Tomora woke like he'd been dragged back from deep water.
His body jolted upright, breath tearing from his chest in sharp, uneven pulls. His hand flew to his heart, fingers digging into cloth as if something inside him might still be trying to escape. Cold sweat clung to his skin, soaking the thin sheets beneath him. For a moment, he couldn't tell where he was—only that the echo of voices still rang inside his skull, fading too slowly.
The room was dim, lit only by pale moonlight slipping through a cracked window. Dust drifted lazily through the air, turning silver as it passed the beam. The walls were bare stone, stained by age and smoke. Somewhere outside, the wind groaned through the gaps in the building like a distant warning.
A soft rustle came from beside him.
"...Tomora?"
He turned his head sharply.
Tala lay on a narrow mattress near the bed, hair spread messily across the thin blanket. Her eyes were half-open, still heavy with sleep, but worry sharpened her voice as she pushed herself up on one elbow.
"You're awake," she said, sitting up fully now. "Are you—"
Tomora wiped his face quickly, dragging his sleeve across his brow before she could see how badly his hands were shaking. He forced his breathing to slow, each inhale measured, each exhale controlled.
"What," he muttered, voice rough. "How long was I out?"
Tala hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric beneath her.
"Five days."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Tomora stared at the wall opposite the bed, eyes unfocused. The stone there was cracked, spiderweb lines spreading outward like frozen fractures. His reflection shimmered faintly in a metal basin resting nearby—pale, hollow-eyed, unfamiliar.
"...Five days?" he repeated, quieter this time.
She nodded. "You wouldn't wake up. No matter what we did."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by Tomora's slow, uneven breaths. His fingers twitched at his side, trembling as though they remembered something his mind refused to touch.
Tala rose to her feet. "I'll get the others," she said softly, already moving toward the door. "They'll want to see you."
The door creaked as it opened, then closed again, leaving Tomora alone.
The quiet rushed back in.
He sat there, unmoving, eyes locked on nothing. The dream clung to him like ash—faces he didn't recognize, voices that felt older than the world itself. His chest tightened again, but he swallowed the feeling down.
A faint flicker passed through his vision.
For the briefest heartbeat, a spark of purple light danced across his pupil, sharp and violent like lightning trapped behind glass.
Tomora didn't notice.
Morning came slowly.
The smell of broth and stale bread filled the lower floor of the inn, mixing with the damp scent of old wood. The group sat crowded around a long table scarred by years of knife marks and spilled ale. Steam curled lazily from chipped bowls as spoons scraped against ceramic.
Tomora sat hunched forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes shadowed by dark circles that hadn't been there before. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though every action required thought.
Jer noticed immediately.
"Well, look who crawled out of the grave," she said with a grin, leaning back in her chair. "Thought we lost you there for a second."
Tomora clicked his tongue sharply, irritation flashing across his face.
"Tch. Mind your own business," he muttered. "I'm just tired."
Patricia snorted. "Tired of what? Sleeping?" She leaned across the table, pointing her spoon at him. "Five days, Tomora. You lazy thing."
Yora quietly slid a cup of water toward him, her movements careful, almost shy. Tomora glanced at it, then at her, and gave a brief nod before drinking.
Patricia watched him over the rim of her bowl, eyes narrowed just slightly. Something about the way he held the cup—the way his fingers tightened for a split second before steadying—didn't sit right with her.
When the bowls were empty, she stood and spread a worn map across the table. The parchment crackled as it flattened, corners held down by stones.
"Our next stop is here," she said, tapping a marked location. "HallowReach."
Jer whistled softly. "That place still standing?"
"Barely," Patricia replied. "But there's someone there. A doctor. She studies powers."
Tomora's head lifted.
"She might know why Tomora lost his," Patricia continued. "And whether it can come back."
Tala stiffened slightly, fingers tightening around her belt. HallowReach lay uncomfortably close to territory her father's influence still reached. If he arrived first—
"What if it happens again?" Tomora asked suddenly.
The table went quiet.
Patricia studied him. "I'm just trying to help," she said more gently. "If you don't want to—"
"No," Tomora cut in. His voice was firm, sharper than before. "I do want this. I have to get my power back."
As he spoke, his hand curled into a fist beneath the table.
It shook.
Jer saw it.
The road out of the town wound through a forest of dead trees, their branches skeletal and twisted, clawing at a gray sky. Leaves crunched beneath their boots, the sound too loud in the stillness.
The world felt colder here. Larger.
Yora walked beside Tomora, her steps light but uncertain.
"Do you… are you feeling okay?" she asked quietly.
Tomora kept his eyes forward. "I'm good," he said. "Don't worry about me."
She nodded, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary.
Behind them, deep within the forest, something shifted.
Between the trees stood a hooded figure, cloaked in shadow. The fabric of their cloak didn't move with the wind. Two eyes gleamed from beneath the hood—smooth, silver, unblinking.
"…He's coming along nicely," the figure whispered.
The wind surged.
The forest was empty again.
That night, the campfire crackled softly beneath a sky heavy with stars. The others slept nearby, shapes wrapped in blankets, breaths slow and even.
Tomora sat alone at the edge of the firelight.
He stared into the flames, watching them twist and dance, orange and gold reflecting across his face. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand.
He focused.
Nothing happened.
His jaw tightened. He clenched his fist, knuckles whitening.
"Mournveil," he whispered, the name tasting strange on his tongue. "Who are you?"
The fire flared.
For a heartbeat, the reflection in his eyes wasn't orange at all.
It was purple.
Then the flames settled.
Tomora's eyelids drifted shut.
And the night watched him breathe.