A war has been waging for as long as anyone can remember. The three teams have always been hostile and power-hungry, clashing with one another for territory and strength. Now, each of their legacies have been passed onto new leaders: Candela, pridef...
Spark had always felt it, for as long as he could remember. Even as a kid, still tying his shoelaces in triple knots and trying (and failing), to catch his first Caterpie. The narrowed eyes. The glares. The weight of words left unspoken, silent yet hanging like fog in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife.
Then his father was there, all of a sudden. He still remembered what he had looked like, gazing up at him with sunlight frazzling his hair. He would always remember his father like this: tall and broad-shouldered, unyielding to the weight, standing and facing them all with an unwavering gaze, a steady hand.
"He's just a boy," he had said. "Let him go."
For a moment, the crowd clung on stubbornly like moss to a rock. Then, slowly, they parted to let them pass. But the wariness was still there. Unrelenting. The smoldering anger in those unfamiliar eyes.
His father's hand on his shoulder, and Spark forced himself to not be afraid, to stand tall like his father. Before he left the enemy's part of the woods, he happened to glance behind him. Just a quick glance, nothing more.
But he caught the gaze of a little girl, just as young as him. She was clinging onto an older woman's coat, her brown eyes wide and glistening, her brown hair ruffled and cut short.
He grinned.
She did not grin back.
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