The sun sat high above the mansion, merciless and unmoving, washing the rooftop in harsh white light that left nowhere to hide. Heat pressed down on the stone like a weight, baking the air until every breath felt thick and dry.
The roof tiles were warm beneath Tomora's bare feet, almost burning, dust clinging to his skin as he dipped the brush into the paint bucket once more. Thick white paint slid slowly from the bristles, heavy and sluggish, dripping back into the bucket with a soft plop. The sound echoed faintly against the stone walls, swallowed by the open sky.
His arms felt heavy. Every movement came with a dull ache that stretched from his shoulders down to his wrists—wrists still marked with faint purple rings where iron restraints had once bitten into his skin. The marks hadn't faded yet. They lingered like memories that refused to be erased.
He lifted the brush again.
Stroke.
The wall accepted the paint without protest.
The wind passed through him like a ghost, tugging at his hair, whispering against the stone walls, carrying the distant sounds of the estate below—voices, footsteps, life continuing as if nothing on this rooftop mattered.
Then—
Footsteps.
Fast.
Sharp.
Angry.
They struck the stone with purpose, each step a declaration.
Tomora didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Tala burst onto the rooftop like a storm tearing through clear skies, her boots slamming against the stone hard enough to make dust jump. The air shifted instantly with her arrival, thick with fury, pride, and something brittle hiding beneath it all.
Her shadow stretched long and warped across the wall Tomora had been painting, cutting through the white like a stain.
"When I talk," Tala snapped, her voice cracking with rage, sharp enough to slice through the air, "you LISTEN!"
Tomora kept his back to her.
The brush moved again, dragging white paint across the wall in a long, uneven line. His grip was steady. His breathing slow.
That silence—deliberate, dismissive—only made her angrier.
Her chest rose sharply as she sucked in air, eyes burning.
She raised her hand.
The sound of fabric cutting through the air followed.
She swung.
But this time—
Tomora moved.
It wasn't conscious thought. It wasn't anger. It wasn't rebellion or defiance.
It was instinct.
Something ancient and sharp ignited behind his eyes.
Yellow.
Bright.
Alive.
The world didn't stop—it stretched. Like time itself had been pulled thin. Tala's hand came toward him, fingers tense, palm open, confidence fueling the strike. Tomora stepped aside with smooth, effortless precision, his body reacting before his mind could even form a thought.
Her hand sliced through empty air.
Tala stumbled forward, boots scraping harshly against stone as her balance vanished. A sharp gasp escaped her as gravity betrayed her.
Before she could fall—
Tomora reached out.
His fingers closed around her wrist.
Firm.
Controlled.
Not frantic. Not panicked.
He twisted slightly, guiding her momentum with practiced ease, turning her force against her own center. Tala hit the rooftop hard, the breath punched clean out of her lungs in a sharp, choking exhale. Stone met flesh with a dull impact.
Cold stone pressed against her back.
The sky spun.
Tomora followed her down—not striking, not slamming—just pinning her with calculated restraint.
One knee pressed beside her shoulder, grounding her completely.
His hand moved from her wrist to her cheek, fingers spread gently but unyielding, forcing her face toward his.
His touch wasn't violent.
That made it worse.
Her heart hammered wildly in her chest.
Then his voice came.
Quiet.
Even.
Cold as stone soaked in shade.
"Your father kills people like me, doesn't he?"
The words slid into her like ice.
Tala froze.
Her eyes widened, pupils trembling as they searched his face, as if looking for the boy she believed she controlled. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged.
She tried to turn her head away.
Tomora tightened his grip—not enough to hurt, not enough to bruise—just enough to make escape impossible.
"People who were born different."
Her breathing turned shallow, fast, uneven. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, panic clawing its way upward. Moisture gathered in her eyes, blurring the sharp blue into something fragile.
Fear—not pain—broke through her cruelty.
"Answer me."
The command wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Silence answered him.
Tomora watched her for a moment longer, studying the cracks forming in her composure. Then he exhaled slowly, a controlled breath through his nose, as if releasing something he'd been holding back for a long time.
"You act like you're on top of the world," he said calmly. "You talk big. You threaten. You hit."
He released her wrist and stood up.
Just like that.
No strike.
No punishment.
The absence of violence cut deeper than any blow.
Tala remained on the ground, staring up at him as if reality had shifted beneath her feet. The sun framed his silhouette, harsh light outlining his form while casting his face in shadow. For the first time, she couldn't read him.
He turned away from her, picked up the paint brush, and continued as if nothing had happened.
"But you don't even have an element."
The words landed harder than any slap ever had.
Tala's breath hitched violently.
Her composure shattered.
"S-Shut up…" she whispered, her voice trembling, cracking under its own weight.
Tomora looked down at her.
His expression was unreadable.
No anger.
No satisfaction.
Just truth.
"You're loud," he said. "You're cruel."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"But without power… you're just scared."
Something inside her broke.
Her throat tightened painfully. Her fingers curled weakly against the stone, nails scraping as if searching for something to grip—control, pride, certainty. But there was nothing.
The world she lived in—where bloodlines ruled, where names meant power, where slaves bowed—had flipped upside down in seconds.
The slave stood.
She lay beneath him.
Tomora turned away again, dipped the brush into the bucket, and returned to the wall.
White paint slid across stone.
Stroke by stroke.
Slow.
Deliberate.
As if nothing had happened.
As if the world hadn't just shifted.
Behind him, Tala remained on the rooftop floor, staring at his back. Her reflection wavered faintly in the wet paint—small, powerless, shaking.
She hated it.
Hated him.
Hated the fear clawing at her chest, the truth echoing in her mind.
And somewhere deep inside her, something darker began to form—
Because she knew.
This wasn't the end.