CONTENT WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THEMES OF SUICIDE AND SEX WHICH MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS.

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The branch beneath Jiro creaked under his weight. He sat on top of a tree, watching the blackness of the southern horizon. The sun had sunk hours ago, and the smoke of the pyre had already faded with the light. Now the stars above woke from their slumber.

The night's cold breeze caressed his cheeks as he studied the expanse of land beyond. He remembered staring at the same distant view two years ago. It was the same darkness and the same faint curves of mountains against the glow of the night sky. But he saw something else then, something he didn't see now.

And he lived that night again in his mind.

Jiro slumped on his bed, thinking of his father, who had been gone for a month now, gone to Kimracka for war by order of the Kaharaza.

He whispered a small prayer to anyone listening—old kings or forgotten gods, "Please, protect him." The same words came to him every night before he slept. It was all he could do, pray and wait for his father's return.

The comfort of his sheets soothed him as he watched the roof, tracing the wooden dowels that held the dried nipa leaves. He scanned the uneven bamboo logs, the nodes dividing the trunks, and the scars scratched onto their wood until he closed his weary eyes.

But only a few moments passed, and he jolted awake, sitting on his banig, unsure of what had disturbed him.

He listened, but there was no noise—nothing moved, but something had changed. The air stirred around him—a sudden chill wrapped over his bare skin.

An uproar came from their neighbors. When he turned his attention to the open window, he saw white flakes falling from the sky.

"What is it?" He heard the chorus of questions outside.

"Mama?" Jiro called, but no one answered, and the house seemed quiet. He got up and walked to the window, where he saw more of the flakes slowly dropping, light like leaves and feathers. He climbed out and flew into the night, ignoring the freezing air that pricked his skin.

Aradacko flew around with him, searching the skies, their faces filled with awe and confusion.

Jiro had never seen anything like this before. He caught a white flake in his hand—too cold to be ash and too fine to be rain. The flake turned into a droplet of water on his skin. Jiro had heard stories, descriptions of something like this. Could it be—?

"Snow?" he whispered.

He flew higher until no trees or mountains obstructed his view. He searched for the source of the falling flakes until he saw the vastness of the dark ocean. The air became thin, pressing on his chest, slowly suffocating him, but he stayed there, holding his Lift and turning in the sky.

The fall became thick, descending from the dark clouds above.

Then there, Jiro saw the blink of light on the southern horizon. It was so small that it could have come from so far away. But it was beaming, almost blinding to his stare. It was brilliant.

Jiro would never forget that night. After days of waiting for word, a ship arrived in Aradack. He had flown down to the water port, expecting the Rakitt Maharlika to have returned home. He searched for his father's face on board, but he knew no one there. There had only been the crew and a messenger who carried word. The war was over. The man conveyed a list—the names of those who had fought bravely and died with honor.

Now, a tear rolled down Jiro's cheek, and the weight of anger exploded in his chest. "Damn the old kings and the forgotten gods! Damn the skies!" he cursed. "You've taken everything from me!" He kicked and shot up to the sky too forceful that the branch he stood upon cracked. He flew high until he saw the blackness of the sea. "Why don't you just take me too!" He furiously flung his arms in the air as if trying to fight an invisible foe. With all his power, he screamed until his throat pained and his voice hoarse.

"Take me!"

Then he released his Lift, his legs giving way, and he began to fall. His body raced to the world, back first, speeding to meet the ground. He could die on impact, or the trees below could skewer him. It didn't matter which way. He closed his eyes and gave in as the air in his lungs left him.

He rushed past the leaves until he was almost to the ground. This was it. But a moment of doubt made him kick his leg, and the air on his back cradled him. Lift surged through his body right before he hit the ground. Then he released and fell again only a few feet from the forest floor, back pounding on the soil and lungs momentarily shocked. He choked, and he could breathe again.

Jiro was still alive.

Tears spilled from his eyes, and he screamed at the stars that taunted him, filling his heart with hate and pain. The sky beyond the arc of branches blurred.

The pain in his chest weakened him. Everything seemed to be ending, crumbling like ruins.

He screamed.

He cried.

Until he could cry no more. And still, he stayed there, lying and whispering curses in the night.

When he finally got up, he was numb from weeping. His mind hid from reality, which allowed his body to take him home. He floated to the cliffs like in a dream and wished, expecting to see his mother there when he arrived. He longed for her to cup his face and greet him.

Jiro flew past the quiet nipa huts of Aradack, silent in their sleep. Only a watchtower stirred at his passing, but they gave him no notice.

When he reached his house, he saw the light from the windows. Soft flames glowed behind the capiz panes.

Jiro landed on the veranda, and an image flashed in his mind—his mother had waited to receive him home, taking his cheeks in both hands and looking into his eyes, studying his face. He shook the thought from his head and entered the house.

Someone sat at the small wooden table in the main area of the hut. A girl. Her face was tucked, hidden in her arms that lay crossed on the desk. She was asleep. Even without seeing her face, Jiro knew who she was.

"Tatri?" he said, and the girl stirred.

She looked up, blinking the sleep from her silver eyes. "Jiro," she said.

"What are you doing here?" Jiro stepped closer, letting the door close behind him.

"I thought you might want some company." Tatri stood to face him. "You shouldn't be alone."

"You've been here all night? Waiting for me?" Jiro was then aware of how he must have looked. Wild curly hair with clothes smeared with mud, dirt, and leaves as if he had been wrestling with nouses in the forest.

Tatri reached for a bottle on the table and raised it. "I brought ramka."

He didn't know what to make of the gesture. He stared at her, trying to read her action.

"Unless you want to be alone," she added when he didn't speak.

"No," he snapped, not intending to. "Please. Stay."

Tatri smiled and sat back in her seat.

Jiro followed her, glancing at her bare thighs beneath her short skirt, which she matched with a sleeveless vest that allowed her shoulders to glow like gold against the firelight.

"Thank you," Jiro said as he took the chair beside her. He watched as she opened the ramka. He wanted to be genuinely grateful for her presence, but the current pain in his chest weighed too heavy on him to feel anything else. Nevertheless, he said the words to show respect.

Tatri lifted the bottle to her lips and drank from it with a large gulp. When she finished, she slid it to Jiro. "I share your sorrow," she said.

Jiro drank, letting the bitter-sweet liquid wash over his tongue and sore throat. Then he returned the bottle to the table and asked, "Did you know my mother well?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know her well. She always visited my mother. They liked each other."

Jiro nodded.

"I'm sorry, Jiro."

He nodded again.

Tatri gave a saddened smile. "This is one of my mother's best bottles. Do you like it?" she asked, pointing at the liquor.

Jiro didn't answer her question, but he drank. He didn't know if he liked the taste, but he liked the disinterest that it brought him. Its effect took his mind almost immediately.

"You shouldn't be alone right now." Tatri's voice came sweet and bitter like the drink.

The rest of the night dragged on. Tatri did most of the talking, and Jiro drank until the bottle was nearly empty. He stared at the last few drops of ramka, wanting it to be more. Then he stared at Tatri, watching her speak of things he didn't comprehend.

When she stopped, noticing him and staring back, he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be."

Jiro turned back to her.

She moved closer and pressed her lips to his. It was too immediate that he didn't realize what had happened until it was over. A short kiss, only a peck. She pulled her face an inch away from him, and her eyes were half-closed. "Jiro," she whispered.

He didn't move, locking in his seat, not wanting to startle the moment.

Tatri pressed her palm on his chest, touching the skin at the edge of his vest. She paused, waiting, and when he stayed unmoving, she slid her hand over his front, stomach, and gut. And she found the spot between his legs where she touched him with a stroking movement.

Jiro gasped, and Tatri gave him a soft shush. Their faces were close to each other, eyes locked in a stare. No girl had ever touched him like this before. No girl had ever come this close. The sensation was beyond pleasure, and the ramka in his head told him he wanted more.

Tatri stood and pushed Jiro's seat back to make room between him and the table. She straddled his legs, pressing him between her thighs. She kissed him, but it was not only a quick peck this time. His lips parted, and he allowed her to slip her tongue inside to trace the lines of his teeth. She rocked her hips, leaning in deeper and harder against him. The wooden floor creaked with her movement as he rested his hands on her waist to guide her rhythm.

Tatri suddenly stopped, and when she pushed off him, he reached for her to prevent her from leaving, but she sat on the table, pulling her skirt higher and spreading her legs. "Take me," she whispered, breathless.

As if caught in a trance, Jiro stood up and positioned himself between her open legs. The fermented drink in his mind urged him not to stop and not to question. His body liked it. He wanted it, needed it. To be like this with someone, he felt nothing else but the heat between their bodies.

Jiro pulled down his trousers and tugged at the front of her vest with eager hands. The buttons popped, revealing her full round breasts. She gasped, and that was the sign for him to go ahead. He devoured her and drowned his emotions. With her body, he tried to kill his misery and his rage.

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