The game of tag led them around a sharp corner, and their laughter hit a wall of pure, silent wonder. The corridor ahead wasn't made of cloud-stone, but of mirrors—countless panels of polished, silvery glass that stretched into a shimmering infinity. The air grew still and cool, carrying a faint, clean scent of metal and old, undisturbed space.
"Whoa," Eliane breathed, her voice a small thing swallowed by the vast reflection. She took a cautious step forward, her sturdy boots clicking softly. Her own face, multiplied a thousand times, stared back. But these weren't true mirrors. The surfaces seemed to breathe, their silver depths swirling like liquid mercury. Her reflection warped; sometimes she was tall and stretched, a wispy giant, other times she was squat and rounded.
She giggled, unable to help herself, and waved a hand. A hundred distorted Elianes waved back. "Look, Jelly! It's us, but… wobbly!"
Jelly Squish, intrigued, waddled into the corridor. He gave an experimental wiggle, and his reflection erupted into a chaotic dance of blue jiggles, a carnival funhouse version of himself. "Bloop! I'm all… jiggly-wiggly!" he cheered, bouncing in place to make the spectacle even more absurd.
Eliane's laughter faded into a soft gasp. She blinked, leaning closer to one particular panel. Her reflection had stilled. It was her, but… older. Her silver hair was longer, tied back in a more sophisticated knot. Her chef's jacket was gone, replaced by a traveler's worn cloak. The girl in the mirror had a subtle strength in her shoulders, a knowing calm in her blue eyes that Eliane didn't recognize. The reflection smiled, a gentle, almost sad curve of her lips, and glanced over her shoulder as if seeing something—or someone—precious standing behind her.
"Wait…" Eliane whispered, her hand lifting without thought. Her fingertips brushed the cool, smooth surface.
The mirror didn't feel like glass. It felt like the lid of a pot just before it boils.
A scalding memory surged up from the touch.
She was seven, standing on a stool in the celebration hall, the air thick with the glorious smells of her parents' cooking—roasted herbs, simmering broths, the sweet perfume of fruit tarts. She was arranging edible flowers on a grand centerpiece cake, her small tongue stuck out in concentration. Her mother's wings, a breathtaking white, flickered at the edge of her vision as she passed, a sign of her own focused joy.
"Perfect, my little chef," her father said, his voice warm as sunshine. The praise filled her with a golden glow.
Then her clumsy elbow knocked a measuring spoon. It clattered to the floor, splattering a precious, reduced glaze meant for the glazed sea king loin—a masterpiece now marred. Frustration, hot and sharp, flared in her chest. It was so unfair! She'd ruined it!
In that instant of pure, childish anger, a heat unlike any stove's blaze erupted from her back. A flash of white-fire, so hot it stole the air, lashed out. It didn't roar; it hissed. The beautiful cake centerpiece blackened and collapsed into a smoldering mound of charcoal in a heartbeat. The sweet air turned acrid.
Her mother was on her in a flash. Not with comfort, but with desperate, rough hands, smothering the flickering flame on her back, shoving her nascent wings down beneath her jacket. The touch wasn't gentle; it was frantic.
"We hide the fire, Eliane!" her mother whispered, her voice tight with a fear the young girl had never heard before. "Our fire is not for cooking. It is the World Government's excuse to hunt us. It must never be seen. Your knife is your tool; your flame is our danger."
Eliane burst into terrified tears, the scent of her own destruction clogging her nose.
She snatched her hand back from the mirror as if burned. The cool corridor rushed back. Jelly was making faces at his wobbly self, completely oblivious. But the memory clung to her, the ghost taste of ash in her mouth.
Her eyes dropped to another mirror, and it swirled, pulling her in again.
She was ten, hiding in the narrow space behind a heavy tapestry in her grandfather's study. She'd been searching for a jar of rare Sky Island pepper. Instead, she found a crack of light and her grandfather's low, gravelly voice, talking to a shifting den-den mushi.
"…the bounty for a pureblood remains astronomical. The 'Gods' Reward,' they still call it. It makes our work… complicated."
She couldn't help herself. She pushed the tapestry aside. "Grandfather? Why do they pay so much just to catch people who have beautiful wings?"
The man spun around. He wasn't the distant, gift-bearing figure she knew. This man was carved from winter and hard decisions. His eyes, the same blue as hers, held no warmth. He crossed the room in two strides and, with a touch that was not loving, lifted the collar of her chef's jacket, his thumb brushing the hidden place where her wings would emerge.
"This," he said, his voice low and sharp as a knife's edge, "is the price of your dinner. Every time you smile, every time you take a breath, you are a heretic. Your parents cook to hide you. Do you understand the size of the storm that is waiting outside? Stay in the kitchen. Stay ignorant. That is how you stay alive."
The fear then had been a cold stone in her belly, so different from the hot shame of the burnt banquet.
She swallowed hard, looking away from that mirror, seeking an anchor. Her gaze found Jelly, who had stopped his jiggling and was now staring intently at his own reflection, his starry eyes wide and unblinking. The simple, joyful presence of her friend was a balm. It reminded her of the other memory, the good one.
The communal kitchen, later that same year. An old ex-slave, a man with scars thicker than tree roots on his arms, always sat in the corner, his eyes empty. Sweet cakes, fluffy breads, nothing had ever earned more than a nod. So Eliane decided to make her ultimate favorite: Kimchi.
Her hands became a blur. Her chef's knife, an extension of her will, flew through cabbage and radish with a rhythm that was its own kind of music. She layered the spices, the chili, the garlic, the ginger. "It's like us, Papa," she'd explained to her watching father, her voice full of a wisdom beyond her years. "Simple things that become something strong and unique through time and pressure."
She presented the jar to the old man. He ate a single bite. The complex, fermented, powerfully spicy flavor seemed to unlock something deep inside him. His stoic face crumpled. He didn't just cry; he wept, great, heaving sobs that shook his frail frame. He grabbed her small, flour-dusted hand.
"You feed the strength we need to keep hiding," he'd choked out.
In that moment, she understood. The kitchen wasn't a prison. It was a fortress. Her knives weren't just tools; they were weapons of creation.
Eliane blinked, returning fully to the mirrored corridor. The conflict was a whirlpool inside her. The fun of this adventure, the thrill of being with these new, strong people who didn't seem to be hiding from anything, warred with the ingrained terror of the memories. The labyrinth wasn't just testing her sense of direction; it was holding up a mirror to her very soul, showing her the scared child, the threatened heretic, and the nurturing chef all at once.
She looked down at Jelly, her voice a little unsteady. "What do you see, Jelly?"
The blue jellyfish-human didn't look up, his gaze fixed on his shimmering duplicate. "He looks… really happy," Jelly said, his usual giggle absent. His reflection smiled back, a simple, pure, and endless loop of joy. For a moment, Eliane desperately wished her own reflection was that simple.
Jelly's reflection in the shifting mirror wasn't just wobbly; it was peeling back, layer by layer, into a past he never understood. The shimmering corridor seemed to pull the very substance of his memory forward, and he was suddenly, violently, there again.
The air in Lab Sector 7 was a sterile, metallic chill that even his gelatinous body couldn't ignore. The sharp scent of smoldering wires from sparking machinery mixed with the rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Commander Orpheus, a mountain of polished armor and simmering impatience, was demonstrating his Armament Haki for a shadowy figure whose form was only visible through the green glow of a floating log—Dr. Vegapunk. Orpheus's fist, sheathed in the dark, crackling energy of his will, was a promise of pure, unadulterated power.
Jelly, a puddle of cheerful azure blue, saw only a wonderful, shiny game. He desperately wanted to play. With a gurgle of delight, he focused, his body vibrating with a violent, joyful jiggle—his Bouncy Defense. He then stretched a wobbly hand toward the commander, morphing it into what he hoped was the world's bestest buddy hug. The motion, however, was a chaotic tremor. It sent a nearby Seastone bullet, a small, dark-grey slug, rolling from a tray. It bounced once, twice, then plopped directly into Orpheus's steaming mug of coffee.
The dark liquid erupted, splattering across the commander's pristine uniform and data logs.
A silence fell, heavier than any sea.
Orpheus stared at the ruined drink, then at Jelly. His face, usually a mask of controlled sternness, twisted into genuine, unvarnished frustration. "Useless," he growled, the word like a physical blow. "Too noisy for stealth, too squishy for combat. You can't even control your own form!" He slammed a fist on the console. "Subject is a failure. Terminate the experiment."
Jelly, still beaming, wobbled closer. He'd made a splash! He'd been part of the game! "Don't be salty—be jelly!" he chirped, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. He extended his wobbly hand again. "I'll be your bestest buddy forever, mister mean commander!"
The order had been given. His kindness, his pure, uncomprehending desire to connect, was the final proof of his flaw.
The memory swirled, the sterile lab giving way to a new horror. He was in the Nutrient Chamber, a place of soft, whirring pumps and the cloying, sweet scent of overripe fruit. He'd slipped, drawn by a soft whimper. There, in a central vat, was a small, furry creature—a failed mink experiment with one drooping ear. Jelly had tried to befriend it just that morning, offering a shimmering, harmless bubble.
Now, the creature was wide-eyed, trembling, as a viscous, yellow-green slurry poured into the chamber. The air filled with the sickly sweet smell of acidic pineapple and other mixed fruits. The liquid hit the creature, and a terrible sizzling sound started. It wasn't a roar or a scream; it was a quiet, desperate dissolution. The creature's eyes locked with Jelly's for one final, silent moment before it was consumed by the bubbling, fruity morass.
A wave of pure, primal disgust and terror washed through Jelly. He couldn't scream. He couldn't move. His body lost all cohesion, melting into a trembling puddle on the cold floor. The last thing he saw was a wave of the acidic, chunky mixture slopping over the vat's side towards him. His mind, trying and failing to process the horror, could only form one terrified, internal thought: "It's a fruity graveyard… Bloop!"
The world dissolved again, the fruity smell replaced by the salty, biting wind of a storm-wracked shore. Jelly was cold, a deep, internal cold that threatened to solidify him. He'd washed ashore, a piece of strange, blue flotsam. His vision was blurry, but he saw a figure—an old fisherman with a face like worn leather, who gently scooped him up, mistaking him for some strange sea creature.
The fisherman's hut was warm, filled with the smell of tar and dried fish. As Jelly thawed, he saw the man struggling to fix a broken oar. A simple, desperate need to help, to be useful, surged through him. He focused, morphing his hand into a wobbly, comical, but effective paddle. The old fisherman stared, then let out a loud, genuine laugh that seemed to shake the very walls. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but of pure, delighted surprise.
Weeks later, as the fisherman prepared for a long voyage, he pressed a small, faded red bandana into Jelly's gelatinous grasp. "You're a wild little thing," the old man said, his voice rough but kind, "but you've got the heart of a sea dog. You need a family to steer you, not a lab. Wear this—it means you belong on the seas."
Jelly clutched the fabric. It was the first thing that had ever truly been his. A symbol. A promise. In that moment, he made a silent vow to find the family he was meant for.
Back in the mirrored corridor, Jelly blinked, the phantom scents of coffee, pineapple, and sea salt fading. He looked up at Eliane, his starry eyes wide.
Eliane, having seen her own past reflected, saw the lingering confusion in his gaze and offered a soft, understanding smile. "You okay, Jelly?"
The sound of her voice, so full of present joy, snapped him back completely. He wiggled, his form rippling with returning happiness. "Bloop!"
Eliane's smile turned into a playful grin. She reached out and tapped his shoulder. "Tag, you're it!" she declared, and before he could fully process it, she was off, her silver ponytail flying behind her as she dashed down the shimmering hallway. "You'll never catch me!"
Jelly bounced in place, a joyful, jiggling spring. The heavy memories were pushed aside by the pure, simple thrill of the game. "No fair! Bloop!" he giggled, and launched himself after her, a blue blur of happiness disappearing into the Labyrinth, the profound lessons of the mirrors already forgotten in the wake of a new adventure.
---
The silence after the musical chamber felt different—not oppressive, but expectant, like the held breath of an audience after a stunning final note. Vesta, buoyed by her success, found herself humming a quiet, jaunty tune—one of Brook's earlier, more playful compositions. She plucked a soft accompaniment on Mikasi's strings, the lute's form comfortable and familiar in her hands. The labyrinth corridors seemed to respond, the soft glow of the cloud-stone pulsing gently in time with her rhythm.
She rounded a corner and stopped dead.
The stark, minimalist architecture vanished. Before her hung layers upon layers of heavy, velvety drapes in deep burgundy and gold, their fabric thick with embroidered musical notes and swirling patterns. They cascaded from the unseen ceiling, pooling on the floor, creating a maze of cloth that felt impossibly deep and intimate. The air, which had moments before been cool and still, now carried the faint, sweet scent of old paper, rosin, and a hint of stage dust. It was a scent that punched straight through her heart.
"Backstage?" she whispered, her voice muffled by the thick textiles. "Is this someone's idea of a joke?"
A nervous, hopeful excitement fluttered in her chest. It felt like her dream. Taking a cautious step forward, she reached out and placed her hand on the edge of a heavy curtain, its braided trim rough under her fingers.
The touch was a trigger.
The Echoing Bazaar on Birka erupted around her. The memory was so vivid she could feel the warmth of the Sky Island sun on her child-sized shoulders. The air thrummed with a glorious, chaotic noise—the haggling of merchants, the sizzle of street food, and the driving, rhythmic beat of a dozen Tone Dials playing at once. A young Vesta, her rainbow hair a shocking burst of color in the crowd, clutched her mother's hand, her eyes wide with overwhelmed wonder.
"It's too loud, Mama," she whimpered, burying her face in Neelie's floral-print skirt.
Her mother, Neelie, whose laughter was like wind chimes, knelt down. "No, my little songbird. It's not loud. It's alive. Listen." She pointed to a makeshift stage where a man with arms full of Dials was creating a storm of sound. "He's telling a story without any words."
Neelie guided her through the press of bodies, ignoring the occasional disdainful glance from higher-born Birkans. She lifted Vesta onto the rough-hewn planks of the stage. The musician, a man with a kind, sweaty face, saw her wide eyes and, without breaking his rhythm, placed a small, cool Chime Dial into her hands.
"Just feel it," her mother encouraged, her voice a steady anchor.
Vesta looked out at the sea of faces, then at the Dial. She took a shaky breath and let out a single, clear, powerful note.
It wasn't just sound. It was a feeling—a burst of pure, unadulterated joy that shot from her chest and rang through the bazaar. For a moment, the chaotic noise seemed to harmonize around her. Her father, Brom, his smith's hands calloused and strong, pushed his way to the front of the crowd, his face split by a grin that could outshine the sun.
"Look at her, Neelie!" he boomed, his voice full of pride that defied the whole Birkan caste system. "She doesn't make Dials, she makes emotions! She will be a star!"
Then she was in his arms, lifted high onto his shoulders. The world became a blur of smiling faces and glorious noise. A strange, light feeling burst from her back—her tiny, fledgling sky-island wings fluttering for the very first time, beating in time with the music in her heart. This was it. This was perfection. A world without tears.
The memory shattered as another curtain brushed her face. She was back in the labyrinth's silent backstage, but now the silence felt accusing. Her hand trembled on the fabric.
The second memory hit like a thunderclap.
The scent of old curtains was suddenly the acrid smell of smolder and fear. The Day the Sky Shattered. She was older, six years old, and her father's strong hands were now shoving her into a small, hastily assembled cloud-raft.
"Don't look back, Vesta! Just go!" Brom's voice was raw, a sound she'd never heard from him before. Behind him, the world was lightning and fire. Her mother, Neelie, was throwing handfuls of glowing seeds from her apron—seeds that burst into violent, thorny growth, tangling the legs of panicked citizens and Enel's forces alike, a florist's final, desperate defense.
The last thing she saw was her parents, standing back-to-back, a dial-smith and a florist against a god, as her raft skimmed away into the choking, black smoke.
Then, nothing.
An awful, crushing silence. It was a silence that had weight, that pressed down on her small body as she huddled in the vast, glassy crater that was all that remained of her home. The silence was worse than the screams. It was the sound of everything being gone.
A shadow fell over her. Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw the armored hull of a Lumenaran ship. Her grandfather, Kanthar, his face a mask of grim calculation, looked down at her. "One refugee. Survivor. The logistics of integration will be…"
Her grandmother, Pilvi, pushed past him. She didn't see a refugee. She saw a small girl, covered in ash, who had not made a sound for days. Pilvi's hands, usually so steady as they drafted architectural plans, shook as she reached for Vesta. "Kanthar, be quiet," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Can't you see? Her soul has gone quiet."
That silence became her enemy. It was an uncomfortable space she had to fill, forever, with noise and color and music.
Vesta pushed through another layer of drapes, her breath coming in short gasps. She was crying, the tears cutting clean tracks through the faint dust on her cheeks. She hugged Mikasi to her chest like a lifeline.
The third memory unfolded, sharp and frustrating.
She was fourteen, standing at the entrance of this very labyrinth, the Great Labyrinth. Her grandfather's voice was stern, logical. "The Path of Enlightenment will grant you clarity, Vesta. It is time to set aside these childish fantasies and take a sensible role in the Daedalan council."
But the labyrinth's puzzles of shifting cloud-stone felt like a cage. Each logical corridor, each geometric pattern, was an insult to the chaotic, beautiful noise in her soul. She'd stormed away from the main path, frustration boiling over, and stumbled into a forgotten chamber. And there it was. A guitar, weathered and silent, leaning against a pile of rubble as if waiting.
She'd reached for it, her wings—now full and vibrant—flaring out behind her in her agitation. As her fingers brushed the wood, her grandfather found her.
"Vesta! This is precisely the kind of frivolous distraction I warned you about!"
Something in her snapped. She swung the guitar up, and as her hands found the strings, she felt it—a playful, chaotic will stirring within the wood. This was no mere instrument. She didn't plan the song; she tore it from her gut, a raw, wrenching melody of loss and defiance that used the guitar's own nascent power to amplify her sorrow.
Kanthar, the great logistician, froze. Confusion washed over his features, his surety crumbling under the illogical wave of emotion. "I… I don't understand…"
"You seek enlightenment through stone and order, Grandfather," Vesta declared, her voice strong and clear, the guitar now humming with a life of its own. "I seek it through song and chaos! I am leaving to make Sky Island music move the world!"
She pushed through the final curtain. The memory of her rebellion faded, leaving behind the bittersweet triumph of that day.
The last flashback was one of pure, fated chaos.
The Upper Yard ruins, years later. She was thirteen, scavenging for Dials or precious Vearth, a skill her father had taught her. In a hidden chamber, she found two treasures: a beautifully carved, if dusty, guitar, and the most bizarre fruit she'd ever seen, covered in swirling, shifting patterns. The Uto Uto no Mi.
Frustrated when the guitar produced no sound, she'd set it down hard, accidentally knocking the fruit from its pedestal. It rolled, struck the guitar's body with a soft thud, and… melted. It sank into the wood like water into sand.
The guitar began to vibrate, then to glow. It emitted a sound that was part musical chord, part playful, coyote-like yip. The headstock warped, shifting into the shape of a strange, brass horn before settling back. Vesta stared, her shock melting into gleeful, understanding laughter that echoed through the ancient ruins.
"Mikasi," she'd breathed, naming the trickster, her partner.
Vesta emerged from the forest of curtains. The labyrinth corridor was plain and glowing once more. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing the dust and tears. She was a mess. But as she looked down at the lute in her hands, a slow, genuine smile spread across her face.
The memories weren't chains. They were her setlist. The joy, the loss, the rebellion, the discovery. They were the verses and the chorus of her song.
"Okay, Mikasi," she said, her voice hoarse but steady. "Enough with the sad ballads. Let's give them a show they won't forget."
She struck a bold, major chord and stepped forward, her head held high, the rainbow of her hair a defiant banner in the shifting, silent dark. The path to enlightenment was never straightforward, but hers, she knew, would have a killer soundtrack.
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