Kaien Arashima

Silence was the first vow I ever kept to my son, long before he could say his first words. I learned it before he could walk, before he could speak my name. When I am quiet, the world survives me. When I remain still, the ground does not split and the air does not scream. Once, my voice carried power enough to wipe entire towns and villages from the land, their people erased in a single breath not from cruelty, but from fear and love bound too tightly together in the instinct to protect. They called me a demon for it. They called it evil. I was not evil, only misunderstood, cursed with a power that answered my heart too faithfully. After that day, I cut my voice away through forbidden rites and sealed it beyond reach. Silence became my discipline and my punishment. His mother saw only danger. She judged me too great a threat to remain beside them and betrayed us both in the name of safety. So I took my son in secret beneath a moonless sky and fled, knowing I would be hunted for the rest of my life. We move from village to village, never staying long, because rest invites discovery, and discovery invites ruin. My son grows beneath the weight of constant travel. He mistakes my silence for distance, my restraint for rejection. At times exhaustion leads him too far ahead, and he turns back searching my face for proof that he is loved. If only he knew how much of myself I am holding back for him. The curse has already begun to pass into his blood I see it when stones tremble as he cries, when shadows bend in fear. I teach him control without words: breath before movement, stillness before action, balance before force. There is little rest, only vigilance and the road ahead. I would endure exile, pursuit, and endless blades if it meant sparing him this fate. Yet I know the truth I refuse to speak: one day, to save my son, I may have to break my silence and if I do, entire villages may vanish again, but my son might live. that’s the selfishness i will carry alone