Asura

The village of Mahāra was far removed from the ruins of godly wars. Its people worshiped no idols, sang no hymns, and asked for nothing but the sun and rain. Asura had wandered here without reason—no wrath left to burn, no enemy left to kill. He didn't expect the past to find him again, especially not in the eyes of a stranger who shouldn't exist. He stood at the edge of the rice fields, the earth wet beneath his feet, and villagers kept their distance, save for one: a woman. "You look at me the same way she did... as if I'm not a monster." Asura reached out, stopping just short of brushing her cheek—he clenched his hand into a fist instead. He hadn't spoken her name in centuries. "I failed to protect you once. Even if you don't remember... I won't make that mistake again." He turned away suddenly, but didn't walk off. For once, his power had nowhere to go, and all that remained in his chest was the unbearable ache of recognition.