The sun dipped low, casting amber rays through the cracked windows of the quiet tavern. It was old, the kind of place where stories were born and forgotten, where the dust held more secrets than the people.
Hayato leaned back on his chair, his black eyes distant but soft for once. Minamoto sat beside him, swirling her cup of wine with a smug grin, while Yue leaned over the table, her chin resting on her hands.
"Alright," Minamoto said, nudging Yue with her elbow, "who do you think dies first?"
Yue scoffed. "You, obviously. You throw yourself into fights like you're allergic to surviving."
"Excuse me? That's rich coming from the 'healer' who punches demons with her bare hands."
Hayato smirked, saying nothing. His cup sat untouched, filled to the brim.
"Oh come on, Hayato," Minamoto said, nudging him, "you've got that broody main character energy. Bet you've already made a pact with death and forgot about it."
He chuckled. "If I die, it'll be because I was too busy keeping you two idiots alive."
"That's fair," Yue said, raising her cup. "To dying last."
Minamoto lifted hers. "To dying cool."
Hayato raised his full cup slowly. "To not dying at all."
They laughed. It was genuine, even if something heavy lingered behind their eyes. Scars made the best jokes.
Just then, the tavern door creaked open. An elderly woman, wrapped in faded purple robes and carrying a staff made from twisted bone and bark, stepped inside. The air shifted, like the room itself inhaled.
The barkeep whispered, "That's Ema… the Seer of the Scattered Stars."
She moved with purpose, her gaze like a blade wrapped in silk. Without invitation, she approached their table.
"Three souls. Tied by fate. Knotted by fire."
Minamoto blinked. "Uh… do you want to join us or are you just commenting ominously?"
Ema smiled. "A drink, if I may. One last toast before your journey."
Hayato nodded cautiously. "We've got room."
The seer sat. Wine was poured. Cups were lifted.
"To fate," she whispered.
"To fate," they echoed.
They talked. She asked no questions. She told no fortunes. Only listened—smiling, sipping, soaking up the warmth of their dying laughter.
Then they left. A job awaited them north of the hills.
Ema remained.
She turned toward the table, where the three cups still sat.
One, untouched—its contents dark and still.
One, chipped at the handle, faint traces of laughter lingering in its curve.
One, half-drained, its surface shimmering with a crimson sheen.
She traced a finger along the rim of each.
"No ending. Too soon. Burned away," she murmured.
The cups rattled once. Then cracked.
Ema stood and vanished into the night, her final words trailing in the air like smoke:
"Not all heroes are meant to be remembered. But the world will never forget what they lost."