The garden no longer looked like a garden.
What had once been alive—breathing with color, humming faintly with elemental energy—was now nothing more than a grave of broken stems and crushed petals. Torn vines lay like severed veins across the stone paths. Leaves, once vibrant, were ground into dark stains beneath heavy boots.
General Alexander stood at the edge of the destruction, his broad back stiff as iron. The muscles in his jaw flexed again and again, veins rising along his neck as if even his blood struggled to contain his fury.
Around him, Black Iron soldiers lined the hallways and arches that overlooked the ruined courtyard. Their armor gleamed coldly in the fading light. None of them spoke.
Tala stood at her father's side, arms crossed loosely, her posture relaxed—almost bored. Her expression held no shock, no regret. Only faint amusement.
Alexander turned slowly.
His gaze cut through the air.
"Who did this?"
The silence stretched.
Tomora stood several steps back, dirt still clinging to his hands. His fingers trembled faintly, nails bitten raw. He opened his mouth, heart hammering so hard he felt it in his throat.
Before a single sound could escape—
"It was him," Tala said smoothly.
Tomora's breath caught.
She didn't look at him when she spoke. Her eyes remained fixed on the ruined garden as if she were discussing broken furniture.
"The slave tried to destroy your garden, father."
Tomora's head snapped up. His lips parted, disbelief freezing his tongue. He searched her face for hesitation, for a flicker of guilt.
There was none.
Instead, she turned just enough to meet his eyes—and smiled.
Not wide. Not cruelly exaggerated.
Just enough.
A challenge.
Say it, her eyes seemed to dare him. Try to speak.
Alexander's presence loomed closer.
"Bring him here."
Hands seized Tomora's arms before he could take a step back. Cold iron bit into his wrists as they were bound tightly behind him. The collar at his neck hummed louder, a low, punishing vibration that sent needles of pain down his spine.
He was dragged forward and forced to his knees.
The marble floor was cold against his skin.
Alexander towered over him.
"You disobeyed your master," the General said, voice steady and terrifyingly calm. "You destroyed my property."
Tomora swallowed. His throat burned.
"I—" he tried.
The collar crackled.
Pain exploded behind his eyes, forcing the breath from his lungs. His words died in his chest.
Alexander leaned forward slightly.
"So I will destroy some of yours."
He straightened and gestured to the soldiers.
"Five days," he said. "No food. Restrained."
Tomora's eyes widened.
"And every day," Alexander continued, unmoved by the fear spreading across the boy's face, "he will be disciplined."
The order fell like a death sentence.
Hands hauled Tomora upright again. His feet barely touched the floor as he was dragged away, past silent soldiers, past the shattered remains of the garden.
Past Tala.
She watched him go, her eyes shining with something unreadable.
The punishment chamber was deep beneath the mansion.
Stone walls. No windows. The air was damp and cold, heavy with the scent of iron and old pain. Chains hung from the ceiling like skeletal limbs.
Tomora was shackled by his wrists, arms stretched high enough that his toes barely brushed the floor. The metal bit into his skin, already raw from the collar's suppression.
The door shut with a final, echoing clang.
The first crack split the air.
Not flesh—sound.
A whip slicing through emptiness.
Tomora flinched before it even landed.
He clenched his jaw as the next sound followed—closer. Sharper. His body jerked instinctively, muscles screaming as pain erupted across his back.
He gasped, breath shuddering, but no scream came.
He refused.
The guards laughed softly, murmuring among themselves.
By the end of the first day, his arms shook uncontrollably. Sweat mixed with blood and dust, dripping onto the stone beneath him.
They left him there.
No water. No food.
The second day blurred into agony.
Hunger gnawed at him like an animal, clawing at his insides. His vision swam, the edges darkening. Every breath felt shallow, forced.
When the whip cracked again, his knees buckled—but the chains held him upright.
He bit down so hard he tasted blood.
On the third day, his legs trembled constantly. His body sagged against the restraints, skin burning where metal rubbed raw.
Desperation surged.
Instinct screamed at him to fight back.
Electricity surged beneath his skin—
The collar sparked violently.
Pain detonated through his nerves, white-hot and merciless. His scream tore free this time, echoing off the stone walls before he could stop it.
The guards laughed louder.
"Still thinks he's special," one mocked.
Tomora's head dropped forward, sweat and blood dripping from his chin.
But even as his body shook…
He stood.
The fourth day came.
And the fifth.
By then, his vision fractured. Sounds dulled, distant, like he was underwater. But somewhere deep inside—beneath hunger, beneath pain—something hardened.
A core.
At night, when the chamber fell silent and darkness pressed in from all sides, Tomora closed his eyes.
He saw green hair illuminated by candlelight.
He felt rough hands guiding his stance.
He heard a calm voice.
Storms are wild… but they bring life.
His lips trembled.
"Patricia…" he whispered into the dark.
His body sagged, exhaustion threatening to pull him under—but his grip on consciousness tightened.
"I won't break," he murmured, barely audible even to himself.
For a single heartbeat—
A spark flickered behind his closed eyelids.
Electric blue.
Not enough to escape.
Not enough to fight.
But enough to promise something terrible.
In the darkness of the punishment chamber, Tomora endured.
And something inside him began to wake.