Ares dragged his feet through the hallway, the faint glow of the setting sun bleeding through the arched windows. Golden light stretched across the marble floor, soft and slow, like liquid honey. The irony made him huff under his breath — a sunset, here, in the hall of the Sun. He wasn't sure if the academy meant it as a joke or a warning.
He counted the doors as he went. Seven. His room.When he pushed it open, the air felt still — the kind of stillness that pressed down on the skin. The bed waited, neat and simple. The smell of bread still clung to his fingers. Today had taken more from him than he cared to admit. His legs felt like they had been carved out of stone, and each breath carried the taste of old dust. He collapsed onto the bed without bothering to take off his boots.
Sleep didn't wait long to claim him.
He was in his old kitchen. It was smaller than he remembered, the ceiling a little too low, the light too warm. His mother stood by the stove, humming to herself, stirring something in a pot. He sat on the floor, knees drawn close, complaining in a boy's voice he hardly recognized.
"He doesn't listen to me," he said. "He never does."
His mother turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, my baby," she said, her tone half teasing, half sad. She crouched down and pinched his chin gently. "But you aren't listening to him either."
Ares frowned, the childish kind that deepens instead of disappearing.
She smiled. "Do you know what the trick is? When someone won't listen to you… you start listening to them. Then you'll be heard."
Her words melted into the air like the smell of her cooking. When he blinked, she was gone, and the kitchen was empty again.
He woke with his heart still soft and aching.The memory stayed like the aftertaste of something half-sweet, half-salty. He stared at the ceiling for a long while, tracing invisible shapes in the light filtering through the window. Then, uninvited, an image of the old man came back to him — the way he sat fishing in the gray world, silent, patient, unreachable.
Fishing.
He thought of what that meant — of waiting, of hunger, of bait.
Maybe food.
It was a foolish thought, but it refused to leave him. So he decided to try.
When Ares entered the pantry later that morning, Beth was already awake, humming softly as she kneaded dough. The room smelled of yeast and salt and something faintly sweet. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hands moved with the practiced rhythm of someone who didn't need to think to create warmth.
"Beth," he began, hesitant. "Can I… have some extra? Maybe a little more than usual."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't stop working. "Got a new friend?"
Ares scratched the back of his neck. "Something like that."
Beth smiled faintly — a small, knowing smile. "Mm-hmm." She packed the food anyway, wrapping it carefully, as if it were a gift. "You look like you're up to trouble. Try not to starve in the process."
He managed a small grin. "I'll try."
The gray world greeted him with its familiar emptiness — white sand, fractured rocks, a sky without a sun. The air was heavy and wet, clinging to his skin. He followed the same path as before, the one that led to where he had once seen the fisherman.
The ground shifted beneath his feet, soft and fine like sifted ash. Then, slowly, the sand shifted under an invisible weight. He could see faint shapes moving in clusters.
Ares's heart kicked in his chest. It worked.
He didn't say anything. He placed the food down a few steps away, careful not to break the silence. The cluster of shapes stopped on top of the food and slowly the food began to disappear.Not a word.
It was both relief and insult. But Ares stayed, watching. He couldn't help it.
He came again the next day, and the day after.
Each time, something changed.
At first, the shapes in the gray world grew clearer. The faint figures he had once thought illusions now had weight, shadow, movement. Then came the lights — tiny green motes that shimmered like drifting plankton, rising and falling in invisible currents. They rolled together, like a quiet sea breathing beneath the world.
It was real. He was seeing more — the world that had always been there, waiting.
Then, one day, he saw it: a green thread holding shapes like a spider's silk. It formed a more structured shape, something human. It was the old man.
And then, without thinking, he reached out and pulled.
The world snapped.
Ares stumbled backward, the gray sand spilling out beneath his boots — and then it was gone. The hallway burst around him, gold and blinding, his breath catching in his throat. He almost fell. For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
He stared at his hands.The cloak was still there — soft, living, its threads moving faintly like muscle. He cursed under his breath. "Idiot." He wanted to throw it away, but curiosity won. He sat by the door, examining it until his eyes burned. The threads were still glowing faintly, writhing in patterns he couldn't follow. By dawn, exhaustion took him.
When he awoke, he knew he had to make it right.
Back in the kitchen, Beth was setting plates to dry."Prepare a feast?" she asked, raising a brow. "What's the occasion?"
Ares looked away. "It's for a friend."
Beth chuckled softly and got to work. "Here. Tell me if he likes it."
He thanked her and left.
The gray world was quieter this time. The air thicker, the light dimmer. When he set the food down again, the old man appeared — not from the mist, but from stillness itself. No cloak, no trick. Just there.
Ares didn't speak at first. He just sat, waiting, watching the old man eat.Then, without meaning to, the words slipped out."That cloak," he said. "It's clever. But the stitching's bad. Uneven. I could've done better."
The old man froze mid-bite. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes narrowing. "Bad design?" His voice was like grinding metal. "It fooled you for two months."
Ares scowled. "That doesn't mean it's good design."
The old man set the bowl aside. "Says the shit-shoveling brat…"
Ares felt his face burn, but he acted as if he didn't hear the last comment.
"It hides people, sure," Ares said, gesturing. "But it could hide better. The layers don't match. The weave leaks light. I saw through it."
The old man's face twisted with rage. "And now you think you can do better, little pest?"
Ares didn't back down. "Give me a thread. I'll prove it."
"What do you mean, give you a thread?" Rodman retorted.
"How else am I supposed to sew these shapes without the thread?" Ares complained.
"Look at this scheming brat! Bringing me some food and thinking I will give you my weave," Rodman said with a hint of sarcasm.
"Oh, now you're complaining how precious it is?" Ares mocked.
Rodman smacked the back of his head. "How dumb can you be? Asking a magician to give you his weave? You stupid brat. It's one's life work and you want me to hand it off like a cheap thread."
"How the hell am I supposed to know? No one would tell me anything..." Ares felt a wave of anger rise within him, but he didn't want to relent. He pulled the cloak aside and pointed to four different stitches. "First of all, this and this are not sewn correctly; these things never go together. It's a dead giveaway. Secondly, if you are trying to hide, why make it in a human shape? Make it more natural—like how they float. I was able to see it because of the structured shape of the bound pieces."
"They are called fraylings," the old man said offhandedly as he examined the cloak. Even though he had made it casually, Ares' work had some truth to it. Rodman muttered as he adjusted the stitches. "Much better. What else?"
"These fraylings don't go together," Ares said, pointing at the different types around them. "Look at how they are grouped. Make sure they're naturally grouped and layer them so the cloak doesn't look flat. Give it volume."
Rodman nodded, particularly shocked by the brat's eye for arrangement. "I see. Mine was too flat," he mumbled as he adjusted the cloak, adding layers so it had some depth. He threw it over Ares and, for a moment, the boy disappeared, merging with the gray world.
"Not bad," Rodman said, but his voice held a trace of disappointment. "I can still see the green threads," he grumbled.
Ares took off the cloak and said confidently, "I can also fix that. It's a simple matter of hidden stitches, like in clothing. But if I tell you, you have to teach me how to create this string."