The door creaked as it opened, the sound thin and brittle, like a bone snapping under too much weight.
Patricia stepped in first.
The air inside the house was wrong.
Not cold. Not warm. Just… empty. As if sound itself had been drained out of the room and left behind like a husk. The walls were close, built from old, warped wood that smelled faintly of rot and dried herbs. No torches lined the walls. No candles burned. Moonlight slipped in through narrow cracks in the ceiling, thin silver lines that cut across the floor like scars.
Tomora crossed his arms immediately, shoulders tight.
His boots scraped against the floor—too loud in the silence.
"Tch," he muttered. "This looks fake already."
No reply.
Jer hovered near the doorway, hand resting on the hilt of his blade, eyes darting to the corners of the room. Tala stood stiff beside him, posture disciplined, but her jaw was tight. Yora lingered behind Tomora, fingers clenched into the fabric of her cloak.
Then—
"Sit."
The word didn't echo.
It didn't need to.
It settled into the room like a command carved into stone.
Tomora stiffened. His instincts screamed, but his body didn't move. None of them did.
From the far end of the house, a figure stepped forward, her bare feet silent against the floorboards. She emerged slowly into the moonlight, pale hair catching the glow, flowing down her back like frost. Her skin was smooth, unmarked, her face young—too young for the weight pressing down on the room.
Her eyes were open.
And empty.
Blind. Milky. Unfocused.
Yet somehow… staring directly at Tomora.
Patricia lowered her head, just slightly.
"We came for answers," she said quietly. "Witch of Aleron."
The woman tilted her head, listening—not to Patricia's voice, but to something deeper. Something beneath the sound.
Her lips parted.
She extended her hand.
Tomora bristled. "Oi—don't touch—"
Her fingers stopped inches from his chest.
They never made contact.
Yet—
Tomora's breath hitched.
It felt like something had reached through his ribs and grabbed hold of his heart.
The room shuddered.
A low hum filled the air, vibrating through the floorboards, through bone and blood. Tomora staggered back a step, clutching his chest, teeth grinding together.
"What the hell—!?" he snapped, but the words came out rough, uneven.
The Witch's hand began to shake.
Her fingers curled slightly, as if brushing against something sharp.
Her face drained of color.
"No…" she whispered.
The hum grew louder.
The walls creaked.
Jer drew his weapon halfway, then froze as the Witch's breath caught in her throat.
"Impossible," she said, voice thin. "You're still alive?"
Tala stepped forward instinctively. "What's wrong with him? Is his power gone?"
The Witch didn't look at her.
Didn't even acknowledge her presence.
Her blind eyes were locked on Tomora.
On something behind his eyes.
Inside him.
Her skin began to wrinkle before their eyes, fine lines carving themselves into her cheeks, her hands trembling violently now. Strands of her white hair dulled, turning gray, then brittle.
Time was touching her.
Fast.
"I saw…" she whispered. "Inside you…"
She stumbled back, knocking into a shelf. Glass vials shattered on the floor, their contents spilling like dark ink. The hum snapped into silence.
The Witch gasped.
Her breath came shallow, frantic.
"Get out."
No one moved.
"GET OUT!"
Her voice cracked, sharp and raw, echoing now as if the house itself had decided to scream with her.
She pointed toward the door, arm shaking so badly it looked like it might tear from her body.
"You are not normal!" she screamed. "You are not a child!"
Tomora's eyes widened.
For once, there was no anger in them.
Only confusion.
Only fear.
"You are not human!"
The words struck like blows.
Tomora swallowed. "Oi… what the hell does that mean!?"
The Witch collapsed to her knees.
Her shoulders shook violently, fingers digging into the floorboards as if she needed something solid to keep from falling apart entirely.
"It's sleeping," she whispered. "Inside you."
Tomora took an involuntary step back.
A memory flickered behind his eyes—lightning burning his skin, pain so deep it felt ancient. A pressure he'd felt before, buried beneath rage and stubborn will.
The Witch's voice dropped even further.
Barely sound.
"Leave me," she said. "Monster."
The door burst open as a sudden gust of wind tore through the house, scattering broken glass and loose papers. The moonlight flooded the room, sharp and blinding.
Patricia grabbed Jer by the collar. "Move!"
They didn't argue.
They ran.
Boots hit the dirt outside as they spilled into the street, gasping, hearts pounding. The Witch's screams followed them, echoing from the house like a curse carved into the night.
"DON'T COME BACK!"
The door slammed shut behind them.
"IF YOU VALUE YOUR SOUL—DON'T COME BACK!"
Silence returned.
Thick. Heavy.
They stood there under the open sky, the city's distant noise muffled, unreal.
Jer was shaking openly now. His teeth clicked together as he tried—and failed—to steady his breathing.
Yora hugged her arms around herself. "W-what did she see?"
Tala turned slowly.
Her eyes locked onto Tomora.
"What are you?"
The question hung there.
Tomora didn't answer right away.
He stared at the ground, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. Lightning didn't spark. Power didn't surge.
But something moved beneath his skin.
He clicked his tongue, the sound sharp, defensive.
"Tch."
He looked up, forcing the familiar scowl back onto his face.
"I don't know either," he snapped.
But his voice wasn't steady.
And when he turned away, shoulders stiff, everyone could see it.
The way his hands trembled just slightly.
The way his breath came just a bit too fast.
For the first time since they'd met him—
Tomora was scared.
And whatever the Witch had seen…
It was still there.
Sleeping.