Scene 1
"Lily! It's been a minute. How have you been, sweetie?!"
Grandma's voice hit me before the door even finished opening—warm, loud, stubbornly alive.
"You should've called so I could bake you some treats! Come in and quit acting like you need permission for Grandma's house."
She turned her back and walked deeper inside like the invitation had been signed years ago.
I followed slower, letting my eyes drift over the photos and the soft glow of the lamps. This place had always been my favorite kind of safe—one built out of routine instead of fear. A house that refused to feel like a fortress even when it was one.
I inhaled—and my nose wrinkled.
"You look healthier, Grandma." I set my bag down, then glanced around the ceiling corners without meaning to. "Did Dad come by?"
Grandma paused mid-step, turning just enough that I caught the satisfied little smile.
"I can feel his barrier covering the house," I added, quieter. "It's… heavy."
Not heavy like a weight.
Heavy like the world was politely informing me to behave.
"Yes," she said, waving her hand like barriers were normal household chores. "He came by about a week ago."
Then she clicked her tongue, sharp enough to cut guilt.
"Did that crazy son of mine not give his daughter a house visit? I'll break his tail the next time I see him."
I tried not to smile.
Failed.
The pressure here wasn't the usual "keep intruders out" kind of ward. It leaned forward. It favored life. The fire-law threaded through it didn't feel like it wanted to burn anything—only to refuse endings inside these walls.
Grandma already had her apron on like she'd been waiting for an excuse to use it.
"Come and sit," she ordered. "I'll get some cookies started. Sit your books on the table and get yourself a drink."
I did what I was told because my body remembered how to obey this woman before my brain ever got a vote.
The moment I sat, the stress slipped out of my ribs—stress from studying diaries that were never meant to be read by clean minds, from taboos that pretended to be safety while they hid the shape of truth.
Here, in Grandma's kitchen, the Society couldn't reach me.
Here, even the Astral Sea felt like it had to wait its turn.
Scene 2
"No. Hold your sword here."
I adjusted the kid's grip with two fingers.
"And shield here. It'll offer better counter-attacks with your size instead of the traditional style."
He tried again. This time the blade didn't wobble like a nervous thought. The shield tucked tighter. The angle opened.
Better.
He looked up at me like I was supposed to clap.
"Crow… what if I want to use spells?"
I stared at him—dead-eyed—not angry, just tired in the specific way you get when you realize humans can crawl through hell and still ask the same question with hope in their voice.
"If you can learn silent casting," I said flatly, "then I'll teach you instant casting like Thomas does."
His eyes widened.
"Just go hug Amber for the silent casting method I gave her," I added, already stepping away. "Then come back and block again."
He nodded hard like I'd handed him religion.
I moved down the line, watching the field like a commander even when I didn't want the job.
The kids were nearby—playing, watching, climbing the earthen platforms the studies group had raised like makeshift bleachers. Some of the studies teams had gotten creative. They weren't just making walls—they were making playgrounds. Slides of packed earth. Little towers. A half-bridge that looked like a castle gate.
Alexis's idea.
Train in the field. Let the kids see adults moving with purpose instead of panic.
It worked.
Even if calm was a costume.
"Okay," the kid muttered as he shuffled aside. "I'm good at earth spikes, so I just want to use that."
"Then use it," I said softer. "Just stop trying to prove you're special. Prove you're useful."
He nodded like usefulness was a sacred rite.
Ahead, a wild Thomas was doing what Thomas always did—turning training into a street fight with rules nobody agreed to.
"That's another one down!" someone shouted.
I watched Thomas raise his hand toward one of his underlings' shields—
A fireball launched.
The shield caught it.
The man still flew, tumbling into a rushing crowd like a bowling ball thrown into panic.
Before the impact, Thomas slapped his palm to the shield and a wind barrier wrapped it—tight, clean, instinctive.
Then he slammed it into the ground and launched himself upward.
My stomach sank.
"This idiot doesn't know when to stop."
Thomas peaked—then dropped.
Flames jetted from his feet as he fell, turning himself into a bullet aimed straight at the arena where kids were watching.
I moved before thought.
Wind snapped around him and bent the trajectory hard, redirecting him like you'd redirect a falling beam before it crushed someone.
He hit outside the ring and made a new crater to fight in.
Dust rolled out. Heat rolled out. The earth groaned.
Thomas stood up laughing like pain was applause.
"He just got faster," I muttered. "He's almost instant casting now."
He was still a fire type on paper—but the way he swapped, layered elements into motion like nature was a costume—
It wasn't textbook.
It was patron-style mimicry.
And the worst part?
He was stealing steps from techniques he didn't fully understand.
That always ends the same way.
Either you evolve—
Or you explode.
Scene 3
Watching this woman take her seat as she removed her shades, she smiled softly at me like she hadn't just invaded my dinner.
The room didn't notice.
It never noticed the right things.
I kept cutting through my steak, meeting her double-faced eyes with boredom—because boredom was safer than giving her the satisfaction of proof.
Allie waited for me to speak first.
That was her mistake.
I swallowed, dabbed the corner of my mouth with the napkin, and finally looked up—calm, measured, unhurried.
"I figured it would've been my little gem who found me first," I said, voice light, almost fond. "But then again… you're insane enough to think I'd ever fully leave."
Her gaze shrank for half a second before she smoothed it back into a smile.
"The fact you sniffed me out is worth hearing out," she said, leaning into familiarity like it was a weapon.
I took another bite and let the silence stretch until the pace belonged to me again.
"We're childhood friends," she continued. "Of course I didn't believe you'd die so easily."
For a fraction of a heartbeat, something old tried to rise.
Not longing.
Not weakness.
Just the ghost of a version of me that once believed love was a place you could stay—before the Astral Sea taught me that love was often just a door people learned to pick.
I felt the edge of it anyway.
A brief, clinical shock at how easily she could frame the world into a story where she had rights to my existence.
Not because it was true.
Because if you weren't careful, you'd start answering inside her narrative.
And love was the easiest narrative to get trapped in.
I didn't.
I set the frame back where it belonged.
"You're worse than Crystal could ever hope to be," I said casually.
Allie's smile softened like she'd been waiting for that.
"If I was worse than her," she began, "then you would've ended things on a solid note like you did her. She was just holding my place like soph—"
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't need to.
My gaze sharpened and the air agreed with me.
The sentence died in her throat.
A controlled pressure settled between us like a blade hovering close enough to remind her what I was.
She swallowed, then tried a gentler angle.
"You used to look at me like I mattered."
There it was.
Love as a hook.
Not love offered.
Love demanded.
I didn't flinch. I didn't deny it either.
"Many things used to matter," I replied. "The world kept eating them."
She leaned forward like proximity could become permission.
I ended it before softness could become control.
"What do you want, woman."
Allie exhaled and dropped the theater.
"Give me a journal," she said. "Like I heard Crystal got."
Access.
That was all it ever was.
I considered it.
Then answered.
"No."
"Ten—"
"I said no."
She tried again. "Supervise me."
I smiled faintly.
"Madness isn't the issue. It's the direction you'd point it."
"So that's it?" she asked. "You're refusing me."
I set my fork down.
"This table isn't a marketplace," I said. "And you don't get to use love like currency."
A thin barrier formed—final, unwelcoming.
I didn't push her.
I removed her from the pattern.
Allie stood, smoothing her coat.
"You really are still you."
I went back to my steak.
"I know," I said. "That's why you came."
Scene 4
"What's wrong, Crow?"
Alexis's voice hit me like it was coming through water.
I didn't answer.
My senses were screaming. Sight was lying. Hearing lagged. Even smell was wrong.
So I shut them down.
Sight—muted.
Sound—muted.
Touch—muted.
Astral sense opened.
The world snapped into another layer and I felt them—several figures sprinting toward us along the refugee route. Same path. Same speed. Same intent.
My eyes couldn't see them.
They were wrapped in something moving with them.
A barrier.
A barrier that shouldn't move.
Unless it wasn't a barrier.
Unless it was a law being carried.
"Thomas!"
I shoved Alexis back as Thomas moved instantly, shield slamming down just as a flame pillar erupted from empty air.
He enhanced the shield with flame and split the attack around us.
Heat roared past.
I stayed locked on the distortion.
Corruption bled from it—old, sticky, smiling rot.
"Alexis," I said. "Get to the camp. Get the team ready."
She protested.
I blasted her away with wind. It would hurt.
Death was worse.
A robed man lunged out of the distortion.
Thomas cut him down.
The body twitched.
Receiving something.
Death energy tried to stand it back up.
Lightning snapped from my hand.
The twitching stopped.
The air felt offended.
Then the distortion peeled wider and something stepped forward wearing a body like a coat.
An elderly man.
Green eyes glowing.
Demonic circles etched into swollen flesh. Blister-faces leaking pus.
He smiled without teeth.
"Oh—no reaction, my dear Prince."
He bowed.
"I greet the Prince of Death with undue respect. My Lord, the Morbus Mortis, would like to speak to you… and come to a deal."
Prince of Death.
The real attack.
The title slid into my mind and tried to set.
My thoughts slowed.
Breath caught.
For a moment, the world asked me to accept a crown made of wrong metal.
Then—
a scent cut through everything.
Not smoke.
Not perfume.
A presence that entered my alignment.
Azazel.
The hook slipped as truth flooded the crack.
You know who your father is.
Not a threat.
A reminder.
An anchor.
The false title failed.
Order snapped into place.
My mind cleared—sharp, cold, correct.
Thomas stood in front of me, shield up, bleeding but unbroken.
The elder's smile twitched.
"You resist," he murmured. "Good. My Lord enjoys difficult purchases."
Lightning crawled along my arms. Wind tightened around my shoulders.
Azazel didn't make me softer.
He made me right.
I stepped forward.
"Come then," I said quietly.
Not a challenge.
Permission.
"Let's see what your Lord thinks he's buying."