The room was too large for a conversation meant to crush someone.
Tomora stood at its center, bare feet pressed against cold marble, shoulders squared despite the iron collar weighing against his neck. The chandeliers above burned steadily, their golden light reflecting off polished walls and expensive tapestries—beauty without warmth. Everything in the room existed to intimidate.
Across from him stood the woman who had bought him.
She leaned casually against a carved desk, arms crossed, sharp eyes measuring him like an object that might break if handled poorly. Her posture was relaxed, almost bored, but there was something predatory in the way she watched him—like a blade resting comfortably in its sheath.
"Where are you from originally?" she asked.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
Tomora didn't answer immediately. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, nails biting into skin as he forced his breathing to steady. The memories surfaced without permission—rain-soaked earth, his mother's final breath, his father's body collapsing over him.
"I was born the day my parents died," he said at last.
His voice didn't shake. He was proud of that.
"I was taken in by my guardian." A pause. A flicker of green hair, bloodied hands, a smile that tried to hide fear. "She was killed by slave traders."
For a brief moment—just a moment—something shifted behind the woman's eyes. Her jaw tightened. Her fingers pressed more firmly into the desk.
Then it vanished.
"Well," she said flatly, straightening. "I don't care."
The words landed heavier than a slap.
She shrugged, as if discussing the weather. "I bought you so you could work for me."
Heat surged up Tomora's chest. His pulse thudded in his ears, thunder coiling instinctively beneath his skin. For a fraction of a second, blue light flickered behind his eyes—quick, dangerous.
He swallowed it down.
The woman noticed.
"What's with the face?" she asked, head tilting slightly. "If you can't handle me…" She stepped closer, heels clicking softly against the marble. "…then I'll just kill you."
Her smile was thin. Practiced.
"You won't be the first."
She stopped inches from him, close enough that he could smell faint perfume beneath steel and smoke.
"Your name is Tala now."
Silence filled the room.
Tomora didn't respond. He didn't bow. He didn't thank her.
He only met her gaze.
Something unreadable passed between them—challenge, curiosity, warning.
The next morning began before the sun rose.
Cold water splashed across Tomora's face, jerking him awake. He gasped, coughing as it soaked into his thin clothes.
"Move," Tala's voice snapped.
A brush was shoved into his hands. Marble floors stretched endlessly before him, already spotless. It didn't matter. He scrubbed until his arms burned, until his knees screamed against stone, until sweat mixed with soap and blood.
"Faster."
He obeyed.
Crates followed. Heavy ones. His arms shook as he carried them through long corridors, breath hitching with every step. The collar around his neck pulsed faintly, suppressing the storm inside him. Every time lightning tried to rise, it was crushed—pain blooming like a vice around his heart.
Training came next.
A dark room. No windows. No mercy.
"Again," Tala ordered as he collapsed to one knee.
His muscles trembled violently. His vision blurred.
He forced himself up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes she watched in silence. Sometimes she laughed. Sometimes she said nothing at all, which was worse.
At night, when exhaustion finally dragged him into shallow sleep, the door would slam open.
"What are you doing?" she'd bark.
He'd scramble to his feet, heart racing, hands shaking.
"Did I say you could rest?"
Sleep became something stolen in seconds. Pain became constant.
But something else grew too.
In the quiet moments—when he sat alone in storage rooms or dark corners of the mansion—Tomora clenched his fists and breathed. Slow. Controlled. Beneath the collar's suppression, electricity stirred, faint but persistent.
He didn't let it out.
He learned to listen to it.
Each insult carved something sharper into him. Each order hardened his resolve. Each bruise reminded him of why he couldn't break.
Patricia's face lingered in his thoughts—not as she died, but as she smiled. As she healed the forest. As she told him storms could be controlled.
At night, staring at the ceiling, Tomora whispered promises only the darkness could hear.
I will survive.
I will endure.
And one day…
Lightning flickered silently beneath his skin.
Tala watched him more closely now.
Not with amusement.
With interest.
And somewhere deep inside the mansion, beneath chains and cruelty, something ancient began to awaken—slow, patient, waiting for the moment when the storm would no longer be caged.