The basement breathed softly in the night.
Candlelight flickered against cracked stone walls, stretching shadows that swayed like living things. Somewhere above them, the old mansion groaned as the wind passed through broken windows, but down here, the air was still—heavy with warmth, dust, and unspoken truths.
Tomora sat cross-legged on the cold floor, his bare feet tucked beneath him. His eyes glowed faintly, not enough to light the room, but enough to betray the storm resting beneath his skin. Tiny sparks crawled across his fingertips before fading, like fireflies afraid to linger.
Across from him, Patricia watched in silence.
She sat with her back against a wooden crate, arms folded loosely, posture relaxed—but her eyes missed nothing. Years of hiding, running, surviving had sharpened them. She had learned how to read danger in shadows, how to hear threat in silence.
Tonight, the danger sat right in front of her.
Tomora broke the quiet first.
"Patricia…" His voice was small, hesitant, like he was afraid the walls themselves might hear him. "Why did you save me?"
The candle flame trembled.
Patricia exhaled slowly, her shoulders rising and falling. She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment as if searching for the right words hidden in the cracks above.
"Because no one else would," she said at last.
She glanced back at him, her expression softening. "And because you were crying your lungs out. Loudest baby I'd ever heard."
Tomora blinked.
She smirked faintly. "Couldn't just leave a helpless thing like that in the rain."
Then, with a teasing edge she barely tried to hide, she added, "Though you grew up into a real brat."
Tomora's lips twitched—but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
He looked down at his hands instead, watching the faint blue glow pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"The Black Iron…" His voice faltered. "…they killed my parents."
The word parents felt strange in his mouth. Heavy. Like something borrowed.
Patricia's jaw tightened.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"They wanted me too, didn't they?" he asked. "They still do."
She didn't lie.
"Yes."
The single word landed between them like a blade pressed flat against the floor.
"They hunt power," Patricia continued. "Especially power they can't control. People like you are either weapons to them… or mistakes that need erasing."
Tomora's fingers curled into fists.
Sometimes, when he slept, he dreamed of shadows with blades for arms. Sometimes, he woke up with the smell of rain in his nose and a scream caught in his throat that wasn't his own.
"They don't know what I am," Patricia added, a faint smile touching her lips. "Not really."
Tomora looked up at her. "What do you mean?"
She leaned forward slightly. "You're stronger than you think. Stronger than they expect."
His eyes dropped again.
"Sometimes…" he whispered, "…it feels like something is moving inside me. Like thunder trapped under my skin."
A spark snapped from his palm, striking the stone floor with a sharp crack before vanishing.
Tomora flinched as if he'd been burned.
"I'm scared," he admitted. "What if I lose control? What if I hurt you?"
Patricia didn't answer right away.
She stood and crossed the room, her boots scraping softly against stone. When she knelt in front of him, the candlelight painted her face in gold and shadow—hard lines softened by something gentler underneath.
She reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away.
He didn't.
Her hand rested over his clenched fists, grounding, steady.
"Storms are terrifying," she said. "They tear things apart. They flood villages. They leave scars."
Tomora swallowed.
"But storms also bring rain," she continued. "They wake the earth. They give life to things that would've died without them."
She squeezed his hands gently. "Power isn't the enemy. Fear is."
His breathing slowed.
"I don't know how to control it," he said.
"I do," Patricia replied.
His eyes widened. "You do?"
"I know how to survive," she said. "And I know how to teach you not to become what they fear."
A long silence stretched between them, comfortable and heavy all at once.
Outside, the wind howled through the mansion's broken bones, but down here, there was only warmth.
Patricia stood and ruffled his hair, a rare gesture that made him stiffen before relaxing.
"You're not alone, Tomora," she said. "Not now. Not ever."
The glow in his eyes dimmed, settling into something calmer, steadier.
For the first time that night, he smiled—small, uncertain, but real.
The candle flickered, casting their shadows high against the walls.
Two figures, bound not by blood, but by survival.
And by the quiet promise that no matter how dark the storm became—
They would face it together.