EPISODE 11 — CHAPTER: WHEN THE SEAL CRACKS
The street didn't notice them at first.
Merchants kept shouting prices, carts rattled over stone, boots scraped, laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the city. Life moved on, ignorant and uncaring—until Tomora stumbled.
It was subtle at first.
Just a hitch in his step.
Tala caught it immediately.
"Tomora?"
He didn't answer.
His hand rose to his face, thumb dragging beneath his nose. He stared at it for a second, confused, as if his own skin had betrayed him.
Red.
Too red.
"Huh…?"
The drop fell before he finished the word. Then another. And another.
Blood streaked down from his eyes, thin and dark, tracing the lines of his cheeks like twisted tears. His pupils flashed—white, empty, gone—before snapping back, unfocused.
Patricia swore under her breath and lunged forward.
"He's destabilizing—!"
Tomora tried to blink it away.
The city warped.
Stone buildings bent inward, colors smearing together like wet paint. Sounds stretched and twisted, voices dropping too low, then snapping too sharp. His heartbeat slammed against his skull.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Each beat felt heavier than the last.
"Not now…" he muttered, his knees buckling. "Damn it—"
Blood spilled freely now—nose, eyes, even a thin line leaking from his ear. His hands trembled as he tried to catch himself.
He didn't make it.
Tomora hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His vision went black at the edges.
"Tomora!!" Yora screamed, dropping to her knees beside him.
Jer was faster. He grabbed Tomora under the arms just as his body went slack, catching his full weight with a grunt.
"His whole body's shutting down!" Jer shouted.
Patricia seized Tomora's wrist, fingers pressing hard against his pulse. Her jaw clenched.
"We move. Now."
People had stopped watching quietly now.
Whispers rippled through the street. Fingers pointed. Someone backed away as blood dripped onto the stone.
They didn't wait.
Jer hauled Tomora up while Patricia cleared a path, her hand never leaving the hilt of her weapon. Tala stayed close, eyes sharp, scanning rooftops. Yora hovered near Tomora's head, her hands shaking as she tried to keep him upright.
They pushed through the crowd, dragging him between them as his body went limp, head lolling dangerously.
By the time they reached the edge of the district, Tomora wasn't responding at all.
---
The motel smelled like dust and old sweat.
The door slammed shut behind them as they dragged Tomora inside, boots scraping across warped wooden floors. Patricia kicked the door shut and barred it without looking back.
Tomora was dumped onto the bed, his body hitting the thin mattress with a dull thud.
He didn't react.
His chest rose.
Then stuttered.
Then rose again.
Shallow. Uneven.
Yora's hands hovered uselessly above him. "Is he— is he dying?"
Jer paced the room, running a hand through his hair, breath heavy. "He needs a doctor. Or a healer. Or—hell, something."
Patricia knelt beside the bed again, fingers pressed firmly to Tomora's neck. She stayed there longer this time, eyes narrowing as she focused.
Her expression didn't soften.
"It's not sickness."
The words cut through the panic.
Tala turned sharply. "Then what is it?"
Patricia didn't answer right away. Her gaze tracked the faint glow beneath Tomora's skin—old lightning scars flickering weakly, like embers buried under ash.
"Im not sure…" she said slowly, "…I wish I knew."
Tala's breath caught. "But the Witch—"
"she didn't help with anything!," Patricia said, sharper now.
The room felt smaller.
Jer stopped pacing.
Patricia's voice dropped.
"Tomora please."
Silence swallowed the room whole.
Jer swallowed hard. "is he gonna make it?"
Patricia's fingers curled into the blanket.
"His body is cold and hot I don't know Jer."
Tomora twitched.
Not violently—just a small, sharp jerk, like his muscles had been yanked by invisible strings. His jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding together hard enough to make a sound.
Veins darkened beneath his skin.
They spread slowly, like cracks forming in stone.
Yora stumbled back a step. "That doesn't look like fighting."
Patricia stood. "shut up he'll be ok,Tomora."
The air in the room thickened.
Something pressed against the space, heavy and wrong. The lantern on the table flickered once, twice, then dimmed.
Tomora's fingers curled into claws.
A low sound slipped from his throat—not a scream, not a word. Just pressure. Pain without shape.
Patricia reached for him instinctively—
And stopped.
The mattress creaked as Tomora's back arched slightly. His chest shuddered, breath catching painfully before forcing its way out again.
Lightning didn't spark.
Shadow did.
Not fully.
Just a ripple beneath his skin, like something shifting beneath water.
Tala felt it then.
That same suffocating pressure the Witch's house had held.
"Patricia…" she whispered. "Whatever's inside him—"
"I know," Patricia said, jaw tight.
Tomora's eyes snapped open.
Not white.
Not glowing.
Just dark.
Too dark.
He sucked in a sharp breath, choking as if he'd been pulled up from deep water. His body convulsed once before settling, chest heaving.
Yora rushed forward. "Tomora!"
He didn't answer.
His eyes stared at nothing, unfocused, glassy.
But his lips moved.
So quietly they almost missed it.
"…I can't ...I"
Patricia leaned closer. "What?"
Tomora swallowed with effort, his throat bobbing painfully.
"Breathe...I can't ...," he whispered.
A bead of blood slid from the corner of his eye.
And beneath his skin—
Something smiled.
The lantern flickered again.
Then went out.