Night settled over the village like a soft, apologetic blanket.
The fires had been put out one by one, leaving only thin threads of smoke drifting upward, curling into the dark. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then fell silent. The world felt smaller after everything that had happened—quieter, as if even the wind was careful not to disturb what remained.
Tomora sat on the edge of the small bed . The room smelled faintly of herbs and old wood. Moonlight slipped through the cracks in the window, resting on the floor like pale water. He didn't turn on a lamp. He didn't need to see much.
There wasn't much to take.
He folded a worn shirt—his hands slow, deliberate. The fabric was thin, stretched at the collar, but it was his. Next came Patricia's scarf. He paused when he picked it up. The cloth still carried her scent—smoke, pine, and something faintly metallic. His fingers tightened around it before he wrapped it carefully and tucked it into his bag.
Last came the candy.
Bright paper. Too colorful for the rest of his belongings. He stared at it for a moment, then slid it into the side pocket as if it might break if he wasn't gentle enough.
When he stood, the room felt emptier than before.
He stepped outside and pulled the door shut without a sound.
The dirt road beyond the hut stretched into shadow, lit only by the faint glow of distant lanterns. That was where Tala waited, standing with her hands clasped together, shoulders drawn tight against the cold.
She didn't pretend not to see him.
"You're leaving," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Tomora stopped a few steps away. The air between them felt heavier than the pack on his back. He nodded once.
"I don't want to cause more trouble," he said quietly. "For them. Or for you."
Tala's jaw tightened. She took a step forward and grabbed the edge of his sleeve before he could move again. Her fingers trembled, though she tried to hide it.
"Without your power," she said, voice cracking just enough to betray her, "you think you're a burden?"
Tomora didn't answer.
He looked past her instead, toward the dark path leading out of the village. His silence said everything.
They started walking together.
Their footsteps pressed into the dirt, slow and measured, as if the road itself might protest if they moved too fast. Crickets chirped in the grass. Leaves rustled overhead. The night watched them go without comment.
The village gate came into view—two wooden posts bound with rope and old iron. And just beyond it, two silhouettes waited.
Jer stood with her arms crossed, her stance loose but unyielding. Even without flame licking at her fists, she looked ready to fight the world if it came down to it. Behind her, Yora lingered half a step back, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt, eyes darting between Tomora and the shadows.
"If you're going," Jer said, breaking the quiet like a struck match, "we're going."
Yora nodded quickly. "We… we owe you. For saving us."
Tomora frowned, shaking his head. "You don't owe me anything."
Jer snorted. "We do."
He opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, light flared behind them.
Torches.
One by one, they ignited along the road, casting warm, uneven light across the dirt. Doors creaked open. Footsteps followed. The village gathered—not in a rush, not in fear, but slowly, as if each person needed to convince themselves to come.
Men with rough hands. Women clutching shawls. Children peeking from behind legs.
No one blocked the path. They stood to the sides instead, leaving the road open.
Tomora felt the weight of their eyes settle on him.
Not sharp. Not accusing.
Something else.
The old woman stepped forward first. Her back was bent, her hair white as frost. Tears streaked down her wrinkled face as she bowed her head.
"You lost your power shielding us," she said, voice shaking.
A man beside her swallowed hard. "And we treated you like a monster."
A mother stepped out next, lowering herself into a deep bow. "Forgive us."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Tomora clenched his jaw, nails digging into his palms. He hadn't wanted gratitude. He hadn't expected regret. It sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and unfamiliar.
They weren't looking at him like a weapon anymore.
They were looking at him like a boy.
The silence stretched—long enough to feel sacred, fragile, like glass.
Then small footsteps broke it.
A child ran forward, the same one who had offered him candy earlier. His hands shook as he clutched the edge of Tomora's coat.
"Don't go," the child said, eyes wet.
Tomora knelt, bringing himself down to the child's level. The torchlight danced across his face, softening the hard lines carved there by pain and battle.
"I have to," he said gently.
The child's lower lip trembled. "Will your lightning come back?"
Tomora hesitated.
Then, slowly, he smiled—just a little.
"Maybe one day."
The child nodded as if that was enough.
As dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in pale gold and blue, Tomora stood and turned toward the open road. Tala walked beside him. Jer followed close behind. Yora stayed near the center, glancing back one last time before facing forward again.
They passed through the gate without ceremony.
Behind them, the villagers remained where they were, heads bowed, watching until the four figures became silhouettes against the rising light.
No thunder followed them.
No lightning marked their path.
Just the quiet promise of what lay ahead.