The cell smelled like rust and old water, like something had been left to rot and forgotten on purpose. Moisture clung to the stone walls, cold enough to seep through skin and settle in the bones. Somewhere nearby, water dripped at a slow, deliberate pace, each sound landing like it was counting Tomora's patience down to zero.
He stood near the bars, shoulders tight, fingers curled into fists so hard his knuckles burned. His breathing came shallow, sharp through his nose. Every muscle in his body remembered the year of training. The running. The beatings. The nights without sleep. The kicks. The insults disguised as lessons.
Slowly, Tomora turned.
His glare sharpened, eyes dark and blazing, fists clenched like he might actually tear the stone apart if he tried hard enough.
"You had me training like a damn fool when you could've just opened the door?!"
The hooded figure didn't even flinch.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed like they were standing in a tavern instead of a dungeon beneath a corrupt fortress. Even under the hood, Tomora could feel the smirk.
"Well," the man said calmly, "you needed the training — trust me, it's not just about getting out. It's about surviving what comes after."
Tomora scoffed, teeth grinding. His first instinct was to lunge. To grab the hood. To finally see the face he'd wanted to punch for a year straight.
But he didn't.
His fists loosened just a fraction.
Images flashed through his mind—him barely dodging a guard's spear earlier, his legs almost giving out during the chase, the way panic had crept in when his powers failed him. If this had been a month ago… no, even a week ago… he'd be dead already.
He clicked his tongue in irritation, more at himself than the hooded figure.
Tomora turned away, jaw tight, then gave a stiff nod he hated giving.
The hooded figure noticed instantly. Of course he did.
"Alright," he said lightly, pushing himself off the wall, "now that we're 'free,' here's what we do next…"
His hand slipped beneath his cloak. Fabric shifted. A faint metallic glint caught the torchlight. He pulled out a small blade—thin, curved, worn from use. Not ceremonial. Not flashy. A tool.
"First, we get out of this fortress without alerting every guard in sight."
Tomora rolled his shoulders once. Something popped painfully. His body protested, but he ignored it.
He cracked his neck, eyes fierce.
"No."
The single word hit harder than shouting.
The hooded figure blinked.
"…what?"
Tomora didn't answer. He was already moving.
The cell door stood open—mockingly easy. Tomora stepped past it without hesitation, boots touching the stone hallway beyond. The air felt different here. Colder. Sharper. Like the fortress itself was watching.
Torches lined the corridor, flames flickering against walls scarred with old cuts and cracks. Symbols of the Black Iron were carved deep into the stone, half-erased by time and blood. The place reeked of power hoarded too long.
Tomora's posture changed the moment he entered the hall.
His back straightened. His breathing slowed. His eyes hardened.
"I'm getting that scroll," he said, voice low but iron-firm. "You hear me?"
Behind him, the hooded figure paused mid-step.
"Oh yeah," he replied dryly, "sure. We could pull that off. No problem."
He waved a hand vaguely, like stealing the most guarded document in the city was a mild inconvenience.
Tomora stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned.
Torchlight carved sharp shadows across his face, catching the faint scar near his eye. His stare was no longer angry. It was colder than that. Focused. Unmovable.
"Hey," he said quietly, "you for real? Uhh… c'mon, why? When we could just escape?"
The hooded figure opened his mouth—probably to joke. To deflect. To annoy him one last time.
Then Tomora locked eyes with him.
A death stare. Pure and unyielding.
The air shifted. Even the torches seemed to flicker lower, flames shrinking back.
The hooded figure straightened instantly. His shoulders squared. Whatever humor he'd been clinging to vanished like smoke.
"…Right," he muttered. "No more jokes."
They moved.
Footsteps softened. Tomora stayed close to the walls, instincts guiding him through turns he hadn't memorized but somehow felt. A guard's voice echoed from above. Metal boots clanged somewhere to the right.
They froze.
A patrol passed the end of the corridor—three men, armor heavy, weapons ready. Tomora held his breath, heart hammering so loud he was sure they'd hear it.
They didn't.
The guards disappeared around the corner.
The hooded figure leaned close, whispering, "See? Easy."
Tomora elbowed him lightly without looking.
They advanced deeper.
The fortress grew quieter the farther they went, the stone smoother, the air heavier. At the end of the hall stood a large reinforced door, etched with sigils meant to deter thieves and cowards alike.
The scroll's chamber.
Two guards stood watch, relaxed but alert. A faint crack ran along the stone near the hinges—old damage, poorly repaired.
Tomora and the hooded figure exchanged a glance.
No words.
No jokes.
Just understanding.
The heist was on.