The wind was high on the mansion rooftop.
It tugged at Tomora's hair, dried the sweat on his neck, and carried the sharp scent of paint across the stone wall. His hands moved mechanically, brush gliding up and down the pale surface in long, even strokes. White over white. Layer after layer. He barely noticed the color anymore.
Below him, the world was loud.
Shouts rose from the public square, distant but sharp, carried upward like the cry of birds. Metal clanked. Boots scraped against stone. A crowd was gathering—dense, restless, hungry for spectacle.
Tomora paused mid-stroke.
His brush hovered inches from the wall.
Slowly, he stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop and looked down.
A wooden platform stood at the center of the square, freshly built, its beams still pale and raw. Guards surrounded it in a tight formation, armor gleaming beneath the sun. Between them, a man was dragged forward in chains.
The crowd surged.
People shouted insults, curses, accusations. Rotten words thrown like stones.
Tomora's fingers tightened around the brush.
The man on the platform stumbled once, then steadied himself. His clothes were torn, his face bruised—but his posture was straight. He did not look at the crowd. He did not plead. He lifted his head and stared forward, eyes calm, almost distant.
Tomora felt his breathing slow.
He wasn't seeing a criminal.
He was seeing someone at the end of pain.
The executioner stepped forward, axe resting against his shoulder. The blade caught the sunlight, flashing once. A ripple passed through the crowd—anticipation, excitement, relief.
Tomora's gaze stayed locked on the man's face.
There was no trembling.
No panic.
Just stillness.
"He's not afraid," Tomora whispered, the words barely leaving his lips.
Behind him, paint dripped from the brush and splattered against stone.
A sharp voice cut through the moment.
"Hey! Keep painting! Don't slack off!"
Tala's shout echoed from the rooftop entrance.
Tomora didn't turn.
Below, the executioner raised the axe.
The crowd's noise faded into a dull hum, like wind rushing past his ears. Tomora's heartbeat slowed, each pulse heavy and deliberate.
The man closed his eyes.
The axe fell.
A collective gasp surged upward, followed by cheers. Some people turned away. Others leaned forward, eager to see more. Guards moved to clear the platform.
Tomora did not blink.
The image burned itself into him.
Inside his mind, memories stirred.
Patricia's hands guiding his as he planted seeds into soft earth. Her laughter when vines grew crooked. The way she smiled even when tired. The warmth of her presence.
Then the arrow.
The way her body fell.
The ruined garden—flowers crushed beneath his blade, petals scattered like blood on stone. Tala's smile. The whip cracking through the air. Hunger gnawing at his stomach. The cold nights. The chains.
Each memory surfaced without sound, without warning.
And through them all, one realization settled quietly into place.
Death wasn't the end.
It was an exit.
Not something to worship. Not something to rush toward.
But something honest.
Something final.
The collar around his neck sparked faintly, a dull pulse of energy crawling against his skin. Tomora flinched, fingers digging into the wooden handle of the brush.
A whisper slid through his thoughts, familiar and distant.
You are more than this life.
His throat tightened.
Below, the crowd began to disperse. Vendors shouted again. Children laughed. The platform was already being cleared, as if nothing meaningful had happened there at all.
Tomora straightened.
He turned back to the wall and lifted his brush.
A shadow crossed the rooftop floor.
Tala stood a few steps behind him, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"I said keep painting," she snapped.
She picked up a small stone and tossed it at him. It struck his shoulder and bounced away.
Tomora flinched, but he didn't look at her.
He dipped the brush back into the bucket and resumed painting, strokes steady, controlled.
The wall grew brighter.
Cleaner.
Perfect.
Inside him, something shifted—not violently, not explosively.
Curiosity took root.
Not fascination with death itself—but with what it represented. Freedom from chains. Freedom from pain. Freedom from being owned.
The sparks beneath his skin stirred faintly, like distant thunder rolling beyond the horizon.
Tomora's eyes flickered once—yellow light flashing deep within them—then settled again.
He kept painting.
But the boy who had watched the execution was not the same one who lifted the brush.
And somewhere deep inside, a storm had begun to form—quiet, patient, inevitable.