The mansion's dimly lit hallway felt heavier than usual, shadows pooling beneath the flickering wall sconces. Tala sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled tightly to her chest as if holding herself together. The silk sheets were cold against her skin, but she hardly noticed. Her eyes were fixed somewhere far away, unblinking and glassy with thought, not tears.
She wasn't crying because of pain — not tonight. This was different. Her mind was a restless storm, replaying every detail of the confrontation on the rooftop. Tomora's glowing eyes, calm but fierce. His voice — low, steady, and sharp as a blade cutting through her usual commands. The way he moved, smooth and sudden, like lightning barely contained.
She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. The sting was real, grounding her. Her pride — so strong, so unyielding — was wounded in a way she didn't expect. She was used to control, to fear, to obedience bending under her will. But with Tomora, everything had shifted. For the first time, she saw him not as a slave or a tool, but as something else entirely.
Someone dangerous.
Someone strong.
Her breath hitched, caught in her throat. She lowered her eyes, wiping the faint glistening from the corners. A whisper barely audible slipped from her lips, trembling with something she had never admitted before.
Who are you?
The night deepened, swallowing the mansion in thick silence. In the storage room, Tomora sat alone, shadows cloaking his form. The faint moonlight spilled through the cracked window, highlighting the sharp angles of his face — tired, worn, but alive with a flicker of something new.
His hands moved deftly, unwrapping a scrap of cloth to reveal a small knife — crude but sharp — stolen from the kitchen days ago. Next, he pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment: a rough map of the mansion, its walls and guards painstakingly marked in careful lines. Lastly, a jagged piece of broken metal, snapped off from a chain somewhere in the yard.
He traced the cold metal with his fingers, fingertips lingering over the rough edges as if feeling the weight of what it represented.
His voice was barely a whisper, raw and steady in the darkness:
North wall is unguarded.
Two guards near the gate.
The collar reacts to lightning…
His hand moved to the slave collar clasped tightly around his neck. The device sparked, sending a sudden sharp burn through his skin. He didn't flinch away this time.
A slight tremor ran through his body — part pain, part something like defiance.
If I run… they chase me.
If I stay… I become something else.
His eyelids fluttered closed. In the quiet of his mind, a voice echoed — warm and familiar.
Live, Tomora.
Her voice, soft but fierce, as if it could pierce any darkness.
He saw her face — Patricia's kind eyes, the gentle strength in her smile, her hand wrapped firmly around his.
The memory steadied him, fueling a spark deep within.
His eyes snapped open. For the first time in a long time, they burned with fierce determination.
Tomorrow night.
Meanwhile, down the hall, Tala stood silently just beyond the doorway, watching Tomora from a distance. The dim light painted her face in muted shadows, her lips pressed tightly together, biting down on a lip that trembled ever so slightly.
Her usual sharp tongue and quick temper were absent. There were no insults, no orders hurled across the space. Only a strange, uneasy silence that clung to her like a second skin.
She thought, replaying the day's events over and over.
If he leaves… why do I care?
The question unsettled her more than any punishment she could inflict.
Her breath hitched again, colder this time. That confusion — that rare, unfamiliar ache — gnawed at her pride and carved out a hollow she had no answers for.
She swallowed hard, backing away into the shadows of the hallway, hiding the fear that prickled at the back of her mind.
Because, deep down, the thought terrified her more than any loss of control, any challenge to her authority.
Tomora was no longer just a slave to be broken.
He was something else.
Something she couldn't ignore.
The mansion's night air felt thick and heavy, as if time itself held its breath. Both master and slave lay awake in their separate rooms, tangled in their own private battles.
Tala's mind was a maze of doubts and fears, her heart a tightly wound knot of something dangerously close to respect — or worse, curiosity.
Tomora sat on the cold floor, fingers lightly touching the stolen blade, eyes tracing the map over and over.
Outside, the distant wind whispered secrets through the mansion's ancient walls.
Tomorrow, everything would change.