The road was nothing more than packed dirt and old stone, carved thin by centuries of footsteps and war wagons. Dust lifted with every step, hanging in the air like it didn't want to settle.
Tomora emerged from the trees first.
He didn't announce himself. Didn't speak. He just walked back onto the path like he'd always been there.
Patricia noticed immediately.
Not because he was loud — but because something about him was… tighter. His shoulders were set differently. His breathing had a rhythm to it now. Sweat clung to his hair and darkened the collar of his shirt, but he didn't wipe it away. He looked like someone who had already decided pain didn't matter today.
Tala turned next.
Then Jer.
Then Yora.
All four of them stared.
Tomora stopped in front of them, bare feet dusty, chest rising and falling hard. His fists were clenched, opening and closing once, like his hands still remembered lightning that wasn't there.
Tala broke the silence first.
"Where were you?"
Tomora didn't hesitate.
"Training."
That was it.
No explanation. No defense.
Patricia's eyes flicked down to his hands. The faint scars there were redder than usual, skin rubbed raw. She noticed the way his calves trembled — not weakness, but the aftershock of pushing too far.
She smirked anyway.
"You skipped breakfast."
Tomora snapped his head up.
"I DON'T NEED BREAKFAST!" he barked. "I'M BULKING ON REVENGE!"
The words came out sharp and loud enough to startle birds from the trees.
Jer physically flinched.
Yora blinked, then leaned toward Jer, whispering behind her hand.
"He's getting worse."
Jer muttered back, "That's worse?"
Yora smiled. "I think it's cute."
Tomora heard that.
His ears burned. He turned away so fast it almost looked like a tactical decision instead of embarrassment.
"Tch."
Patricia chuckled under her breath.
That was enough.
She turned and lifted her hand once — a simple signal. The soldiers responded immediately.
The small force began moving.
Twenty-seven warriors. Light armor. Mixed weapons. Not an army — but not helpless either. Spears, short blades, bows slung across backs. They moved with discipline, boots hitting the dirt in a steady rhythm.
Patricia walked at the front, posture straight, presence heavy. She didn't look back to check if Tomora followed.
She didn't need to.
Tomora fell into step behind her, quiet now. His eyes scanned everything — tree lines, cliff edges, shadowed rocks. His hands stayed loose at his sides, fingers flexing occasionally, as if reminding themselves what they used to do.
The path narrowed as the terrain shifted. Forest gave way to stone. Cliffs rose on either side, wind rushing through the pass like a warning.
Two soldiers walked near Tomora, their voices low but careless.
"You think Black Iron really owns that city?" one asked.
The other snorted. "Owns it? They built it. King's just a mouthpiece."
"They really make people disappear?"
The second soldier didn't answer right away.
Then: "You ever hear of someone fighting them and surviving?"
The silence after that was heavier than an answer.
Tomora's jaw tightened.
His gaze sharpened.
Exactly.
That was exactly the problem.
The wind kicked up dust as Patricia raised her fist. The column stopped instantly.
She turned slowly, eyes scanning the horizon ahead — where stone spires cut the sky and the land darkened, like the world itself knew what waited beyond.
"We're close," she said.
Her voice didn't need to be loud.
"Border town is ahead. After that…" she paused, letting the words sink in, "…Black Iron territory."
Something changed in the group.
Postures stiffened. Hands adjusted grips. Conversations died.
Even Jer straightened.
Even Yora stopped smiling.
Tomora's fist clenched.
Tala stepped closer to him, her voice quieter now.
"Tomora," she said, "you still don't have your power."
He didn't look at her.
"You sure about this?"
He kept walking.
"I'd rather walk into hell," he said, "than run away again."
That was all.
No bravado. No shouting.
Just a decision.
The soldiers followed.
The path curved upward, winding between jagged rock faces that loomed like teeth. Above them, clouds rolled slowly, darkening the sky in places, sunlight cutting through in sharp beams that painted the march in gold and shadow.
From a high ridge far away, a lone figure stood.
Black cloak snapping in the wind.
Silver eyes watched the small force below like they were pieces on a board.
"Still powerless," the figure murmured.
No malice. No sympathy.
Just observation.
"And still walking forward."
The figure turned away as the wind swallowed their words.
Below, Tomora didn't slow.
He didn't know who was watching.
He didn't know what waited beyond the border.
He only knew this:
His fists were empty.
His path was not.
And for the first time since losing his lightning, the storm wasn't behind him.
It was ahead.