insect hums, a creek speaking a language polished by stones. They threaded along it, stepping from rock to rock. Ash touched a trunk in passing, fingers respectful; Serena did the same and felt—not power, not threat—but attention. The forest had remembered them. It hadn't decided what to do with the memory yet.

By late afternoon, the light thickened toward amber. They found a small clearing where moss made a rug and the ground sighed yes to a cookfire. Ash set the ring; Serena fetched water; Riolu split kindling with two precise strikes; Eevee supervised with the tail authority of a foreman. When flame took, it did so politely. Supper tasted better than it was because it had earned the hunger.

"Tomorrow," Serena said, stirring embers down to a red hush, "we take the long way around any hive. We test Baby-Doll Eyes against Confusion in a quiet place where no one but us is listening. We practice using Sand Attack to make powder fall stupid. And we keep our eyes open for men in coats pretending to be trees."

"And," Ash said, smile forming on his lips, "we don't bleed on anything Marin would have to mop."

She grinned. "Deal."

They banked the fire. The canopy became a map of black lace and small stars. On the edge of sleep, Serena heard the forest change keys—the way places do when day admits it doesn't have to be brave anymore. Riolu settled at the tent flap. Eevee found Serena's hip and decided it was a pillow the world had provided on purpose.

Ash lay awake a little longer, looking up where the leaves wrote the kind of darkness you can read from. The bond hummed a slow, low note through his bones—contentment with teeth. Tomorrow would have edges. That's fine. They had edges, too.

A branch creaked. Not a threat, not yet; just an old body settling. Ash closed his eyes and let the first night of the Forest keep its counsel around them.

Far off, something large walked without bothering to be quiet. He filed the sound where he files the things he will be ready for, and slept.

Morning found them before the light did. The forest lifted its green lid and looked at them the way an old house checks whether new tenants will treat the floorboards with respect. Mist braided through the trunks; dew strung every web like sheet music waiting for fingers. Ash slid from the bedroll without creak or apology; Serena surfaced with Eevee already kneading her shoulder as if to wake courage and circulation at once. Riolu had taken the last watch; he rose from the tent flap with a cat-quiet stretch and the grave look of someone who had counted every noise and found the night acceptable.

They built the day in the small, necessary ways. Ash coaxed the cookfire from its coals with breath and patience; Serena brewed tea from the leaves she trusted—no foraging heroics, just the packet Professor Oak's lab swore by and one Delia would have approved on. Flatbread crisped on a pan; honey made its case and won. They ate with the greed of people who planned to burn everything they swallowed. Eevee accepted crusts with aristocratic restraint and then ruined it by licking Serena's thumb. Riolu drank water as Riolu does.

Before they broke camp, Ash walked the clearing's edge, eyes on the dirt where their feet and the night's paws had signed in and out. He smoothed their prints with a branch, scattered the fire ring back into the ground, and tied a short length of biodegradable twine high around a branch—not as a blaze, merely a whisper to themselves, We were here, and we left well.

"First full day," Serena said, rolling the bedroll tight. "Let's make it right."

They slipped into the green. Viridian didn't open paths so much as it allowed them through; the trail narrowed and widened according to its own old logic. Caterpie in the high canopy stitched sunlight into small, bright seams; a Pidgeotto's cry traveled like a thrown blade from ridge to ridge; somewhere far—two ridges, three?—a hive of Beedrill harmonized with the weather in a steady, disinterested hum. The air smelled of sap, clean rot, and the faint iron of river stone.

They walked the way people do who have learned each other's stride. Ash set the pace by listening rather than looking; Serena fell half a step behind to watch what he watched and why. When his chin tipped up, she traced the canopy for widowmakers—the dead limbs that pretend to be part of a living tree; when he slowed at a cross-drift of air, she felt it too, the way cool slid off a shaded gully the map didn't show.

They reached a shallow brook by midmorning, its water carrying secrets and mica equally. On its bank, someone—not human—had kept a practice ground. Two saplings leaned toward each other as if conspiring; their trunks bore old claw-gouges at just Riolu's height. The cuts had healed into pale ridges that looked like smiles if you wanted lies. Ash touched the wood with two fingers, the way he'd touch a scar on a friend. "Hmmm. Not Rage," Ash mused, "but training," he said softly. "Years of it. This isn't wild anger. It's someone, or rather something, trying to teach themselves how to hurt better."

He pauses, glancing at Serena with a half-smile,

"See? That one came out normal."

Serena rolled her eyes, "Normal for you, maybe. But I'll take it."

They claimed the space for practice of their own. Professor Oak's counsel came out from memory and into muscle. Serena marked a knot in a trunk ten paces away, an anchor, and walked a slow circle heel-to-toe, eyes tied to that small point until the ground tried to lie and then gave up. Eevee mirrored the drill at her feet, paw-paw-pause, the tiny micro-stall counted like a heartbeat. "Confusion," Serena said aloud, and Eevee lifted her eyes wide with Baby-Doll Eyes, timed to steal a sliver of rhythm from an opponent that existed only in their shared imagination. They repeated until the pause and the breath were the same thing.

Sand came next. Serena chalked a small box on the dirt with a stick, then had Eevee kick a light Sand Attack up and across it to study the fall. She adjusted her angle by degrees until the grit made a rough, useful turbulence—enough to break a powder sheet, not enough to choke a front row that didn't exist here. "Again," she said, and Eevee did, quick and neat, tail like a metronome.

Ten paces off, Ash and Riolu moved to a different kind of music. Footwork first; triangles and L's, weight transferring from ball to heel and back, the two of them leaving a pattern in the duff that looked like a stranger's alphabet. Ash counted breath with the strikes, and Riolu answered with a small hand-signs; clear, check, press. When Ash opened his palm, the air rippled; not a flare, not a show, but Aura turned down to a whisper and shaped into a shield that flexed instead of breaking. Riolu struck it once, twice, learning how to push into a thing that yields yet steals power from your arms.

"Half-beat before the meet," Ash said, echoing Serena's lesson from Viridian. "Make them see the decision, and the strike becomes two." Ash pauses, catches himself, and groans,

"And there I go again. Serena, if I keep talking like this, just smack me with the ribbon, alright?" He called over his shoulder.

"Tempting. But admit it—you like the sound of your own wisdom." Serea said with a laugh, sand falling through the air in front of her.

Ash stood for a moment, looking at her with a grin,

"Only when you repeat it back to me. It makes me sound smarter."

Serena rolled her eyes and went back to her practice. Ash turned back to Riolu, giving him a smile that apologized.

Riolu rolled his eyes, nodded, then demonstrated Ash's instructions, fainting a low kick and turning it into a high, clean tap against Ash's forearm. It stung properly, and Ash grinned. "You thief."

They switched partners. Serena traded places with Riolu and asked, "May I?" before laying her hands on his shoulders, changing the shape of Ash's stance. "Give me less shoulder," she said, "or anyone with eyes will counterpunch you with flattery. And when you break left, finish the motion. Kind of like a sentence, don't leave a comma where the period belongs."

"Yes, Coach," he said in a mock-solemn tone. He corrected himself, and she made a pleased sound that tugged a hum through the bond.

By noon, the drills had them sweating. They ate at the brook: nuts, the good cheese, and river-chilled water cupped and sipped. A Poliwag convoy stitched the shallows with tails like punctuation marks; one paused to look up at them with the ancient seriousness of tadpoles everywhere and then moved on. A Metapod hung above like a pendant. It had set its silk against the sun in a way that would make a painter cry. Serena felt an irrational urge to apologize for every child who had ever poked at a chrysalis. "We won't, though," she told the air. "We know better."

Deeper in, the forest leaned old. The trunks grew thicker, their bark plated like armor; the ground held fewer prints and more stories. At a bend in the path, they found a stand of oddish tucked away under fern fans, blue leaves just visible, the question-mark tufts trembling when a breeze passed. Serena knelt, keeping her hands to herself, and just watched them be exactly what they were. "I used to be afraid of everything that lived under leaves," she admitted. "Now I'm afraid of not seeing them."

Ash looked past her shoulder into a glade where the light pooled with a peculiar density that jogged memories. He didn't say here. He didn't say then. He stepped to the edge and stopped as if the ground had drawn a line for him. On a beech trunk, three parallel gouges had healed into pale seams at child-height, a literalization of a nightmare that had been true. He touched his fingers to the air an inch from the scars and felt—not power, not fear—but debt. Oak had been right. Places remember.

Serena came to stand at his side, not pressing, not insisting. She let her breath slow until it matched his. "We're not here to pay with fear," she said. "We pay with attention."

He nodded. The bond warmed like a hand cupping a candle.

They kept moving, and Viridian Forest repaid their attention with its curated miracles. A Pikachu family crossed the path ahead with the fast precision of Pokémon who know they are cute and prefer survival to being captured; the parent first, then two round-bellied youngsters, followed by the rear guard with a tail, sharp and looking. Eevee watched with professional interest and did not bark. Riolu watched with soldierly interest and did not bow.

Further on, at a narrowing on the forest floor where the brush forced them into a single file line, the air went the wrong kind of quiet. Ash's palm drifted up, signaling to stop without looking back. In the green gloom between two boles, a shape shifted; taller than a man, cleaner than a bear. A Scyther. They went still, not frozen, but ready, as the Scyther turned its masked head toward them, took their measure, and chose not to make a point of anything. It slid away through the undergrowth with the sound leaves make when they decide to forgive you.

Serena let the breath out she hadn't noticed she'd been holding. "Is that what rumors look like?"

Ash laughed dryly, "That was closer than I'd like. They don't put that in campfire stories, but, yeah… it is. Rumors carry knives, too."

He gives Serena a toothy grin, "Couldn't help myself."

Serena smiles, shaking her head, "And there's the prophet again. You're impossible."

"Hey, at least I'm a self-aware prophet," Ash responds, the near miss now a memory.

By late afternoon, the light in the sky went honey-thick. They found a second camp on a low rise where the ground drained well and the wind came down. They set the tents, sat with their backs to a shared log, and let silence be a thing they practiced. Riolu padded a tight square around the site until his map felt true; Eevee attempted to "help" by dragging a twig twice her size three inches and then announcing completion to the universe.

Supper was rice and the small tin of mushrooms they'd brought, rehydrated in broth. Ash added a pinch of salt with the reverence of a man who has carried salt a long way and knows what it's for. Serena produced two Chesto slices and laid them on the pan to warm; their bitter smell rose like medicine you trust because your grandmother did. She dabbed a breath of Rawst oil behind Eevee's ear and waited the full ten minutes Nurse Joy had written on the vial cap. No reddening, just the faint, clean sheen of preparation.

They trained once more in the dusk because dusk is when a lot of fights try to hide. Serena and Eevee practiced Quick Attack lines that started sharp and ended elegant, not ragged. Ash walked the perimeter with Riolu, letting his aura read the subtle shifts in the area: where the ground remembered floods, where something heavy had leaned on a sapling last night, and where a path through ferns looked used by deer.

Thereafter, they let the world be beautiful. Butterfree rose in twos and threes from a stand of nettles, their wings catching the last light until every beat looked like someone turning a page of gold leaf. A Venonat blinked from a stump with ruby eyes that made Serena laugh despite herself; it bobbed, decided they were uninteresting, and went about its bobbing.

Night wrote itself in longhand overhead. The canopy left gaps big enough for constellations to find them. They lay on their backs, shoulders touching, and pointed like children; that one, that one, that one. Eevee sprawled in the warm cup of Serena's ribs. Riolu sat on the log and watched the dark be dark.

"Do you still hear it?" Serena asked after a while. "The bell?"

Ash thought, and the forest breathed. "Not as sound," he said. "More as a line that keeps my thoughts from falling off the page."

"I like that," she said, sleepy and sincere. "Keep your thoughts on the page, though. I want to read them later."

He turned his head; she turned hers. The kiss was brief because the night had its own work to do, and they weren't greedy.

They banked the fire to coals. Ash took first watch; Serena's hand found his wrist and tapped once before sleep. Riolu settled by the edge of the light with the comfort of someone who had decided the perimeter is personal. The hours slid by in the small noises of their camp; things eating other things with a minimum of fuss, wind kneading needles, water getting on with its long project of being a road.

Somewhere after midnight, the forest changed key, not in alarm, but in announcement. Something large moved two gullies away with the confidence of a creature to which paths are irrelevant. It didn't hurry. It didn't hide. It walked as if the ground belonged to it by an old contract.

Ash's fingers rested on his cloak's hem. He didn't wake Serena. He didn't need to. The bond hummed once in her sleep and steadied. He listened until the change turned to silence and then to memory. He kept the memory in case the rest of the journey required it.

When he woke Serena for the second watch, she took it like a gift rather than a chore. He lay down and slept as if there were no debts in the world. The forest watched both without malice or favor.

And when the light finally started to collect between the trunks the way coins collect in a bowl, Viridian Forest looked at them and, for the first time in ten years, allowed itself to be familiar.

The second day unrolled like a film you had to earn scene by scene. The path braided in and out of light, trading fern-scented hollows for ridges where the wind cut clean. They walked until the rhythm of the world made its own music—boot, breath, birdcall, the small percussion of Eevee's paws, the soft thud of Riolu's pads.

They trained in pockets of stillness that the forest left between its pages. Serena used a dandelion head for practice; with the flick of her thumb, white fluff became a stand-in for Sleep Powder. She had Eevee kick a Sand Attack through it at different angles until the drift of the sand broke it every time.

Ash, pausing from his training with Riolu, watched Serena and Eevee,

"Want a spotter?" he asked

"Sure," Serena called in his direction, "Whatcha got for me?"

Ash watched the reps with a critical eye. He sat down in front of them, practicing his patronage.

"Too low," Ash said, watching the arc. "You'll choke out the front row."

Serena corrected, sending the grit up and away so the fluff veered harmlessly into a bramble. "Better?"

"Much better," he said, smiling. "Now there are no lawsuits."

Eevee puffed her chest, very proud to have defeated botany.

They continued, the trail narrowing at a stand of old pines, the drone of Beedril reaching them—slow at first, then threading into something that made the back of your teeth hum. Ash lifted a palm, "Easy. Give them space."

Serena nodded and slid behind him without making a production of it. "Not the hill I plan to die on."

"You and me both," he said.

They detoured along a shallow gully. A strip of sunlight pooled in the sand—golden, safe, harmless—until it wasn't; a Kakuna cluster hung in the dim air just beyond, shells dull as old ivory until you stepped in the wrong spot. They didn't. Sometimes, survival is just listening to the tone of the air and believing it.

By afternoon, the trail spat them into a stretch of windfallen trunks downed in a crosshatch like giants that had tried to build a fence and gave up. Ash climbed, helped Serena across, then stopped still on a trunk mid-stride.

"Smell that?"

Serena sniffed. "Bleach. And… metal?"

"Disinfectant," Ash said. "And oil." He hopped down, moved three steps to the right, and pushed aside a screen of vines. The vines had been placed; you could see them once you were close. Behind the vines, a hollow of trampled earth opened like a mouth.

An abandoned camp lay before them.

Someone had cleared the ground with care and then pretended they hadn't been there. A tarp had rubbed its ghost on bark—clean arcs where the rain hadn't touched. Four stakes still bit the dirt, too heavy for weekend hikers. At the center, a rectangle of ash marked a controlled burn—paper, mostly; too clean to be a cooking fire. Along one edge, a metal bracket lay half-buried where roots met earth; cold steel with locking teeth that belonged in a lab, not a forest. A length of braided cable still threaded through it, cut and coiled back on itself like a dead snake.

Ash crouched. "Something was restrained here."

Serena swallowed. "Or Someone."

Eevee pressed close to her calf; Riolu's ears angled forward, then flattened at the tips—the look he wore when he didn't like how a map felt.

"Don't touch anything," Ash said, and he wasn't chiding; he was saving them a talk with a Ranger who would be kind first and furious after. He slid a thin twig under the bracket and lifted it enough to see the teeth marks—not from animal panic, from metal on metal where a lock had fought a tool. He set it down exactly where it had been.

Serena pulled her Co-Dex and snapped wide shots, then the details, letting the machine do what hands shouldn't. "You think this is Team Rocket?"

Ash looked at the ground, hand hovering over the ground, "Boot treads say this was 'organized.' The cut on the cable tells me they had a 'budget for real tools.' And the smell says they expected to get caught if they didn't clean the area." He nudged the ash with the twig. Paper had been burned, but not perfectly. A corner survived—charred, curling, with black print barely intact.

Serena leaned, squinted. "That's a U."

Ash hooked the scrap onto the twig and lifted it into the light. The page had been a manifest or a field note. At the edge, a line remained: '…ject U-07. Ursa-' Under it, a crisp, single letter, stamped in red, had half-melted and stuck to the ash. —R.

Serena's stomach dropped. "Ursa as in Ursaring?"

"Ursa… could be Ursaring. Fits the size, the gouges. Feels right," Ash said. He stared at the bracket again, at the clean arcs from the tarp, at the burn pile. "And the timeline for this camp matches the reliquary theft. They moved more than one thing that night, it seems."

He walked the perimeter once, slow, letting the aura rest at the skin of things without pushing. This wasn't a ritual; it was the work of listening for what stubborn places would tell you if you promised not to break them. "Three, maybe four people," he murmured. "One heavier. They carried something to the east. They drove from the south—tire pinch is the same as the one I saw near the river road. Someone handled a tranquilizer—see the dart caps?" He pointed with the twig; two green plastic bells lay in the duff, nearly invisible.

Serena took the coordinates and flagged the site to the Ranger network with a simple tag: ABANDONED CAMP – DO NOT DISTURB – INVESTIGATE. The Co-Dex pinged back a polite chime that meant someone would be on boots when boots could be. She circled the bracket once, jaw tight. "If they were trying to break an Ursaring… they're either very confident or very stupid."

"A bit of both makes a lot of mess," Ash said.

He scanned the far tree line. A low gouge at shoulder height scored a birch—fresh, sap still tacky. Not a swipe of fury. A marker. He filed it next to the weight that marks in the earth where something big had planted and turned. "It's still in the area."

Serena nodded, not flinching. "Then we keep moving forward."

Ash shot her a sidelong look. "You know we can take a wider loop and leave the Rangers this joy."

"We can," she said. "But the last time a bear met us in these woods, I dragged you out while crying into my shirt. I'd rather walk in this time."

He smiled despite the bile in his throat. "Deal." Then, softer, because honesty belonged here, "If this feels wrong at any point, we step off, alright?"

"Alright," she said. "And if you start talking like you're narrating a prophecy, I'm throwing a Chesto berry at your head."

Ash shook his head and sighed, "I deserve that," he admitted.

They moved on with a thinner line between them and the trees, senses up, jokes pared to survival-grade. The forest changed as they pressed north-east—more deadfall, more fungus ladders on trunks, less of the cheerful traffic of small Pokémon, and more of those pauses places make when a bigger animal starts getting its way.

Just before dusk, they came across a second sign; a mineral block the size of a loaf tucked under an overhang—salt leached along its edge, the surface scarred by broad teeth. It smelled wrong—brighter, more chemical. Ash crouched, sniffed, and set his jaw. "Laced."

"Laced with what?" Serena asked.

"Don't know," he said. "But it's not for deer." He didn't touch it; he did nudge, though, a bit of the surrounding dirt with a stick, noting the prints—pads like plates, claws like knives. "Same bear. Recent."

They pitched camp where the ridge allowed a view—not like a vista, but a through line between boles that let the last light reach them and anything bigger than a man reach them only by committing. Ash strung a thin trip-thread with bells—Ranger-issued, more for peace of mind than warning—and cooked with his back to a tree. Serena put a whisper of oil behind Eevee's ear and massaged Riolu's forearms.

They ate in a silence that wasn't heavy, just attentive. After, they murmured in normal voices on purpose.

"Thoughts on that Butterfree for Celadon?" Ash asked, skewering a mushroom cap, turning it over the coals.

"Yeah," Serena said. "And Venomoth too. I want to choreograph counters that don't scream This is a counter. I want to make it look like a design, not a defense. Oak's 'anchor your eyes' trick works. I just need a better mark than a judge's pen, though."

"Use me," he said, then grinned when she lifted an eyebrow. "My cap brim. It's practically a landmark."

She snorted. "Your hat is not going to be my north star."

"Rude," Ash said, feigning hurt, then smiled, "but fair."

He gestured to Riolu, who had been stretching with the stiff dignity of a fighter who knows the next bout is close. "You good?"

Riolu nodded once, crisp. Then he pointed—two fingers, east. The air there felt weighted. Not like a storm. Like something with an intent.

Serena watched the line of trees. "If we find him—U-07—what's the move?"

"First move is not dying," Ash said. "Second is proving we're not the ones who hurt him. Third is making him choose."

"Choice is important?"

"It's everything," Ash said, then smirked at himself. "There—see? That one almost needed a Chesto."

She bumped his shoulder. "I'll let it slide. It was a good one to be fair."

They banked the fire and split the watch. In the first hour, a Noctowl landed on a dead limb and made the night a little wiser. In the second, something large pushed through the fern and thought better of the camp. In the third, the wind turned and brought a smell with it—fur, old blood, antiseptic fading into sweat. Ash tasted metal.

He didn't wake Serena yet. He listened. The footfalls came slow and certain, not circling, but approaching along the old game trail that cut just below the ridge.

When he touched Serena's shoulder, she was already halfway up, Eevee silent in her arms, pupils blown wide. "Trouble?" she whispered.

"Company," he murmured. "Big. Coming in like it owns the ground."

Serena slid Eevee down; the fox settled, low, ears pricked. Riolu rolled his wrists once and stepped to Ash's right, eyes narrow, calm around the edges.

"Last chance to take the wide loop," Ash said. It wasn't a dare.

Serena shook her head, steady. "We've been walking toward this since we were eight."

He nodded once, like the last notch in a plan being cut. "Okay." He touched two fingers to her wrist—not "pulse," not ritual, just I'm here—and rose to his feet.

The brush below the ridge shivered. Something huge pushed through, breath like a bellows. A low sound that started as a growl and ended as a broken thing trying to remember how to be whole.

Ash stepped forward into the clearing's thin light. "Eyes open," he said, normal voice, normal words. "Hands honest."

Serena swallowed once, squared her stance. "Eevee, with me."

The shadow resolved into fur and scars and the angry architecture of muscle. Ursaring stepped into view, one eye clouded, the other bright and full of decisions. It saw them, and the forest seemed to hold its own breath.

Ash didn't flare his aura. He didn't posture. He raised his hands, empty. "You remember us?" he asked quietly, to the bear or the forest or both. "We remember you."

Ursaring looked, its good eye narrowing, whether in recognition or animal instinct, it lowered its head and then charged. The ridge rang with it.

"Ready," Ash said.

"Ready," Serena said.

And the fight began.

Ursaring hit the ridge like a landslide wearing fur.

Ash didn't shout. "Riolu—Detect!"
Serena's voice followed, steady. "Eevee—Baby-Doll Eyes!"

The bear's first Hammer Arm smashed into the dirt where Riolu had been a heartbeat earlier, ripping a trough through root and stone. Splinters hissed. Ash turned his body without thinking and shouldered Serena behind him; a shard scored his forearm through the cloak and left heat and wet. He didn't look. He marked angles.

"Left eye's cloudy," he said, quick. "Favor his right."

"Got it," Serena said. "Eevee—Quick Attack! cross right, out!"

Eevee streaked past the good eye, a clean white slash in the dark, clipping a whisker and buying space. The bear swung blind on the wrong side—furious and far too fast for something that size. Riolu slid in under the counter and drove a Force Palm into the meat of Ursaring's shoulder. The impact cracked the air. The bear grunted—not wounded, but offended—and backhanded. Riolu took the blow on a raised forearm, rolled with it, and came up limping.

"Ash—" Serena started.

"He's alright," Ash said—more for her than for truth. "Riolu, shake it out."

Riolu shook once, set the leg, and bared his teeth just enough to make a point.

Ursaring's head lifted; his nostrils flared. The rage was there—old and trained, not wild—and under it, a chemical sting Ash recognized from the mineral block; laced. The bear had been baited into strength and pain at the same time. It stepped through the bells on their trip-thread without flinching; the chime was tiny and ridiculous under the sound of its breathing.

"Sand," Serena said, already moving. "Eevee—Sand Attack! high!"

Eevee hammered both hind paws into the ground and kicked a tight fan of grit up and away, cutting across Ursaring's good eye. The bear flinched, not from pain, but from insult, and plowed forward anyway, Thrash turning the air into a threat. A trunk behind Ash took the hit and snapped with a gunshot-like crack. The top half dropped, branches scything down where Serena had been a breath earlier.

"Ash!" She dove; he was already there. He caught her by the collar and hauled her clear as the branch slammed into the moss where her head had been. They went down together, shoulder to shoulder, breath punched out and then back in by the same panic.

"Still with me?" he asked, ragged.

"Here," she said, eyes bright, a bloody line now scoring her cheekbone where a twig had kissed too hard. "Don't get used to saving me. It sets a precedent."

"Noted." He grinned without humor. "He's going to bulldoze. We can't trade attacks."

"Then we don't," she said. "We make a draw."

She hopped to her feet and called, "Eevee—Baby-Doll Eyes! then hold—now! Double Kick!"

Eevee lifted her gaze at the exact beat before Ursaring's next charge, buying a fractional hesitation, and then snapped both hind paws up like punctuation—one-two to the jaw. It wasn't just damage; it was information, a reminder; you can be touched.

Ursaring bellowed. The sound had a shape that meant Night Slash when it reached arms—claws hissed through the air toward Eevee's chest.

"Quick Attack! right now!" Serena's call came a hair before the swing; Eevee vanished sideways and reappeared with all her fur standing as if she'd stuck her paw in a socket. The Night Slash ripped empty shadow and trimmed a lock of Serena's hair behind her. She didn't flinch until after; then she swallowed and kept her hands still.

"Riolu—my mark," Ash said. "Copycat! Follow Eevee's line."

Riolu nodded, eyes flicking once to the bear's hip. As Ursaring thundered past, Riolu slid into the line of the previous Double Kick and mirrored it with a forearm snap—the same rhythm, just inverted—the Copycat turning Serena's call into a joint strike. The shot landed against a nerve bundle high in the leg. Ursaring's knee buckled. The ground felt it; the trees felt it; everyone on the ridge felt it.

Ash felt something else.

The world around the bear tilted—not with psionics, but with a memory. For a fraction of a heartbeat, the ridge became a winter road under a different moon. The bead of a village lantern swung in the wind; a girl fell, screaming, under a shadow with a circle mark on its chest. That night, he arrived too late. The stabilization and the scars. And in that cruel overlap of now and then, the girl's face shifted—not the child's he failed to reach in time, but Serena, eight and brave and bleeding, eyes too wide.

No, not again.

The vision broke on his next breath. The bear was real; this moment was real; the past was not the boss of him.

"On me," he said, voice iron. "Riolu—Detect, then Force Palm to the shoulder when he overcommits."

Serena saw the set of Ash's jaw and the split-second shake in his hands that meant the past had touched him. She didn't ask; this wasn't the time for talking him down from ghosts. She adjusted to him. "Eevee—Quick Attack! bait him—then Sand Attack! When he pivots—Double Kick! after on my mark."

They moved like they'd practiced for a lifetime. Ursaring lunged again, all of its weight and hate in one piece. Riolu met the first Slash with a clean Detect, stepping inside the arc, then drove a Force Palm up into the same sore shoulder with surgical cruelty. Serena's Sand Attack found the good eye again, this time at the exact instant the head turned to compensate—grit bit and stole sight for a beat. Eevee hit the jaw one-two and peeled away. The bear missed—by inches, by fate, by work.

Ursaring staggered, then changed games. No longer charging; it used Bulk Up. Muscle bunched like ropes being pulled taut. It drew in air and came at them slow instead of fast, learning from its own anger. The next Hammer Arm wasn't wild; it was aimed.

"Down!" Ash barked. The arm scythed through the space where Riolu's head had been, took a shaving off the log behind, and sent splinters like knives.

Serena grunted when two found her forearm. Blood slicked; she clamped her jaw and kept her fingers around Eevee's next cue. "I'm good," she lied, and then amended, "I will be. Eevee—circle left; keep out of that arm."

Ursaring tracked Serena's voice, not the fox. Smart. It took a two-step and feinted a low Low Kick aimed to break Eevee's line—then crossed the feint into a Night Slash toward Serena's center.

Ash was already moving. "I've got her!" He cut the angle, cloak flaring, and threw an Aura shield up like a door at the last half-beat. Not a blast—just a shaped curve of pressure that turned its claws a few degrees. Night Slash skidded. Claws bit into cloak and flesh anyway—raking his ribs shallow and mean. The impact knocked him sideways into the log hard enough to bring him stars.

"Ash!" Serena's voice cracked; panic came in a rush, and with all of her power, she stepped on it, feeling the bond pulse to comfort her.

"I'm up," he coughed, and he was, face gray but here. "Keep him on my left—his blind side."

She nodded once, fast. "We finish this. Eevee—Baby-Doll Eyes! hold—then Quick Attack! pass him—and Double Kick!"
"Aur—no," Ash corrected himself under his breath, half-grinning through blood. "Riolu—Counter this time."

Eevee pulled the pause from nowhere one more time and threaded the pass across the bear's muzzle. Ursaring turned with her with predictability, finally, and committed a full-bodied swipe to punish Eevee. Riolu met that overreach chest-on, arms up—took the hit into his frame—and snapped it back with Counter, all that stolen force poured into a clean, brutal return at Ursaring's center of mass.

The sound it made wasn't a roar. It was the noise large things make when the world takes their breath away.

Ursaring dropped to one knee.

Ash saw the opening and saw the edge. He didn't want a dead bear. He wanted a decision, understanding.

He stepped in—slow, palms open, breath steady despite the hot line under his ribs. He let the Aura come up just enough to warm the air, not to frighten it, the way you talk to a skittish horse after a storm.

"Listen," he said, normal voice. "We didn't lace the salt. We didn't chain you to a tree. We aren't the ones who hurt you."

Ursaring's good eye fixed on him, red rimmed with rage and fear. Its chest heaved; blood threaded from a cut above the clouded eye. Riolu stood at Ash's right, solid. Eevee pressed against Serena's boot, quivering but ready to move.

Ash swallowed copper and made his offer. "You have two roads at this point," he said, and there was no poetry in it, just plain choosing. "You keep the anger, and we finish this. Plain and simple. You know how that ends. Or you come with us. We get the poison out. We find who did this. You fight for something that isn't pain."

Serena stepped in beside him so the bear could see both of them, empty hands visible, blood on both their skins, their fear not hidden. "If you join us, you don't lose yourself," she said calmly. "You get to decide who you are."

The forest held still. Somewhere far off, an owl said one syllable like a question.

Ursaring's head lowered—not in surrender, not yet—just to bring the world closer to its nose. It sniffed Ash's torn cloak, Serena's cut, Riolu's sweat, Eevee's electric heartbeat. The good eye blinked once, slowly.

Ash slid a hand to his belt and palmed a Poké Ball. Not to trick throw. Not to rush it. He held it where the bear could see. "Last time I was too late," he said, mostly to himself, but the bear heard it anyway. "But, not tonight."

Ursaring's paw flexed. A low, broken sound came out. It lifted its gaze to Ash's, then Serena's.

"The choice is yours," Ash said one last time.

The bear's massive shoulders eased a fraction. The head dipped. Not all the way. But, enough.

The Pokéball made contact. It opened, a clean white cone swallowing the night, the ridge, the breath they were holding—

—and the world went bright.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Bear's Oath

The capture beam collapsed; the night rushed back in.

For a heartbeat, the Poké Ball hovered at chest height, humming with the static of something that did not agree with being made small. It dropped into the moss and bucked—once, twice, a third time that dragged like a held breath. Then it clicked.

The forest exhaled. Ash did not.

He crossed the two steps to the ball as if it might explode, crouched, and set his fingers on the shell without lifting it. Heat bled into his palm, not from the tech—from the life inside and the fight still happening in there. He looked over his shoulder.

"I've got it," he said. His voice came out even. The cut along his ribs said otherwise, leaking through torn cloak in a slow, stubborn line.

Serena was already moving. "You're leaking," she said—no panic, just calm concern. "Sit."

He didn't argue. He eased back against the log they'd almost died under ten minutes ago and hissed when the fabric stuck. Riolu planted himself between the ball and the darkness of the night, a small blue wall. Eevee scrambled into Serena's lap and put her paws on Ash's knee like she could press him together by will alone.

"Let me see." Serena peeled the cloak aside. Four parallel tracks scored Ash's flank—shallow for claws that size, mean enough to damage, though. She tore a strip from a clean cloth, poured antiseptic on it, and gave him a look. "This is going to sting."

"Understatement," he said. Then he clenched his teeth while she cleaned. When she was done, he let out a breath he'd been trying to pretend he wasn't holding.

"You need stitches," she said.

"Later," he said. "We're still in his house."

Serena glanced at the ball. It shook once, a tiny tremor, then went still. "How bad is he?"

"Poison's still in him," Ash said. "And whatever stimulant Rocket laced that salt with—he's running on rage and chemistry. Half-feral doesn't begin to cover it." He touched the ball with two fingers, gentle as if it were a bruise. "If I let him out now, he'll come up swinging at ghosts. Or at us."

"So we don't," Serena said. She wrapped his ribs with a clean bandage; firm, precise, hands steady even though hers were bleeding too. "We keep him in there until we're not in a forest at night with one lantern and a death wish."

Ash huffed a laugh that winced. "Practical. I like it."

She looked up, catching his eyes. "You didn't just catch him."

"I asked him to choose," he said. "He did. The rest is on us."

Serena tied off the bandage. "Then we treat this like what it is."

"A rescue," he said softly.

"A rescue," she echoed.

The word steadied them both.

He finally lifted the ball—slow, deliberate—and set it in the inner pocket of his cloak where it would not jostle against anything but his heartbeat. He stood with care. "We move fifty meters off the clearing. No more, no less. I want a line of sight on this place from an angle that doesn't make us obvious."

"You get the fun jobs," Serena said, but there was no complaint in it. She slung her pack, checked Eevee's pads, checked Riolu's forearm where the Counter had hit and left him, and nodded once when the jackal shook off the ache. "Can you walk?"

"I can walk," he said. "I can also not give you a lecture about how pain is a teacher."

"Good," she said, deadpan. "Because if you go cryptic on me right now, I will actually throw a Chesto berry at your head."

"Noted." He smiled without trying to sell it. "Let's ghost out."

They slipped sideways through the trees—no dramatic vanishing, just competent quiet. Ash marked the clearing by three things the dark couldn't steal: the wind's seam where it curled around the ridge, the broken trunk's fresh sap scent, and the way the ground dipped toward a game trail like a page pressed under a thumb. He set their new camp tucked behind a pair of old maples, with sightlines he trusted and roots that would keep larger things from coming straight at their backs.

Serena got the stove going low—no open fire—and poured water over tea. She handed him a cup with a look that meant drink because it helps, not because it's romantic.

He drank. The warmth put his hands back in his hands.

"Talk to me," she said quietly. "Not the Guardian version. The Ash version."

He stared into the steam. "When he charged, I saw… not him. I saw a village off a winter road with lanterns under siege from a different Ursaring. I was young, reckless, and a girl no more than seven, got mangled because of it." He shook his head once at the memory. "My head did me no favors."

Serena paused for a moment and said softly, "And you still stepped in front of me."

"I didn't think," he admitted.

"Yeah," she said. "That's the part that needs work."

He almost laughed. "I know. I'm trying."

"I know," she said back, softer. She touched the back of his hand. No ritual words. He didn't need them to feel what she meant.

"Ash," she started, "I won't pretend that I have the words to give you for what happened, but just know I'm here. I'll always be here."

Ash smiled, letting the newfound quiet hold for a minute. The night settled around them again; normal forest noises knitting themselves back together after being torn. Far off, something moved in a way that meant deer. Closer, a Hoothoot asked the same question twice and was pleased by the same answer.

He glanced toward the bulge in his cloak. "I'm going to say this out loud once," he said. "So we don't forget it when it gets hard."

"Okay," Serena said, listening.

"He's not a trophy. He's not a weapon. He's not a shortcut to winning anything." Ash's voice was calm, almost clinical now that it had a shape to follow. "He's a wounded thing in a small room. We treat him like a patient until Pewter. And when we get there, we don't hand him over and hope for the best. We stand there until they flush every drop, and he stops shaking at the shadows."

Serena nodded. "We tell Nurse Joy exactly what he was exposed to. Disinfectant, sedative, stimulant—whatever you smelled. We log the camp with the Rangers and put Team Rocket's name on it in letters so big that even a lazy administrator can't pretend it's a typo."

"Good," he said. "That's the plan."

She blew on her tea. "You know he might swing at us even after Pewter."

"Then we teach him another choice," Ash said. "It might take time."

Serena's mouth quirked. "There's the prophet again. But… I don't hate this one."

"Progress," he said.

She reached for the med kit again and dabbed at the thin cut on her cheek. Eevee climbed up her knee and stuck her nose directly into the gauze. "It's not a treat," Serena told her mildly. "You do not eat antiseptic."

Eevee flattened her ears in theatrical offense and accepted a slice of dried apple as damages. Riolu permitted Ash to inspect his forearm; the bruising would be colorful, but the bones were sound. He signed that he was fine with two fingers and then pointed at Ash's ribs with a look that said hypocrite in any language.

"Yeah, yeah," Ash said, waving him off. "Stitches later."

Serena fixed him with a look that could have boiled water. "Tonight. Field stitches at least. I am not letting you march to Pewter with your side held together by just vibes," she said with emphasis on the last word, waving her hand at it.

He surrendered, throwing his hands up in surrender, "Alright, alright, tonight." He turns to Rilou, "Happy?"

Riolu gave him a satisfied smirk as Serena went to work on the stitches.

They didn't release Ursaring again. Ash tapped the ball once with his knuckles instead—a light contact that wasn't a command, just a hey, I'm here. The shell warmed under his touch, the way Poké Balls do when the thing inside has decided not to fight the shape of the room for a minute.

"You think he understood any of that?" Serena asked quietly.

"Not the words," Ash said. "The tone."

She looked out toward the line of black trees that hid the clearing. "Tomorrow, first light?"

"First light," he said. "We move north for the ridge line, then cut west toward the outpost trail. It's safer, and it keeps us away from the mineral block line. I don't want him smelling those again and thinking we brought him to another box."

Serena finished her tea and set the cup down with the same neat care he used on his. She shifted until her shoulder fit his, easy. "I'm glad that 'choice' is such an important thing for you," she said softly.

Ash leaned his head back, enjoying the warmth Serena provided, and looked to the stars, "Every path begins with a choice — and ends where that choice leads," he said, then made a face at himself. "And that came out like a fortune cookie."

"It's fine," she said, amused. "You can be wise once per hour."

He bumped her knee with his. "That's generous of you." He then sighed a grateful sigh, "I appreciate this," he gestures between them, "This thing we have. I know the bond plays a part, but the way things flow between us so naturally, it just really makes me happy and grateful and," he pauses, turning he's head to Serena, now inches from her face, "And I can't wait to explore what we have even more."

Serena, heart fluttering at his words and proximity, decides to close the distance with a kiss. Light and tender with a promise of further exploration in the future. A few kisses more, and they separate, foreheads touching.

"Me too, Ash, me too," Serena whispers.

As the wind of the night turned, the ridge lightened a shade, not with dawn—just the kind of brightness that means the night has decided it doesn't need to be quite so black. The forest had stopped feeling like a held breath, and now it felt like a place that had added a line to its ledger and was waiting to see how the next line would read.

Ash, restless, decided to check the trip-bells, resetting one by a thumb's width, and then came back to the circle of their lantern. He slipped the Poké Ball from his cloak and set it on the folded cape where he'd sleep, not in the pack, not at arm's length. Close enough to feel if it moved. Far enough, he wouldn't roll on it.

Serena watched the way he did it and nodded, quiet approval. "He's going to hate us sometimes."

"Probably," Ash said. "I can live with that if he lives with us."

She shifted, found his hand, and laced her fingers through. No speeches. Just pressure and warmth and the shape of we.

"It's time for sleep. I'll take the first watch. You need your rest," she said.

Ash didn't argue.

Eevee yawned huge, showing scandalous amounts of pink. Riolu settled by the lantern with his back to them and his eyes on the dark.

Ash brushed the ball one more time with the backs of his fingers. "You're not a prisoner," he said under his breath, pitched for the life inside and the trees nearby. "You're just in transit."

Serena bumped his shoulder. "That one I liked," she said.

"Good," he said. "I'm out of material."

"Liar," she said, smiling.

He lay back carefully, the bandage pulling but holding. The lantern burned small. The ridge kept its counsel. The night, for once, let them have this little patch of ground as Ash drifted off to sleep.

Morning came in layers: The fog first, then the birds, followed by color. The ridge wore a thin shawl of mist; drops clung to needles and fell one by one like a clock trying to be patient. Serena woke to Eevee sprawled upside-down against her hip, paws twitching through a dream sprint. Riolu was already up, working through slow stretches that made his joints whisper but not complain.

Ash had the stove going low. Oats softened; honey waited. He moved stiffly, bandage neat around his ribs, with the kind of carefulness you learn after a lifetime of bad ideas that mostly worked. When Serena sat up, he passed her a cup before she asked.

"How's your face?" he said, with a gentleness that said I didn't cause it but still hate it.

"Looks worse than it is," she said. "How's your side?"

"Feels how it looks."

"Great," she said, rolling her eyes. "We match."

They ate in easy silence. The porridge steam smelled like a much-needed sanity check. When the cups were empty and the stove was cool, Ash started packing up, Serena joining him.

They broke camp like they'd never been there; ashes scattered, thread pulled, footprints brushed out with a wing of pine. The clearing where they'd fought lay twenty meters downslope, visible through the trunks in a long, thin slice. Ash checked the wind, checked the space, and checked that there was a tree he could trust at his back.

Ash picked up Ursaring's Poké Ball from where it lay all night. He looked at it, then at Serena,

"We should do a short release," he said. "No heroics or anything. We just see how he is. If he shows any signs of spiraling, he goes back in."

Serena nodded. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then we learn where the line is today."

She glanced at Eevee. "With me. No dashing unless I say."

Eevee's ears tipped; she sat squarely at Serena's heel, tail flicking like a metronome. Riolu took the other side of Ash, weight forward, not crowding, not blinking.

Ash lifted the Poké Ball. "Here we go." He thumbed the catch and set the ball low, aimed away from them. The capsule split with a sigh; light unspooled into a mass that outgrew its own shadow.

Ursaring unfolded into the morning like a bad memory. Its fur was damp and clumped where blood had dried and cracked. The cloudy eye filmed white; the good eye found them and narrowed. It drew a breath that tasted the air and rumbled it back out through its teeth.

It didn't charge. It paced—four steps left, four right—head low, lips peeled back to show the tools it kept in its face. A tremor ran through its shoulders and out along its forelegs, not a threat, a symptom. Serena felt it in her own elbows and had to unclench her hands by choice.

Ash stepped half a pace forward, palms open, elbows close—no big motions. He flared his Aura up just enough to steady the air around him, not push it. "You're outside," he said, in a normal voice. "Look. Smell. There are no chains. No box."

Ursaring's good ear twitched. Its nose flared. The white film over the bad eye didn't change; the good eye flicked to the mineral-tainted line of wind and came back to the human noise.

Riolu held his ground and set his jaw, making himself more vertical instead of wide—big predators knew how to punish wide. His fingers flexed once, then stilled.

Serena swallowed and found her own center, steadying herself. "How do I… do the thing?" she asked under her breath. "How do I anchor myself?"

Ash didn't look away from Ursaring. "Put your feet hip-width apart," he murmured. "Bend your knees a little. Breathe like you're lifting something—don't shout out the fear, push it. Pick a point—not his eyes, but his shoulder. Stay with that point. Let him feel you won't flinch from that fear."

Serena set her feet and picked the scar seam over Ursaring's right shoulder. She breathed. The fear didn't vanish, but it had somewhere to sit that wasn't her throat. "Like this?"

"Like that," Ash said, quiet pride under the gravel. "Good."

For a minute, nothing changed; breathing, pacing, the fine thread between not-running and not-running them down. The tremor came again—the kind that starts at the spine and shakes a body the way the cold does when it's not cold. Chemistry yelling through meat.

"Easy," Ash said. "You're sick," Ursaring narrowed its good eye at him, "It's ok to be sick, it doesn't mean you're weak. You're far from it."

Ursaring swung its head and huffed at him like he'd said something stupid. A string of foam hung from its lip and broke. Its claws flexed against the soil. Somewhere inside the bear, the urge to break things woke up a little bit.

"Back," Ash said, low. He put a hand out, not toward Ursaring—toward Serena and the Pokémon. They took a clean step together, neither stumbling nor inviting.

The bear's gaze tracked the movement. It pinned its gaze on Eevee, small, bright, and wrong-shaped for this kind of morning—a low thrrr built in its chest.

Serena saw his gaze, but didn't panic; she changed the perception. "Eevee, behind me," she said, steady. Eevee obeyed without argument, sliding into the triangle between Serena's calves and the tree at her back. "We're not prey," Serena added softly, whether to the bear or to herself, it didn't matter.

Ursaring's pacing shortened. The good eye kept ticking between Ash's hands and the hollow where Eevee had been. The tremor started again, harder; its jaw clicked twice like it wanted to bite its own teeth.

Ash took one more half-step forward and widened the aura steadiness by a fraction. It wasn't a wall. It was a fence; here's where I stand; here's where you don't. "Easy," he said again. "This is the hard part. It doesn't last."

For a second, it worked. The bear's shoulders dropped half an inch. Then the wind shifted and carried the thin bright smell of the laced salt from last night, just a ghost of it on bark somewhere upslope. Ursaring's head snapped toward it. Every muscle came back online.

"Okay," Ash said, immediately. "That's enough for today." He raised the ball—not fast, not slow—and hit the return. Light swept out and took the big shape back into itself. The ball rocked once in his palm and went still, warm as a breath.

Serena let out the air she hadn't meant to hold. "That could've gone worse."

"Could've gone better too," Ash said, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "But we didn't die, and he didn't break a tree with your face, so I'll take it."

She shot him a look. "New rule: fewer examples using my face."

"Noted," he said, raising his hands in surrender.

They stood there a moment and let their hands stop shaking. Riolu rolled his wrists and blew out his cheeks, then signed close with two fingers. Eevee peeked around Serena's calf and made a small, offended chirp at the idea of being considered prey; Serena scratched between her ears until dignity had returned.

"Should we try that again later?" she asked.

Ash thought for a moment, then nodded. "We do, but shorter," Ash said. "A minute, not five. We start building him a tolerance to us."

They moved out along the line they'd chosen last night: north to the ridge spine, then west to pick up the outpost trail. The forest changed character as they climbed—less fern, more scrub pine, the ground stonier underfoot. Prints thinned. The wind did more talking.

About a half a mile on, they found more signs of wrongdoing in the forest; a drag path through leaf litter that didn't belong to deer. Two parallel furrows with a third lighter scrape in between—a crate sled. Ash crouched and touched two fingers to the edge of the groove. "Recent," he said. "Not last night. Yesterday, maybe?"

Serena lifted her Co-Dex, shot wide and detailed, flagging the coordinates to the Ranger net with a crisp FOUND: DRAG MARKS / POSSIBLE CRATE. Thirty paces later, a tranq dart cap gleamed stupidly green in the duff; forty paces after that, a bait tin lay open under a log, crystals of salt clinging to the lip.

"Same stink," Serena said, wrinkling her nose.

"Same crew," Ash said. He used a stick to flip the tin, read the stamped code on the bottom, and filed it. A little further on, a scrap of foam packing snagged in bracken told the rest of the story. "Moving something fragile."

"Relics?" she asked.

"Or equipment," he said. "Either way, nothing to picnic about, yet."

They didn't linger. The sun burned the fog down to lace; the trail ahead cut cleaner as boot traffic and Ranger traffic negotiated the terms of travel over the years. Twice, they heard human voices ahead and went down to the ground until the sound resolved into hikers who didn't know how to hide. Once they heard a heavier tread to the south and stood still until it passed—a Nidoking, by the weight and the pace—leaving a memory of iron and earth behind it.

Near noon, they found a pocket of shade. Ash set his pack down, breathed, and glanced at Serena. "One minute," he said.

She nodded. "Ready."

They released Ursaring again—quick, clean, and with the same distance and the same type of tree at their backs. The bear landed into itself, blinked hard, and made a sound like a bad dream clearing. It paced; it shook; it scented. The wind here was kinder. The tremor didn't travel as far down its legs.

Serena set her feet, found the scar seam, and breathed steadily. "We're not fighting you," she said, conversational. "We're walking you to a hospital. You can hate it, but that's the plan."

Ursaring huffed, which could have meant anything from your plan is stupid to my teeth hurt. Riolu didn't move. Eevee watched from behind Serena's ankle, curious enough to lean, smart enough not to step out.

"Ten seconds," Ash said softly. "Nine. Eight…"

At three, Ursaring's hackles rose—the wind had done that small, cruel thing, carrying the smell. Ash didn't wait to see how it ended. He recalled the bear in a wash of light and clipped the ball back to his cloak.

Serena blew out. "Okay. Brick by brick."

"Brick by brick," he said, and didn't wince at hearing himself. "Pewter by dusk tomorrow if the trail continues to like us."

She smirked. "And if it doesn't?"

"Then we walk anyway."

They ate simple—nuts, jerky, and water that tasted like metal and the sky. The ridge ahead showed a brown slash where the trail stepped down toward the outpost; beyond that, the gray line of Pewter's first foothills cut across the horizon.

"We finish the afternoon leg, then do one more short release before dark?" Serena said, tightening her boot. "Probably stop by the rangers tomorrow as well?"

"Yeah," Ash said. "We should report what we've seen face to face, not just pings. And then we walk Ursaring straight to Nurse Joy with an explanation she can read without guessing."

Serena stood and shouldered her pack. She bumped his arm lightly. "You did good, you know."

"So did you."

"Don't make me keep a tally," she said, smiling now. "It'll get competitive."

"Terrifying," he said with an easy smile that meant comforting.

They set off again.

By midafternoon, the ridge softened into switchbacks and the pines thinned. Wind came straight now, carrying sun-warm rock and the faint iron of hawk and hare. The outpost spur trail cut in from the west—a narrow, well-used thread stitched through blueberry scrub and young birch. Two hundred paces down it, something flashed; a mirror of glass, not water.

Ash lifted a hand. "Hold."

Serena stopped with him. Eevee went as still as a statue at her heel; Riolu's ears went up and then forward.

The flash came again—controlled this time, a deliberate signal, three beats, pause, one. Ash answered with a palm raised high and open. A figure stepped from the birch shade; ranger red jacket faded by sun and detergent, hat brim pinned up, boots that had learned every habit bad ground can have. A Pidgeot ghosted down to a high perch above her like a flag unfurling; a Growlithe padded at her side, tail wagging exactly once before deciding to be professional.

"Trail check," the ranger called, low and even. "Names?"

"Ash Ketchum," Ash said, because hiding your name only made people try to take it. "Serena Yvonne." He lifted his KGS; Serena held up her Co-Dex. The Ranger Net on her wrist beeped in acknowledgment.

The ranger came close enough to see their faces, but not close enough to make anyone feel on edge. She was in her late twenties, hair in a knot that didn't care if it was pretty, eyes that had slept outside enough to adjust quickly. She scanned their credentials and the report pings Serena had sent earlier. "You flagged drag marks and a bait tin," she said. "And a bracket site — those steel anchors they use to chain the bigger ones."

"The torture mounts," Ash supplied.

"Yeah," she said. "East ridge."

"That's us," Serena said. "We didn't touch the hardware. Photos and coords only."

"Appreciated." The ranger crouched, gloved her hands, and plucked at the bit of foam packing snagged in the bracken by the trail. Into a bag it went, quick and clean. She glanced back up. "Ranger Kira Matsuda," she added, remembering her manners. "This is Rust." The Growlithe pretended to be carved from cedar. "And that is Regent." The Pidgeot ruffled once and went still as a statue again.

Riolu eyed Rust; Rust eyed Riolu; both elected to be extremely serious professionals. Eevee blew a stray hair off her nose and decided Regent was a chandelier.

Kira got to work without theatrics. "Let me see your tin shots," she said. Serena flipped through to the bait tin photos—lip crusted with salt crystals, code stamped on the bottom. Kira looked, nodded once. "Same lot we've been pulling on the Saffron side. Cut with a stimulant—animal-grade. Stays on the wind. They salt it along game lines and let the thinking part of a big brain cook in its own juices." Her jaw worked. "It makes strong animals forget they know better."

"And the 'U-07'?" Ash asked. "We found the fragment at the bracket."

Kira's mouth ticked, not a smile. "U for Ursine cluster," she said. "We're seeing N-series near Route 3—Nidoking/Nidoqueen class—and a couple of A-series pop-ups closer to the Mt. Moon foothills. Don't love that one."

"Arcanine," Serena guessed, eyeing Rust.

"Or Aerodactyl, if I want to ruin my own day," Kira said. "We haven't confirmed. Yet."

She bagged two tranq caps from the duff and stood. "You two look like you know what you're doing," she said frankly. "Still—I have to say the words; don't play hero in the Forest when the other side brings syringes to a fistfight."

"We're on our way out, actually, not looking to kick down any doors," Ash said. "We'll hand what we've got to Joy and to your desk at Pewter."

Kira's gaze dipped, caught the edge of white under Ash's torn cloak, where Serena's bandage was workmanlike and recent. "Bear?" she asked, no judgment in it.

"Bear," he said. He didn't elaborate.

"Did you have to?" she asked, hesitating. Now there was judgment—measured, not moralizing.

"I asked it to choose," Ash said simply. "We're getting it to the Center. It's not safe to release for long."

Kira let that ride because the alternatives were worse. "If it goes sideways and you need a hard hand, hit the Net. We're thin, not blind." She thumbed toward the outpost spur. "You'll see a trail camera in a hundred yards. We just put it in this morning. If it blinks red twice at you, wave and keep walking. If it blinks three times, stop and call—we've got activity on the line."

"Team Rocket?" Serena asked.

"More like rented muscle with a letterhead," Kira said with a tick of her tongue. "But yes. They have fronts in town—security companies with shiny vans and no contracts anyone can find. They like to launder their logo on disposable seals and pretend that makes them subtle." She slid a glance at Ash. "You've seen one."

"White van, new paint, too-clean tires," Ash said. "The river road in Viridian a few nights ago."

Kira's eyes crinkled. "You and me both." She glanced up at Regent; Pidgeot turned her head a notch as if to say we see farther than our bosses. "We got plate shots on one near the west gate. Plates came back to a bakery that doesn't own a truck. And wouldn't need one that size even if it did."

Serena flicked through the photos she'd taken: bracket teeth, tarp-arcs, the coarse drag grooves. "You want these now or when we hit Pewter?"

"Send them now," Kira said. "And if you walk past anything that looks weird or wet and humming, don't be curious. They've started rigging dummy caches. You open a box and the next thing that happens is you're sleepy on the ground and someone's on the radio saying they 'found' you."

"Good to know," Serena said, the corners of her mouth tight. "I like staying awake."

Kira's look warmed a degree at that. "You'd be surprised how many don't like it enough." She scrolled through Serena's gallery, paused at the bracket and the arcs on the bark. "This is good work," she said, then added, "and you shouldn't have to be doing it."

"We didn't go looking for it," Ash said. "It came past us."

Kira tipped her chin. Fair. "Outpost is four miles. There's water, a proper terminal, and a man who makes bad coffee and pretends it's a personality trait. You'll like him though, anyway. I can walk you in partway."

"An escort would be welcome," Serena said. "As long as Regent doesn't judge my posture."

Regent judged everyone's posture. It was a hobby.

They fell in together. Rust trotted at Kira's side, giving Riolu the occasional sideways glance like a professional acknowledging another professional's existence. Small birds skittered ahead of them in moving patches. When they reached the trail camera, it blinked twice; Ash lifted a hand and waved like he'd been told, then added a small, rude gesture toward the lens purely for himself. Serena made a scandalized noise that clearly wasn't scandalized.

"Question," Serena said after a stretch along the path. "The letter codes. You said their 'clusters.' Are you seeing this as organized?"

"Different crews, same playbook," Kira said. "Codes on bait tins match codes on clamps. Notes are burned at sites, but not well enough. It's a pattern. And if somebody's patterning your wilds, you either break the pattern or it breaks you."

"Who's writing the playbook?" Ash asked.

"Not somebody we can arrest in a forest," Kira said. "We push up the chain when we can, but it takes time and paper. Meanwhile, we keep the animals and Pokémon out of the cages." She side-eyed him. "And people too."

They reached a split in the path where the outpost trail widened and the mainline trail kept leaning northwest. Kira stopped there, scanned the brush, listened, and decided to be satisfied.

"This is where I turn," she said. "You two keep your pace. If you camp before the outpost, set it on high ground; we've got a mudline two gullies over that likes to think it's a river after dark. And if the wind flips and you smell bleach and metal, change direction. That stink hangs on everything they touch."

"We'll steer clear," Ash said.

Kira took a breath like she was chewing the next words before saying them. "One more thing. Some advice if I can." She glanced at his cloak, at the place where the Poké Ball caught the light and didn't reflect it. "If that bear is as bad as you say, walk him in the door yourself. Don't hand him off on the step. Joy'll try not to take offense—you'll be in the right. Rocket's had the guts lately to pose as handlers. We've hauled two out of Cerulean in jackets they didn't earn."

Ash's face went flat in the way that meant the answer was already yes. "We'll walk him to the back room if we have to."

"Good," Kira said. She took a half-step as if to touch his shoulder, thought better of it, and settled for a nod. "You didn't ask for this," she added, not unkind. "But you're doing it correctly. Try to keep not dying."

"We're practicing," Serena said, bright without being cheerful. "Daily."

Kira's mouth twitched. "Regent hates goodbyes," she said, because she had to say something easier. The Pidgeot refused to confirm or deny. Rust yawned and pretended it was a strategic jaw stretch.

"Maybe we'll meet again. Maybe we won't. Either way, it was a pleasure."

"Likewise," Serena said, Ash nodding.

They parted there. Kira and her pair flowed down the outpost spur without looking back; Ash and Serena took the mainline, the forest opening ahead like a zipper coming down one tooth at a time.

They walked. The ridge dropped in benches now, pockets of flat ground punctuating the decline. Twice they passed wire snares—old, half-swallowed by vine. Serena crouched, bit her lip, and worked one free without springing it, then held it up with two fingers like a dead thought. "Turning this in," she said.

"Bag it," Ash agreed. "Evidence and a good conversation starter."

The sun bled toward amber. Shadows ran long between trunks; the air cooled in a way that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with memory. They found one last pocket of shade and tried one more release the way they'd planned. Ursaring came out shaking less, pacing more. He fixed on Ash's hands, then on Serena's shoulder, then on something in the middle distance that wasn't there. When the tremor reached his forelegs, Ash recalled him clean.

"Brick by brick," Serena said.

"Brick by brick," Ash echoed, and didn't make a face at himself this time.

The trees began to thin for real—daylight threading laterally now instead of straight down. Ahead, beyond the last ranks of pine, the first gray planes of Pewter's low mountains lifted like knuckles under a blanket. Behind them, the Forest breathed, old and watchful.

They didn't look back. But both of them knew it was looking.

They set their last camp inside the treeline, not in the open field. Old habits die hard. Ash rigged a low line for the cloak, checked his stitches without fuss, and watched the wind. Serena brewed tea that tasted like home. Eevee was all soft tail and proud posture; Riolu sat with his feet tucked under, pretending not to be tired.

"Let's do it here," Serena said, voice quiet. "One more look. Then we sleep."

Ash nodded. He set a boundary in the dirt with his boot—nothing mystical, just a line that said this is ours; that is yours. "Okay," he told the ball. "One minute. No tests."

Ursaring came back in a wash of light and bad memory. The bear stood square, breathing hard, foam drying at the corner of its mouth. The tremor didn't reach its paws this time. It looked at Ash's hands, then Serena's shoulder, then past them to the open ground where a city waited that had no idea what was coming.

They gave him space. Serena planted her feet. "We're not here to make you do anything," she said, conversational, as if they were all in line for noodles. "We're taking you to get help."

Ursaring huffed; the good eye flicked, suspicious and unwilling to be sold anything. The wind brought another ghost of bleach and metal from far behind them, and he shivered, a memory surfacing and sinking like a log.

Ash lifted his palms, slow. The aura fence came up—not with force, but steadiness. "I won't chain you," he said, simply. "I won't drug you. Not once. I'm going to walk you through a door, and I'm going to stand there until they pull the worst of this out of you. Then you get to decide who you are."

Ursaring's ears tipped forward at door; his jaw clicked and unclenched. He took a step, not at them, but around them—testing the edge of the fence. It held without pushing back. Something in his shoulders let go a half-inch.

Serena took a breath like she was carrying a box with him. "And I won't let him do this alone," she said, not grand, just promised. "That's my part."

Riolu didn't look away. Eevee peered around Serena's calf with bold curiosity that she absolutely hadn't had this morning.

A cloud slid off the sun. The light went warmer. The smell of Rocket's bait line didn't find them here anymore. Ursaring's pacing slowed, then stopped; he sat back on his haunches—awkward, enormous, so tired he looked smaller. The tremor ticked once in his shoulder and quit.

"One minute," Ash said, soft, mostly for himself. He didn't wait for the wind to shift wrong. He recalled Ursaring clean, the red-white beam drawing the big shape in without a fight. The shell warmed in his palm.

He set it on his knee, thumb brushing the seam. "We'll make good on it," he said, to the ball, to the trees, to Serena—it didn't matter.

Serena reached and laid two fingers on the shell. "See you on the other side," she murmured.

They let the Forest finish around them. Pines hissed. A Spearow somewhere argued with a world that hadn't asked for its opinion. The mountains wore dusk like a promise they hadn't made but would keep anyway.

"Tomorrow," Serena said.

"Tomorrow," Ash echoed—and this time it wasn't prophecy; it was a plan.

They ate, cleaned, and banked the little stove. When the light finally went, it went deep and fast. They lay shoulder to shoulder, lantern down to an ember, Ursaring's ball set between their bedrolls where each could reach it without reaching across the other.

"You know," Serena said into the dark, "when you talk simple, you still say the important parts."

Ash snorted under his breath. "Good. I think I'm out of riddles."

"Thank Arceus," she said, smiling.

Riolu took the first watch, eyes catching starlight and giving nothing back. Eevee snored like a tiny scandal. The wind changed twice and brought them nothing dangerous. For a while, they slept as if the world didn't have its teeth in anything.

Viridian, Below Street Level

The room wanted to be a lab, but the floor remembered being a garage. Bare bulbs, whiteboards with marker ghosts, the faint ammoniac slap of cleaners doing penance for work they couldn't erase. A crate sat in the middle of the floor on a low pallet, foam-lined, lid off. The inside stank of salt and sedative, and the screwdriver that had pried it open.

A grunt in a too-new security jacket kept his gaze down and his mouth shut. He held onto a clipboard like it was a life raft and read the line he had written twice already.

"U-07 is… lost," he said. Not escaped. He didn't know why he'd changed the word, only that his hands preferred not to shake.

Across from him, a man with a clean shirt and a ring he liked to rub with his thumb didn't look up from the tablet in his hand. "Viridian accounts are settled?" the man asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then we don't care about a number," the man said, finally lifting his eyes. They were the wrong kind of calm. "We care about the pattern. Do we still have a pattern?"

The grunt swallowed. "Yes, sir. N-series gains movement near Route Three. A-series is being prepped for transfer to Mt. Moon staging. R-seals have been applied, per instruction."

At the far wall, under a hanging work light, something in a reinforced pen exhaled heat. It paced once, and the concrete sweated where it stepped. A metal water bucket steamed gently. Through the bars, the shape was all fire, shadow, and muscle. It could have been Aerodactyl if you liked nightmares with wings; it could have been Arcanine if you knew what hot fur smelled like. It turned at the end of the run, claws ticking. The air brightened and then subsided.

The man with the ring watched the pen, unbothered. "There," he said, as if spotting a good vintage on a high shelf. "So the A remains with us."

"Yes, sir." The grunt's eyes said please don't make me open that door.

The man put the tablet down. "File U-07 to lost to terrain and move the schedule forward. If Pewter's Rangers are sniffing our salt, we get our crates under the mountain before they learn how to read."

"And if—" the grunt swallowed again "—if any of the handlers get seen?"

"Then we remind them they are disposable seals," the man said, pleasant as tea. "That is what the letterhead is for."

In the pen, the thing that might be A-02 lowered its head and blew one steady breath through the bars. Across town, a shrine bell stayed quiet.

The man rubbed his ring and smiled without showing teeth. "Kanto," he said, as if tasting a word. "Let's see if you're still soft."

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Stone and the Flame

The forest didn't end so much as it stepped aside. Pines thinned to a palisade of trunks you could see through, and beyond them the land fell away into a long bowl of hills and stone. Pewter City lay there like it had been poured into the valley and left to set—terraces stacked on terraces, roofs the color of penny-metal, smoke lifting in careful ribbons from kilns and forges. The light here came back at you from rock faces and glazed tiles; every gust smelled faintly of heated clay and iron filings.

Serena slowed without meaning to. "Oh," she said, the small kind of sound you make when a place decides to introduce itself properly.

Ash let his pack settle an inch lower and stood beside her, eyes tracing lines rather than sights: the main road that cut down in switchbacks; the way market streets bent around old boulders; the straight shot of a Ranger lane that climbed to a weathered tower on the ridge. Riolu came up on his right, arms folded, taking the city's measure with the professional frown he saved for new arenas. Eevee hopped onto Serena's shoulder and sat like a fuzzy epaulet, nose working.

The last of Viridian's shade fell off their backs. They joined the road and the road joined them to everything else; a cart of firebrick creaked past, the driver clicking his tongue in time with the wheel; two smiths in leather aprons argued cheerfully about flux while carrying a door-sized sheet of hammered copper; a Ranger pair on bicycles coasted uphill, Pidgey riding the air just above their helmets like impatient punctuation. Children in dust-gray uniforms chased each other along a terrace wall; one stopped dead at the sight of Eevee, waved, and then pretended very hard he had not waved.

"Feels different," Serena said, voice low.

"Well, the forest breathes," Ash said. "Cities…" he waves his hand in the air, looking for the right word, "hum." He then caught himself and added, lighter, "This city is in the key of 'don't stick your fingers in the furnace.'"

"Solid advice," she said. "We should write that on a sign and sell it."

Ash looks at Serena with a pout, then smiles with a sigh, continuing on. "Would that make a lot of money?" he asked

"Absolutely not," Serena said with a laugh and followed.

They took the switchbacks down, passing stonework that made Serena reach out just to feel the tool marks. At one bend, a mural ran the length of a retaining wall; stylized waves of orange and white that became like an Arcanine leaping from a volcano's mouth, mane painted in strokes that glowed even in shade. The plaque below read: The First Fire in a square, practical script. Another wall showed the same creature standing beside a line of miners with lamps on their caps, guarding the mouth of a tunnel while heat spilled from deeper dark.

"Local legends?" Serena asked, slowing. "This feels… curated."

"Pewter's always had stories about flame that keeps, not just flame that burns," Ash said. He didn't say I can feel it. He didn't have to; she turned and found the look on his face anyway.

"You're reading the place," she said, not teasing.

"A little," he admitted. "It's like the stone remembers being hot."

"Let's not start any geology fights," she said, and bumped his shoulder.

Stalls gathered themselves at the base of a broad stair and became a market. Not the bright chaos of a port, but dense and deliberate; stacks of slate cut to size like books at a fair; jars of glaze powders labeled in neat hands—copper green, iron red; baskets of mushrooms and mountain herbs; racks of simple wooden toys, most of them carved Pokémon you could spot from across a room. A potter turned a bowl on a wheel with a touch so steady it made Serena's fingers itch to match it; next to him, a woman sanded a sunburst of kiln-fired tiles until each facet caught the light like a different hour of day.

Serena stopped at a stall selling ribbon spools dyed in quarry colors—ash, basalt, a copper that would look outrageous under stage lights. Eevee leaned down nose-first; the stallkeeper laughed and offered a scrap to sniff. "For shows?" he asked, seeing Serena's posture even out of context.

"Trying to be," she said. "Viridian didn't go our way."

"Pewter's kinder," he said. "We judge on craft here as much as shine." He winked at Eevee. "And you've got plenty of both."

Across the aisle, a Ranger bulletin board carried notices under plastic sheets to keep the kiln-dust off; Trail advisories to Mt. Moon and the foothill mines; a reminder to report illegal snares; a small, tidy poster for the Pewter Heritage Exhibition with a sign-up tear slip still half-full. Serena's eyes snagged on the typography, then on the date.

"Tomorrow," she murmured.

Ash followed her gaze. "You're going to enter."

"I am." She said it simply, like deciding to stand up. "If I don't go now, I'll chew the thought until it tastes like regret."

"Then we go now," he said.

"Hospital first," she countered gently, jerking her chin toward the Pokémon Center sign half a block below the board—a clean white Poké Ball on blue enamel, edges polished by a thousand hands. "Then exhibition. Then food. In that order."

"Bossy," he said, raising an eyebrow, smirking.

"No, efficient," she corrected, sticking her tongue out with a smile.

They crossed the square. A kiln door clanged open somewhere behind them, and the smell of hot clay rolled across the flagstones. At a corner, a boy with a slate-gray guitar picked a tune that sounded like someone teaching a river to keep time. A field team from the Pewter Gym went by with rock-type partners loping slow and heavy at their heels—Geodude like fist-stones keeping pace; a Graveler whose handler had tied a bright ribbon around one thick wrist, the only nod to ornament in a city that wore utility like pride.

"Home of Onix," Ash said, half to himself, watching the team pass.

"You ever fight here?" Serena asked, not missing the undertone.

"Not this one," he said. "I've stood in gyms that felt like churches and gyms that felt like boxing rings. Pewter feels like a workshop. You either bring a plan or you get ground into the floor."

"Lucky for you, I like plans," she said. "And floors."

"Noted," he said, mouth quirking.

The Pokémon Center rose at the end of the market street where the terraces leveled out—broad-fronted, stone-faced to match its neighbors, but with big glass panes that let the lobby light spill onto the street. The doors swung open as they stepped onto the mat; cool air washed over them, smelling of antiseptic and fresh linen, rather than bleach and metal. Relief hit so cleanly that Serena had to exhale it out like a held note. Ash's shoulders dropped a fraction he didn't realize he'd been holding up.

Inside, benches ran along the walls, not in rows—made to make waiting feel like resting. A Chansey behind the counter sorted intake trays with cheerful efficiency, eyes flicking up, then widening as she took in Riolu's careful gait and the set of Ash's ribs under the cloak. A poster on the far wall displayed a thermal map of a Ninetales spine labeled with red zones—educational and maybe a little intimidating. Another case near the door held faded snapshots of gym winners and rescue teams standing shoulder to shoulder with people in aprons and smudged faces; Pewter's version of celebrities.

"Hi," Serena said to the desk, light but direct. "We need to check in a patient. It's a bit Urgent, the patient is non-contagious, but under heavy effects of drugs from being held captive by Team Rocket."

The air tightened a notch at the words. The Chansey didn't flinch; she just snapped a laminated card to her chest, hit a call button, and the overhead speaker said, "Nurse Joy to triage. Nurse Joy to triage."

Ash touched the inner pocket of his cloak where the ball sat warm, and then looked at Serena. She covered his hand with hers for one second—no speeches, just here. Then they stepped forward together as the inner doors opened, and a woman in white emerged at a brisk, practiced pace, her hair tied back, her expression already reading the room.

"Let's get them in a pod," Nurse Joy said. "You can tell me everything while we walk."

They walked fast but not frantically, Nurse Joy setting a pace that said we're moving and we're not making mistakes. The triage hall kept the city's stone on its walls but softened it with light and air; glass let afternoon pour down a central spine, and everything smelled clean without the slap of harsh chemicals.

"Tell me what's in the ball," Joy said, pushing open a set of double doors with her shoulder.

"Ursaring," Ash said, entering Guardian mode. "Adult male. Subjected to baited salt laced with a stimulant in and around an abandoned camp in the woods. There was disinfectant at the camp. Tranq caps all around. He's half-feral, tremors in the forelimbs, he tracks with one good eye, left eye—right eye is cloudy."

"Exposure time?" Joy asked.

"Twenty-four to forty-eight hours doesn't feel wrong, but it's an educated guess," Ash said. "We've released him short and clean about twice since dawn. He paced, didn't commit to violence. The wind would set him off, and he'd go back in."

Joy nodded once. "Pod B, please." She glanced at Serena. "You're the other half?"

"Yes," Serena said, matching Joy's pace. "He's responding to calm emotions but doesn't trust anything yet. We've logged the camp with Rangers."

"Good," Joy said. "We work with them, but they're stretched thin at best."

Pod B was a room within a room; reinforced glass walls, a raised platform with padded anchors that weren't cuffs, ports ready for lines, vents set to pull air quietly away. It felt less like a cage and more like a place designed for things that had been in cages for too long.

Joy held out gloved hands. "When you release him, point the beam low. I want him to see me before he sees the ceiling."

Ash drew a breath, met Serena's eyes, then thumbed the catch. Light spilled, gathered, and became Ursaring—all scar, breath, and the wrong kind of energy. He dropped onto the pad like he expected the floor to be a trick. The tremor rippled his shoulders; his lips peeled to show tools he did not want to use but would if he had to.

Joy didn't flinch. She stepped into his line of sight, palms visible. "You're sick," she said in a normal, steady voice. "It's fixable. We're going to help, and it's going to be awful for a little while. Just breathe."

The bear stared at her, at the glass, at the vents. He swung toward Ash at the first hint of aura pressure and found Serena standing level, hands open, not opposing—present. Eevee, tucked under Serena's elbow, did not make a sound. Riolu stood at Ash's hip, taller than he usually tried to be, eyes calm around the edges.

"Line first," Joy told her team, and two assistants moved like parts of a clock that had been wound by someone who cared. A catheter went in with a hiss of disinfectant; Ursaring snarled, flinched once, then held because holding was still easier than breaking when the room wasn't asking him to fight. An IV hung clear and began its slow drip, the fluid catching light like a river at noon.

"Antagonist in," Joy said, watching the monitors hum to life on the wall: heart rate, respirations, temperature, a crude toxin index climbing as the drip coaxed poison back into the blood to be filtered. A faint shimmer over the pad told Ash she'd layered a low-level Barrier from one of the Chansey—not to pin down Ursaring, but to blunt the first panic surge.

The first wave hit quickly. Ursaring's muscles tightened in a mean, full-body clench; the tremor ran down to his paws and made the pads skitter on the pad's skin. He dragged air through his teeth and tried to out-stare the ceiling. When that didn't work, he stared at Ash.

"I know," Ash said quietly. "You're not trapped. This is the part where it gets worse before it stops being worse."

Joy glanced at him once, measuring the way he spoke, then tapped a screen. "We'll stage the flush in cycles. Fifteen on, ten off, and we'll monitor how he rebounds. He'll hit a few stages through the course of this: agitation first, then he'll crash, followed by an intense shake, then he'll likely hate us, before falling asleep like a dropped hammer. We'll look to do this twice a night, if his vitals will let me, until everything is clear."

Serena's hand found the glass, palm flat. "We're not leaving," she said, not so much for the bear's comprehension, but more for Ash's. "He can be as angry as he needs to be. He can throw it at the room. He can't throw it at himself. That's what we're here for."

Joy made a small sound that might have been approval. "I'm assigning you visitor clearance with restricted proximity." She pointed to a footprint decal on the floor just outside the arc where the pod doors would open. "This line is for your safety, not just my rules."

"We can follow instructions," Serena said.

"I hope so." Joy looked back to the drip, saw what she wanted, and gestured to her assistants. "Start Phase One."

The antitoxin hit with a signature Ash could feel even without reading numbers. Heat ticked out of Ursaring's skin like a fever being reminded of other options. The bear shifted his weight, huffed, and then the shiver began for real—shoulders, forelegs, the big muscles of the back trying to peel away from a memory. He slammed his paw once into the pad; the barrier flexed, absorbed, did not punish. He slammed again because slamming is a language, then stopped because it wasn't being answered with chains.

Riolu edged a half-step forward without crossing the footprint line and set his palm against the glass at chest height. He didn't flare, didn't posture. Just there. Ursaring's good eye flicked to him, dismissed him as irrelevant, then flicked back a second time to make sure.

Joy's shoulders eased a shade. "He's fighting," she said. "Good."

"How long?" Ash asked.

"Two nights if the lab results don't surprise me," Joy said. "He'll be well enough to hate my cooking by morning. He won't be safe for children's birthday parties for a while. Detox is not character development—don't mistake one for the other."

Ash's mouth crooked. "Understood."

Joy took in the bandage under his cloak and Serena's taped forearm, and her expression softened two degrees. "There's a shower down the hall, lockers, and laundry. There are rooms upstairs you can sleep in." She pulled two plastic cards from a stack and clipped them to lanyards—standard Pokémon Center credentials—but when she scanned them, a second layer of access blinked green with a ping. "What's this? You've got cleared research endorsements on your files," she said to Serena with a raised eyebrow. "That gets you into the observation wing and the exhibition registry console. Courtesy of Professor Oak himself, it seems." Serena raised an eye at this, "Alright, Oak vouches for you; I don't like him being right, but he usually is. Just don't abuse it."

Serena blinked, surprised, then grinned despite herself. "We won't."

Joy handed the other card to Ash. "Yours opens doors that normally require a handler to be present. I'm going to pretend I don't know why." She met his eyes for a beat. "Use it as intended. Not to cut corners."

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good." Joy checked the drip, the numbers, the bear and then let herself step back from the glass. "First cycle runs for thirty minutes. Then he gets to sleep if the numbers are kind. Go eat something so you aren't just staring."

"We'll come back between cycles," Ash said.

Joy nodded and turned to her team. "Page me at five-minute intervals. If he twitches hard, I want to see it."

They drifted out to the corridor with the feeling your body has when it's been allowed to stop bracing. Serena didn't stop entirely; she leaned against the cool stone and shut her eyes for a count of five. Eevee climbed to her shoulder again and pressed cheek to cheek, a small comfort. Ash stood with his hands on the rail and watched the faint reflection of the pod glass in the polished floor.

"You okay?" Serena asked, opening her eyes.

"I keep thinking about the clearing," he said. "How fast it could've gone the other way. How easy it would be to decide he's a problem and throw away the choice we gave him."

She considered him for a long breath. "You didn't drag a monster into town," she said. "You brought a patient. That's the point."

He almost smiled. "You make it sound simple."

"It isn't," she said. "But the words can be."

He looked at her then, really looked; hair pulled back but already escaping, the neat bandage along her forearm, the stubborn line of her mouth when she'd made up her mind. The knot in his chest loosened.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For trusting me when I ask big animals to do impossible things," he said dryly.

She nudged his ribs with two fingers—careful of the stitches. "You asked me first," she said. "Everything after that's extra."

They found the Center's cafeteria. The woman at the counter slid them two bowls without asking what they wanted: rice, greens, slices of grilled mountain mushroom that tasted like smoked thunder. Tea that came hot and endless. A nurse trainee stopped by with a pink Oran jelly for Eevee and a small tin of Sitrus rub for Riolu's forearm; he accepted both with formal gratitude that made Serena hide a smile in her cup.

For a few minutes, they ate like people who had promised themselves they would. Food made the day hold still in a good way. A forge hammered somewhere far off—regular, unhurried, like the city was reminding them how to breathe.

"Exhibition signup closes tomorrow," Serena said, not quite a question.

"You'll do it," Ash said.

"I will," she said. "Eevee's ready. I'm… ready enough."

He tapped his tray with a chopstick. "We can run your routine on the Center's back terrace after the second cycle. The wind should be clean up there. Your eyes will have something fixed to come back to."

She tilted her head. "You really want to watch me practice after today?"

"I want to watch you practice every day," he said, straightforward. Then, because it needed a lighter edge, "also, I'm kinda invested in you beating whoever Pewter considers their hometown darling."

Serena laughed under her breath. "Deal."

They brought their trays back and climbed the quiet stairs to the observation mezzanine. From there, the pods lay in a row like patient lanterns. Ursaring's glass glowed low and warm; inside, the huge shape had rolled onto its side, breath dragging, tremor checked down to a slow tide that came and went. Joy stood at the console talking in low tones to her team, one finger tapping a steady beat onto the rail.

Ash set his palms on the mezzanine rail, shoulder brushing Serena's. "We keep this promise," he said, more to the window than to her. "No matter how messy it gets."

She leaned into his shoulder until the contact said I hear you. "We will."

They stood there until the cycle ticked over and the numbers dipped into the green. Only then did the Center feel like it had taken a breath with them.

And when the lights in the pod flickered once—just once—like a heat ripple had passed through the circuit, Joy's head snapped up. The readings held. The bear slept.

Ash kept his voice low. "Stone doesn't make fire," he murmured.

"No," Serena said, eyes on Mt. Moon's dark line through the high windows. "But something under the stone does."

They didn't chase the thought. They stayed until the second cycle began and the calm held. Then they went to wash the forest out of their hair and put on clean shirts that didn't smell like fear.

The Center shower steamed the road out of their bones. When they came back to the mezzanine in clean shirts, the world felt newly possible—linen against skin, stitches snug but quiet, the faint citrus of hospital soap replacing the metal of fear. Ursaring slept through the second cycle, numbers a steady hill-and-valley. Joy gave them a small nod that meant you can exhale for an hour. They did.

They found the rooftop terrace by accident more than design—a small garden tucked above the ambulance bay, boxes of hardy mountain herbs drinking the last warmth from the slate. Pewter at night stretched out in copper flecks and soft smoke; forge fires humming, kilns cooling, windows full of ordinary evenings. Mt. Moon was a darker wedge against a very quiet sky.

Ash set his palms on the parapet. Serena came up beside him, shoulder brushing his. The contact wasn't ceremonial. It was permission.

"Been a while since it felt like… this," he said.

"Safe?" Serena asked.

"Well, close enough to pretend it is," he said, and smiled at his own honesty.

She turned to face him fully, back to the city. Up here, she was all clean lines and warm light—hair still damp at the ends, the small bandage on her forearm a pale rectangle, Eevee a weight of drowsy heat in the crook of her arm. Riolu sat two planters away like a very polite statue, giving them space while keeping time with the night.

"You didn't have to say the thing you said," Serena murmured.

"Which thing?" he asked.

"In the corridor. About almost choosing the easy story—the monster, its problem, and disposing of it." She lifted her chin a fraction. "It would have been easier."

"Yeah," he said. "Which is why we didn't take it. We will never take it."

Her mouth softened. "And that's why I'm here."

He laughed under his breath. "Because I'm inconvenient?"

"No, because you're good," she said simply. "And you make me braver."

That took him clean in the center. He paused for a breath, taking in what she said. When he was ready, he didn't answer with words. He stepped in and framed her face in his hands, careful of the stitches, careful of everything except the part where he needed to be closer. She rose on her toes, not from habit but from a decision. The first kiss wasn't fireworks; it was warmth spreading into cold places. The second carried the taste of tea and relief, and the small, inevitable yes, they'd been circling since the ferry.

"Hey," he breathed against her cheek.

"Hey," she answered, half-laugh, half-tear.

They stayed like that for a while, breaths getting out of each other's way, the tightness in their shoulders unwinding notch by notch. When she pulled back, she didn't go far. Her thumb traced the line of tape beneath his shirt where the stitches lay.

"Still hurts?" she asked.

"It hurts less when you're touching me," he said, wryly.

"Dangerous knowledge," she said, smiling now.

He looked past her at the city, then back. "We have rooms," he said, letting his words die. Not a question, not an expectation. An offering placed where she could take it or leave it without breaking it.

Serena's eyes flicked once toward the stairwell door, then over to Riolu and Eevee. Eevee was already asleep, muzzle tucked, tail draped like stolen velvet. Riolu looked at Ash, met his gaze, and made a small, respectful sign that meant I'll keep watch. He shifted to the terrace bench facing the stairwell, putting his back to the stars.

Serena slid her free hand into Ash's. "Come on," she said, soft as a lamp being turned low. "Let's try pretending a little longer."

They walked the quiet hall to the sleep rooms, badges pinging green. The door shut with a simple click that felt like a line being drawn around a small square of world that was theirs for an hour. The room held a narrow bed, a window with a slice of sky, and two folded blankets like a promise.

What followed belonged to them first: the unlearning of flinching, the laugh that surprised both of them, the slow, patient work of mapping a shoulder and a breath, and the places where touch becomes conversation. No speeches. No choreography. Just two people who had been holding the line for days deciding to put the weight of it down together.

Much later, when the window had gone from black to a softer not-quite-black, they lay tangled and quiet. Serena traced idle patterns on his sternum; he breathed like a man who had finally remembered how.

"I was scared," she said into the quiet.

"I know," he answered.

"Not of the bear," she said. "Of losing… this. Before it started."

He turned and kissed the crown of her head. "We're stubborn," he said. "It's going to take more than a mountain to shake us."

She smiled against his skin. "You say that now."

He laughed, then winced as the stitches reminded him they existed. "Okay. It might take exactly one mountain."

"Or a very tall hill," she conceded, kissing the spot right above the bandage as if an apology could be applied topically. "We should sleep."

"We should," he agreed. Neither of them moved. Eventually, they drifted in that half-sleep where the body rests and the mind keeps a loose hand on the reins, the bond humming like a low, content note.

Somewhere under Pewter, a temperature sensor in a disused service tunnel tripped into the red and then back to yellow, like a heartbeat held between teeth. In the Pokémon Center basement, for exactly one second, a diagnostic graph on a forgotten monitor drew a clean, perfect sine wave of heat—too regular to be geological, too gentle to be an explosion.

A security camera over the loading dock caught a white van rolling past at 02:17—the kind of clean that looks like it wants to be seen. On the rear door, where a bakery logo should have been, a little red R sat on a peel-away seal. It flickered in the sodium light and was gone.

On the mezzanine, long after the night staff had made their rounds, Ursaring stirred and did not wake. The IV ticked, steady as a metronome. Riolu, on the rooftop bench, lifted his head and tilted an ear—not toward the city, not toward the forest. Toward the mountain. He listened a long time, then set his jaw and watched the stairwell again.

Ash tightened an arm around Serena in his sleep. She breathed out and settled deeper.

Far off, under rock that remembered being fire, something exhaled—and waited.