The Tyrant Tusker had finally retreated, its monstrous form vanished into the shadows followed by the remaining heartless in the area.
Helios collapsed on his back, breathing heavily. The radiant white glow of Bríon na Lú had long faded, leaving only his base keyblade resting by his side. His armor disappeared in a flash of light returning to its ring form. His body ached—his lungs burned, and his muscles screamed for rest. He closed his eyes for a moment, the stench of scorched earth thick in the air.
"It wasn't the strongest Heartless I've ever fought," he muttered to himself. "But damn… that was tedious."
The constant regenerations, the second and third forms, the sheer volume of magic and effort required to put it down each time—it wore him out. The Tyrant Tusker was less a powerhouse and more an endurance trial. Every time they landed a killing blow, it came back more twisted, more ravenous. It was like striking against time itself.
When the dust settled, and the adrenaline finally began to fade, the true cost became clear.
The clearing where the battle took place was now a crater of ruin—trees flattened, earth torn apart, and worse… the scent of death lingered, bitter and undeniable. The final count came not long after they returned to the village.
Ten warriors. Three civilians, two of them being women and one child.
The mood was heavy when they returned to the village—no songs from the birds, no sound of the wind through the trees, just the silence of grief. The huts were scorched. Some had collapsed. Others were being propped up with makeshift supports. Everything reeked of loss.
A gathering was called immediately.
The tribe assembled near the center of the village. Smoke from burning sage and herbs curled into the air, mingling with the setting sun. It was time for the vigil.
A low chant began. Gentle. Mournful. The elders of the village moved through the crowd, gently brushing smoldering herbs over warriors' shoulders, muttering ancient words to purify them.
Smudging. A sacred rite. A farewell.
The flickering fire in the middle of the circle snapped as logs shifted, and the rhythmic beat of ceremonial drums echoed across the ruined village. Songs of the fallen began—names chanted, stories told, and tears shed. It wasn't just grief. It was remembrance.
A feast was set out—not one of celebration, but of mourning. Wild roots, roasted meats, and fruits from the forest were passed from hand to hand. Eating together was their way of honoring those who'd passed. To share a meal as the souls of the departed made their journey to the Spirit World.
Helios stood apart from the circle, leaning against what was left of a carved totem. Skuld was beside him, arms crossed, staring into the fire. Her lips were a thin line, her eyes locked on the flames as the chants continued.
"We let them take so many hearts..." she said softly, barely above a whisper. "Even with all our power, all our training. We were here… and we still couldn't stop it."
Aqua placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Skuld," she said gently, "because we were here… more hearts were saved. If we hadn't stood against the Tusker, the village would be gone."
Helios nodded. "She's right. Without us, maybe a few would've escaped. Maybe. But there wouldn't be anything left to mourn."
Skuld looked down, unconvinced, but the edge in her eyes dulled. She turned her gaze back to the flames, placed her hand over her heart, and whispered a silent prayer. Aqua followed suit, bowing her head and pressing a hand against her chest.
Helios, however, kept his eyes on the horizon.
His gaze found Pocahontas and her father a short distance away, standing near the edge of the ceremonial fire. Beside them stood John Smith, still in his tattered armor, musket slung over his shoulder. From here, Helios couldn't hear the words, but the body language said everything.
Chief Powhatan's face was heavy with sorrow but held firm. John was nodding, eyes serious, but it was Pocahontas who stood out.
Her fists were clenched. Her lips trembled as she listened. Then, suddenly, she turned and ran—past the fire, past the crowd, disappearing into the darkness of the woods.
Helios tilted his head, watching her go.
"She's hurting," Skuld said after a moment.
"I know," Helios replied.
"Should we go after her?" Aqua asked, eyes narrowing.
"No," Helios said, his tone unreadable. "She needs to be alone right now. Let her grieve."
But in truth… he was already thinking ahead.
The Tusker was a weapon, not the true threat. The true enemy remained out there—in the heart of Jamestown. Ratcliffe. The man who dared command Heartless. The man who still clung to the illusion of conquest and gold, blind to what his ambition was unleashing.
And if Helios' calculations were right… Pocahontas wanted to take the fight to Ratcliffe but her father refused to throw any more lives at this and was considering leaving their home.
As the chanting and music continued, the wind shifted. A breeze rolled through the village, rustling the feathers tied in warriors' hair and the beads along their arms. The stars were beginning to pierce through the darkness above, their light dim, like flickers of hope in a sky too heavy with sorrow.
Helios looked down at his hands. They were stained in blood and darkness and would only get dirtier. The question was would he really be able to carry out his plan. Would he be able to sacrifice those around him to get to Kingdom Hearts. His mind wavered and then a memory appeared of the last day he spent with his family and his resolve became stronger.