Tomora woke to the smell of dried herbs and warm wood.
For a moment, he thought he was dead.
His body felt heavy, like it had been filled with wet sand. Every breath scraped his chest on the way in and burned on the way out. His fingers twitched, stiff and slow, and when his eyelids fluttered open, the world came back in fragments—light, shadow, and a soft blur of movement beside him.
A wooden ceiling hovered above his vision, cracked with age. Sunlight slipped through the narrow slats of a window, dust dancing in the beam like tiny stars. The air was calm. Safe. Too safe.
Then he noticed the girl.
She sat close, almost within arm's reach, her head tilted slightly as she worked with careful hands. A strip of clean cloth brushed gently against the scar near his eye, her touch light, practiced, and surprisingly warm.
"Oh," she said softly, her lips curling into a smile. "You're awake."
Her voice wasn't sharp or commanding. It didn't carry expectation or cruelty. It was… easy. Natural. Like she wasn't afraid of him at all.
Tomora blinked again, his focus sharpening. She was beautiful in a simple way—bright eyes, loose hair pulled back hastily, sleeves rolled up as if she'd been working all morning. There was no fear in her expression, only curiosity.
She leaned back slightly, studying his face like a puzzle.
"How did you get that scar?" she asked, her tone light, almost playful. "It looks pretty badass, if you don't mind me saying."
A soft laugh slipped from her lips before she caught herself.
"Sorry," she added quickly. "That was probably too many questions for someone who just woke up."
Tomora stared at her, uncertain how to respond. People usually looked at him with suspicion. With calculation. With hunger or disgust.
No one had ever smiled at him like this.
"I'm… fine," he said quietly. His voice came out rough, like it hadn't been used in a long time.
Her smile widened, satisfied, and she stood smoothly, brushing her hands on her clothes as she turned toward the door.
"He's awake!" she called out excitedly. "The lightning guy!"
Tomora winced at the title, but before he could protest, voices answered back.
Relief. Curiosity. Wonder.
Footsteps gathered outside, cautious but eager. He listened as the murmurs grew—soft at first, then braver.
"A kid did all that?"
"I told you, I saw it. He moved like a flash."
"No way he's Stage One…"
Tomora pushed himself upright slowly, every muscle protesting the movement. His head throbbed, a dull reminder of the storm he'd forced through his body. He swung his legs off the bed, steadying himself against the wall before stepping outside.
The village greeted him with sunlight and silence.
Dozens of eyes turned toward him at once—not hostile, not fearful. Just watching.
The buildings were modest, built from stone and wood, worn smooth by years of wind and work. People stood in small groups, giving him space but refusing to look away. Some bowed their heads slightly—not submission, but gratitude.
He didn't know what to do with that.
A girl stepped forward.
She stood with relaxed confidence, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. The warmth of the sun seemed to cling to her skin, her presence steady and grounded. When she smiled, it wasn't forced.
"That's Jer," someone whispered nearby. "The pride of our village."
Tomora watched her closely, instinctively. Her posture. Her breathing. The subtle heat rolling off her like a low flame.
"Stage One fire user," another villager murmured. "Raised our defenses with nothing but her own body heat."
Jer waved her hand dismissively, cheeks faintly pink.
"Stop exaggerating," she said. "I just raise my body temperature. That's all."
Her eyes returned to Tomora, curious but not judgmental.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated. Names had power. Names could be used against you.
"…Tomora."
"Well, Tomora," she said gently, "you saved our village."
The words landed heavier than any chain ever had.
He stiffened as the villagers bowed—not deeply, not desperately. Just enough to show respect.
Respect terrified him more than fear.
Tala stepped forward beside him, her presence sharp and familiar. "He didn't do it alone," she said firmly.
Jer nodded, accepting that without question. "Then both of you are welcome here," she replied. "As long as you need."
Warmth spread through the air, unspoken but real.
Jer turned back to Tomora, her smile softer now. "And if your head still hurts," she added, "I can help with that too."
For the first time in a long time, Tomora didn't feel like he was being watched to be used.
For the first time since Patricia…
Someone had helped him without asking for anything in return.
And that scared him more than any whip ever could.