The street was loud in the way only cities learned to be—metal clattering, boots striking stone, voices overlapping until they blurred into a single restless hum. Tomora staggered forward, vision tunneling, the world tilting like it had finally decided he'd had enough.
His foot caught on nothing.
The ground rushed up to meet him.
Cobblestone slammed into his shoulder, then his cheek. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, before fading into something distant and dull. He tried to push himself up. His arms trembled, refused, and gave out.
From the corner of his eye, he saw boots slow. Cloaks brushed past. A cart rattled by, wheels splashing through a shallow gutter beside him. Faces turned—briefly. Curious. Uninterested. Gone.
No one stopped.
Black Iron City did not pause for the fallen.
Tomora exhaled weakly, breath scraping his throat. His fingers curled against the stone, leaving a faint smear of blood that disappeared beneath the dust almost instantly.
So this is how it ends, huh?
Face-first in a road. Classy.
A shadow crossed over him.
Not the quick flicker of someone passing by—but a pause. A hesitation.
A hand grabbed his arm.
"Hey—" he tried to say, but the word never fully formed.
The grip tightened, surprisingly strong, and suddenly he was moving. Dragged, half-carried, his boots scraping loudly as the world lurched sideways. He caught flashes of brick walls, hanging laundry, a wooden door swinging open—
Then darkness.
The door shut behind them with a soft but final thud.
The room was small. Low ceiling. One narrow window half-covered by a cloth that filtered daylight into a dim, dusty glow. The air smelled of crushed herbs, old wood, and something faintly bitter. Not unpleasant. Just… lived-in.
Tomora groaned as he was lowered onto something soft. Straw, maybe. A thin mattress.
He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus.
The girl crouched beside him, breath slightly uneven as if she'd just finished running. She wore simple clothes—linen dress, patched at the elbows, apron stained with work. A loose strand of hair had fallen from its tie, sticking to her cheek with sweat.
Her eyes flicked toward the door, then back to him.
"You're heavy," she muttered, mostly to herself.
Tomora managed a weak huff that might've been a laugh.
She knelt properly now, hands already moving. A cloth appeared. A small jar. She dipped the fabric inside and pressed it gently to his temple.
Cold.
He flinched despite himself.
"Sorry," she said quickly, then slowed, more careful. "You collapsed in the street. Guards were nearby. You're lucky no one cared enough to look twice."
Lucky wasn't the word he'd use.
She worked quietly, dabbing at cuts, cleaning grime from his skin. Her touch was firm but not rough, practiced in the way of someone who'd done this before—often, maybe.
Her gaze paused when she reached his face.
Specifically, the jagged scar over his eye.
She leaned in a little, studying it like a puzzle.
"Wow," she said softly. "That's a cool scar."
The words hit him harder than the cobblestone had.
The room vanished.
Sunlight. A dusty village road. A girl with bright eyes and no fear in her smile.
Wow, what a cool scar over your eye!
Young. Innocent. Gone.
Tomora's fingers twitched.
The present snapped back into place—the dim room, the faint herbal smell, the girl still kneeling beside him, unaware of the weight she'd just dropped onto his chest.
"…Yeah," he murmured after a second, the corner of his mouth lifting despite everything. "I know."
She smiled, just a little, like she hadn't expected an answer.
Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Just… quiet.
Outside, the city continued to breathe.
After a while, Tomora pushed himself up onto his elbows. His body protested loudly, but it listened. Barely.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She hesitated, then met his eyes.
"Jessica."
"Tomora."
She nodded once, as if filing the name away for later—if later ever came.
He shifted, sitting up more fully now, and glanced toward the small window. Light slanted across the floor, catching dust in the air like tiny drifting stars.
"Jessica," he said, voice low, "do you know where the main Black Iron building is?"
Her hands paused mid-wrap.
She looked at him sideways. Not scared. Curious. Sharp.
"Why do you wanna know?"
He shrugged, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near exhausted honesty. "Just curious."
Her lips twitched.
"It's right in the middle of the city," she said. "Big. Ugly. Hard to miss… unless you're dumb."
He snorted quietly. "Good thing I'm only half-dumb."
She rolled her eyes and finished tying the bandage.
When he stood, the room swayed—but he stayed upright. Progress.
"I owe you one," he said.
Jessica waved a hand. "Just don't bleed on my floor again."
He gave her a small nod and stepped back into the alley, pulling his hood up as the noise of the city swallowed him whole once more.
He walked for a block before the ache in his body sharpened, reminding him of everything he'd been pretending not to feel.
Tomora exhaled slowly.
Blue light flickered beneath his skin.
It wasn't dramatic. No crashing waves. No roaring torrents.
Just a quiet, creeping warmth that flowed through him like a tide pulling back in. His breathing steadied. Pain dulled. Torn muscle knitted itself together with a faint, almost electric hum beneath his ribs.
He glanced at his hand.
The glow faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only the faintest chill in its wake.
He kept walking.
Black Iron City rose around him—narrow streets opening into wide squares, banners hanging like watchful eyes, guards stationed where roads converged. Every step brought him closer to the heart of the city.
Closer to answers.
Closer to danger.
And somewhere deep inside him, something stirred—not fear, not excitement, but a quiet, relentless pull forward.
Tomora didn't look back.
The shadows closed in behind him as he disappeared into the city's veins, carrying secrets that could shatter kingdoms—if they didn't shatter him first.