The forest did not feel the same anymore.
The air was heavier, thicker, as if the trees themselves were leaning in to listen. Leaves crunched beneath boots and sandals alike, the sound sharp in the quiet. Torches flickered weakly despite the daylight, flames bending and wavering as though unsure whether they belonged there.
Tomora walked near the center of the group, head slightly lowered. His fingers kept opening and closing at his side—slow at first, then faster. Each time his palm spread, he waited for something. A spark. A hum. The faint prickle of heat beneath his skin.
Nothing came.
His jaw tightened.
Jer moved ahead, spear resting against her shoulder, eyes scanning the tree line. Yora stayed close to Tala, her steps light, her presence flickering in and out of focus whenever her nerves spiked. No one spoke. Even the birds had gone quiet.
Then the air screamed.
Arrows tore through the canopy with a sharp whistle, burying themselves into bark and dirt in a sudden rain of violence. One skidded across the ground inches from Tomora's foot.
"Back!" Jer shouted, already turning, spear blazing with heat as she deflected a blade rushing toward her.
Smoke burst from between the trees. Shapes moved inside it—fast, trained, deliberate. Steel flashed. Shadows collided. Yora vanished with a gasp, reappearing behind an attacker just long enough to shove him into another. Tala ducked, rolling beneath a swinging sword, coming up with a knife clenched white-knuckled in her hand.
Tomora stumbled backward.
His heart hammered. His eyes searched for lightning—any sign that his body would answer him now, when it mattered.
It didn't.
A hand slammed into his collar.
The world lurched as he was yanked sideways, branches tearing at his clothes, dirt spraying up as he was dragged into the brush. His breath left him in a sharp cry.
"Pa—pa—pa—Pa—PATRICIA?!"
The name burst out of him before he could stop it.
He hit something solid.
Arms wrapped around him, tight and unyielding. He slammed into a chest armored in worn leather and metal plates etched with old tribal markings. The scent hit him next—smoke, sweat, iron, and something painfully familiar.
He froze.
The woman holding him let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh that cracked at the edges.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she said, breathless. "I die for a year and you decide to get yourself killed?"
Tomora's face went blank.
Then red.
Slowly, he looked up.
Dirty-black hair tied back messily. A faint scar cutting through one eyebrow. Eyes sharp as broken glass, scanning him from head to toe like she was checking for missing limbs.
Patricia.
The world snapped.
Around them, blades stopped mid-swing. Smoke thinned. Jer froze with her spear raised. Yora flickered back into visibility, mouth hanging open. The attackers hesitated, eyes darting between the woman and the boy she had just dragged out of the chaos like he weighed nothing.
Patricia released him and stepped forward like she owned the clearing.
She reached out and flicked Tomora square in the forehead.
The sound echoed.
"Still small," she said flatly. "Still scrawny. And judging by that stumble, still useless in a fight."
Tomora exploded.
"SHUT UP!" he snapped, voice sharp and fast, words tumbling over each other like sparks. "I am not small! And I didn't stumble—I was repositioning!"
Veins stood out on his neck. His fists clenched. His ears burned.
Patricia's mouth twitched.
There it was.
She smirked, slow and satisfied.
"Good," she said. "You're still annoying."
Jer lowered her spear an inch, confusion written across her face. "You… know him?"
Patricia didn't even look at her. She crossed her arms, weight shifting comfortably onto one hip.
"Know him?" she said. "Please. I raised him."
Tomora made a strangled sound.
"I taught him how to steal without getting caught," Patricia continued casually. "How to sleep with one eye open. How to survive when the world decides it doesn't want you breathing anymore."
Yora stepped forward, hands clasped nervously in front of her. "S-so you're… family?"
Patricia glanced at Tomora.
Her eyes softened—just for a heartbeat.
"Better," she said. "I'm the reason he's still alive."
Tomora turned even redder.
"STOP SAYING STUFF LIKE THAT!" he shouted, waving his arms wildly. "You're making it weird!"
The attackers stared.
One lowered his bow slowly.
"That's… that kid?" one whispered. "The lightning boy?"
Another swallowed hard. "Patricia knows him?"
Patricia's head snapped toward them.
They stiffened.
The entire group dropped to one knee almost instantly, weapons clattering against the dirt.
"S-sorry!" one blurted out. "We didn't recognize you!"
Patricia sighed like a disappointed teacher.
"Next time," she said, voice sharp but controlled, "try using your eyes before shooting at people. It saves paperwork."
Tomora turned away, arms crossed tight, face burning so hot he swore steam might come off him.
Patricia stepped back to him and grabbed his cheek between her fingers, squishing it without mercy.
"Still got a baby face," she said. "Cute."
"STOP TOUCHING MY FACE!" he yelled, slapping at her hand, mortified beyond reason.
She laughed—a real laugh, loud and unrestrained, cutting through the tension like sunlight through fog.
For the first time since the lightning left him, Tomora felt something steady settle in his chest.
Not power.
Not rage.
Something else.
Something that had never actually left.