Through The Ashes

"Renaistre"

Three weeks had passed since the day Mara, Brady, and Becca had left the apartment complex.

Three weeks since Jorn had stayed behind, alone, to face her fate.

The grief had settled over the camp like a dense haze, asphyxiating in its heaviness, clinging to every corner, every person. No one had been untouched by it, but for Mara, it was like a piece of her had been torn away, leaving an empty, aching space in her chest that she didn't know how to fill.

Jorn's tent still stood, undisturbed at the edge of camp, flaps closed and untouched, as if somehow, Jorn might walk back through the gates any moment, her stoic expression masking whatever pain she carried inside.

It had become a sort of shrine—an unspoken monument to her memory, a place where people would glance but never enter. Not even Mara. She couldn't bear it. The thought of stepping inside, of seeing their memories made on Jorn's cot, was too much.

The camp had been quieter these days, more somber. Brady and Yosef had thrown themselves into fortifying the defenses, working tirelessly as if trying to hammer their grief into the wood and steel of their walls. Becca, though her arm had mostly healed, had grown withdrawn, her laughter rare, her words even more so.

Harrem dealt with it in his own way, Mara noticed. Always trying to make people laugh, while Ana had to shut him up consistently. Eli, Gareth, and Silas tried their best to support Mara's grief. Del and Nicky did their best to maintain their tough exteriors.

But it was Mara who had been hit hardest.

The loss had gutted her in a way she wasn't prepared for, leaving her a hollow crater. She had loved Jorn, truly loved her, and now that she was gone, the world seemed even more brutal, even more unforgiving.

Every morning, Mara woke with the same dull ache in her chest, and every night, she lay awake with the same unanswered question echoing in her mind.

Why did it have to be her?

Jorn had sacrificed herself to save Mara, to save them all, but it didn't make the pain any easier to bear. If anything, it made it worse. There was a guilt that consumed Mara, a voice that whispered that she should have fought harder, done more.

She had tried to keep moving, to keep busy, but the misery clung to her like a shadow, always present, always there.

Sometimes, she caught herself glancing toward the tent, expecting to see Jorn walking out, adjusting her katana on her back, ready for the next hunt. But that image, that hope, was nothing but a phantom of her memories.

The children in the camp had continued to call Jorn The Last Ronin.

It was an innocent fascination with the stoic warrior who had saved their home, their people. To them, Jorn had become a legend—a protector who had walked into danger time and time again without hesitation, who had lived by her own code, who had sacrificed herself for the greater good.

The adults in the camp didn't correct them. They let the story live because it was true. Jorn was their Ronin, their drifting warrior. Even in death, her presence loomed large, her sacrifice a symbol of everything they had lost and everything they still fought for.

Sometimes, Mara would overhear the kids talking in hushed tones, their eyes wide as they shared stories of Jorn's bravery, of her quiet strength.

"She was the best fighter," one of the younger boys had said one evening around the fire. "No one could beat her." Another had chimed in, "She protected all of us, even when she didn't have to." They looked up to her and idolized her, and in their eyes, Jorn had become more than just a woman—she had become a myth.