Hugo... Verran? Age,24
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The television bathed the room in an uneven, shifting light—pale blue one second, then flushed gold the next. I sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed, robe half undone, hair still damp from the shower, watching myself on the screen like a stranger I didn't quite believe in.
They'd taken footage from the charity event—the Morrison ballroom dressed in amber glass and chandeliers, the soft applause spilling like beads across the crowd. The camera had loved me, too much maybe. It caught that smile I practiced in mirrors, the one that meant nothing but looked sincere.
The reporter's voice filled the room, smooth and honeyed, trained for admiration. "An extraordinary debut," she said. "Hugo Hollands captured not only the crowd's attention but their hearts. The new prodigy of Ebonreach—a name already whispered among the industry's elite. One can only wonder," she added, her tone turning lightly coy, "how long before we see him take on a grander stage."
Her words lingered long after her face disappeared, replaced by another segment, something about the economy or a scandal. I didn't change the channel. I kept watching the static between programs, the gray flutter that came and went like breath.
It should have pleased me. Once, it would have. To hear my name pronounced with that careful reverence, to be discussed as promise instead of pity. But it only made the air in the room feel crowded. The praise pressed against the walls, as if trying to make me fit into a shape I no longer remembered making.
I leaned back, palms flat against the sheets. The fabric was still warm from my body. My reflection in the black glass of the TV looked nothing like the man she described. There was no charisma there. Just tired eyes and a mouth that didn't rest right when no one was watching.
It was strange to see them celebrate what I built on ruin. The performance itself had felt like holding my breath for an hour. Every note had been a bargain; every word, a bruise smoothed over with charm. I could still see Corvian's face at the edge of the crowd, unreadable as always, like he already knew what would follow the applause.
The reporter's line played back in my head: When will he start performing on bigger stages?
I reached for the remote but didn't turn the television off. The noise kept the silence from showing its teeth. Outside, the city stretched under a wide, colorless sky, lights flickering through hotel curtains, the sea somewhere beyond still whispering to the shore.
I thought of Kent, of Igor, of the stage waiting somewhere down the line like a mouth about to open. Then I thought of Corvian's voice, steady and deliberate: You need more power than you have.
I didn't smile. I didn't move. I just watched the screen and waited for my face to disappear completely.
When it did, I rose from the bed, the room still steeped in that dull, shifting light. The television kept whispering to itself behind me, its glow staining the carpet in broken colors. I crossed to the wardrobe and opened it, the hinges sighing as though waking from sleep. The scent of pressed fabric and cedar drifted out—clean, dry, impersonal.
I pulled a shirt from the hanger, black cotton soft beneath my fingers, and slipped it on. The collar brushed my jaw; the fabric clung to the warmth of my skin. The motions steadied me—the quiet ritual of dressing, of pretending to belong in a body that could still choose what to wear. I buttoned the shirt, slow, deliberate, each sound of contact small and precise in the stillness.
The mirror on the inside of the door caught me from the chest up. My reflection looked pale, half-erased in the light. I adjusted the cuffs, smoothed the line of my trousers, then ran a hand through my hair until it fell into something that resembled order.
By the time I reached for the jacket, the television had gone to static. I didn't bother turning it off.
I slipped the jacket on, the fabric cold against my neck, and stood for a moment by the door.
A soft knock came at the door. Three short taps, followed by her voice—light, impatient, sweetened by the smile she always carried when she had something to say.
"Hugo? They want you on the roof now for the rehearsal."
The sound of my name, the weight of the request, felt ordinary enough to be grounding. I stood, adjusted the robe around my waist, and called back, "Yeah. Coming."
When I opened the door, Poppy stood there in her usual disarray of grace—hair tied too loosely, eyes too bright for the hour. She leaned against the doorframe, one heel tapping softly against the carpet.
"Where's Corvian?" she asked, squinting past me as if he might materialize from the shadows.
I shrugged, tugging the edge of my sleeve. "Who knows. Probably tormenting someone from the hotel staff." I stepped out, brushing her shoulder as I added, "Let's go."
Her laughter was quiet, warm enough to fill the hall. I slipped an arm around her waist—more habit than affection—and closed the door behind us. The corridor smelled of polished wood and something floral the hotel insisted on pumping through its vents. The distant hum of the city folded over itself below, softened by the carpeted walls.
We walked toward the elevator, her perfume trailing lightly behind her, sharp and honeyed. When the doors slid open, the air inside was still, holding the stale breath of all who had used it before us. We stepped in.
The ride began in silence. The soft whir of ascent, the numbered glow shifting from one digit to the next. Poppy leaned against the mirrored wall, fixing her hair with one hand.
The elevator stopped with a quiet lurch on the ninth floor. The doors opened, and there he was.
Corvian.
He stood like he belonged to no floor in particular—tall, composed, eyes cutting through the dim reflection of us inside the lift. His presence altered the air, as it always did, turning stillness into attention.
Poppy exhaled a surprised laugh. "Speak of the devil."
He met my gaze first, tilting his head in that measured way that always read as a question, or a warning. I couldn't tell which. I laughed under my breath. "She was just asking about you," I said. "It's an idiom, Corrin."
He stepped inside without answering, and the doors closed behind him with a muted sigh. The air changed again—tighter, quieter. I could feel Poppy glance between us, restless, curious.
"Where have you been?" she asked, breaking the pause.
Corvian's reply came after a heartbeat, smooth and dry. "Bored. So I was taking a walk."
Poppy frowned, searching his face as though testing the truth in his voice. "You know, I just remembered something," she said. "Weren't we supposed to meet before? I remember something like that."
Corvian turned his head slightly, and our eyes met in the reflection. The corner of his mouth twitched. I stayed quiet.
"No," he said, tone even. "Don't recall."
"Are you sure you didn't just stand me up?" she pressed, a teasing note in her voice.
He smiled—not kindly. "You don't even remember if we were supposed to meet or not. Why assume you showed up and I stood you up?"
Poppy hesitated, the light from above catching her cheekbones, then shrugged. "I don't know. It just feels weird."
The elevator climbed in silence after that. The numbers glowed steady: ten, eleven, twelve. Each floor passed with a quiet mechanical sigh, and I found myself watching our reflections instead of the door. Poppy leaned slightly into the corner, Corvian's shadow tall beside mine. He was still looking straight ahead, unreadable.
When the elevator stopped again, the doors parted with their slow metallic bloom. The air on the twelfth floor was cooler, touched by the scent of night air drifting from the roof above.
We stepped out together—three silhouettes leaving the mirrored box behind, our footsteps soft against the carpet. Somewhere above us, the sound of tuning instruments waited, like breath held before a storm.
The door to the roof opened with a sigh of pressure and a breath of cooler air. The city stretched beneath us—its lights trembling like embers scattered across a vast black sea. The roof smelled of concrete and salt, a mixture that clung to the back of my throat. A single spotlight stood near the center where Igor was waiting, his frame outlined against the skyline, posture composed, hands clasped behind his back like a man rehearsing patience.
"Finally, you're here," he said, his accent thick as smoke, the consonants striking hard against the night air.
I offered a half-smile. "Once they told me to come, I didn't waste a second."
He took my hand and shook it firmly, his grip steady, polite, practiced. His palm was cold. When he released it, his eyes shifted to Poppy.
"Hello," he said. "Will you be attending our practice today?"
Poppy laughed softly, brushing her hair from her face. "Yeah, I was thinking about it."
Igor's lips parted into something between charm and command. "I'd prefer if you didn't. We wouldn't want to spoil anything for the crowd, right?"
I caught the way her smile faltered, just a little. My gaze went to Corvian—leaning near the stairwell rail, eyes fixed on Igor, unreadable as ever—then back to Igor himself.
"Yeah," I said, slow, deliberate. "I think it would be better if we didn't spoil anything for you, Pamela."
She blinked, then laughed, the sound light but strained. "Oh, too bad. I really wanted to see. Okay, maybe next time. I'll see you guys later." She turned to Corvian. "Corin, are you coming?"
He shook his head once.
"Okay," she said, softer now. "See you then."
Her footsteps receded toward the door, heels tapping a rhythm that felt too human for this place. When it shut behind her, the night settled heavier, quieter.
I turned to Igor. "I don't appreciate you dismissing my guests like that." My voice came steadier than I felt. "I understand the conditions, I understand what we're doing, but next time, don't talk to my guests like that."
He raised his eyebrows, caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. "Oh, wow. You were offended. I'm sorry if that offended you."
"No," I said. "Not offended. I just didn't appreciate it. It wasn't nice, was it?"
His mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile. "I'm so sorry. You can bring her in if you want to."
I shook my head. "That's fine. I'll let it go this time."
He nodded slowly, as though waiting for my anger to dissolve on its own. Then he clapped his hands once, softly. "Okay. So, we have to agree on the tricks we'll perform together. We must complement each other on stage."
The door opened again.
Kent stepped in, voice rising even before the door shut behind him. "I'm so sorry I'm late again!" He strode toward us, curls slightly disheveled, smile wide, his energy sharp enough to cut through the tension that hung between me and Igor. "You guys are always on the run. Igor here is very punctual when it comes to his time. Always on time." His tone danced between apology and cheer, every word animated, every pause deliberate.
I managed a polite smile. "You're fine, Kent."
"I hope the situation isn't awkward, Hugo," he said, tone lowering into something almost gentle.
I raised a brow. "Why would it be awkward?"
"Because of what happened at Patrick Swanson's party." He said it with a brightness that made my skin crawl. "I wanted to mention it yesterday, but we had Clay and Pamela with us, and I couldn't talk freely. But now, since it's only four of us here, I feel like I can." He smiled as though offering honesty was an act of grace. "So, I hope it's not awkward."
I folded my arms. "No, it's not awkward. It was just uncomfortable. Didn't appreciate what happened there. Don't know what Igor would think of something like that."
Igor frowned slightly. "What happened at the Swanson party?"
"Oh, nothing much," I said. My voice flattened into something dry. "Just a light making-out session with Kent."
Igor's eyes moved from me to Kent.
Kent only shrugged, the corner of his mouth curving. "What can I say? I'm a man in high demand."
Corvian made a sound—not a laugh, not quite. A slow, deliberate click of his tongue, twice, each one separate, measured. His voice followed, low and precise.
"It looks like Kent here thinks this meant something." He took a single step forward, the city's light catching along the line of his jaw. "Anyway, let's not bring what happened in the past to the present, or to what's about to happen next. We should learn and move on from our mistakes—Kent, Hugo." His tone softened into mock civility as he turned toward Igor. "Shall we start?"
Igor nodded, adjusting his cufflinks as if to smooth the air. "Yes," he said. "Let's start."
The rooftop lights dimmed slightly, leaving the skyline to burn against the dark. Kent took his place beside Igor, smile too bright for the hour. Corvian stood behind me, a shadow that breathed. The wind rose, lifting the edges of my jacket, and for a brief moment, the whole city felt like it was holding its breath.
"So," Igor began, his voice steady but thick with accent, the vowels pulled and deliberate. "You're good with fire, yes? Fire and optical illusion. What else?"
I tilted my head slightly, tasting the challenge in his tone. "Well, optical illusion basically includes everything, don't you think?"
He gestured with a lazy hand for me to continue.
"I can move objects from afar," I said, pacing a slow half-circle around him. "Bend their shapes, change what they look like—color, form, even texture. I can rewrite what people see until they believe it's truth. And yes, fire." I raised my palm, feeling the air heat before the spark caught. "All its shapes and forms." The flame curved like a pet under my hand, then died when I closed my fist.
Igor watched without expression. "Since you've been following me for so long," he said, "you already know what I can do."
"Of course," I said. "You can control the elements—air, water, dirt, and fire too. But if I'm being honest…" I let my voice linger. "Fire isn't really your domain. From what I've seen, you never favored it. Your shows lean on wind, pressure, sound—the natural movement of things. Fire doesn't move for you the way it does for me."
He gave a quiet smile, brief and unrevealing. "Exactly. And what else do you know about me, Hugo?"
I studied him, his eyes sharp as glass under the roof lights. "You can hold your breath longer than anyone I've ever met," I said. "Not a trick—control. Your body knows how to still itself. You can slow your pulse until it almost stops. You use it when you perform those drowning illusions, don't you?"
He tilted his head, saying nothing.
"And you can change air pressure," I went on, voice calm, deliberate. "I've seen the way curtains move when you walk past them, how the air thickens just before you do something. You can shift sound too—mute it, amplify it. Once, in one of your older performances, the violin stopped playing in the background, but no one noticed. You'd folded the silence around it."
Igor's smile deepened by a fraction, the kind that hid more than it revealed. "You pay attention."
"Someone has to."
He laughed softly, the sound low and brief, then crossed his arms. "You think you know me, Hugo?"
"I think I've watched you enough to understand how you work."
The wind moved between us, cold and restless, carrying the sea's scent from somewhere below. The roof lights cast long, wavering shadows across the floor—his shadow crisp, mine scattered at the edges like smoke.
He stepped closer. "Then you must know," he said, "that what I do and what you do cannot coexist on stage unless one of us yields."
I smiled, slow and thin. "Then I hope you're the one who knows how."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Corvian shift his weight. His voice didn't come, but his silence pressed heavier, like warning. Kent looked between us, the usual brightness dimming for once. The tension had shape now, real enough to touch.
Igor's eyes caught the light, sharp and reflective. "We'll see," he said quietly. "Let's begin."
Corvian moved first, wordless as always. He found a seat at one of the low tables near the edge of the roof, where the light from the city brushed his face unevenly, cutting through his profile like the mark of something ancient. His movements were calm, measured, belonging to a creature that didn't need to prove its presence.
Kent started toward him, all noise and brightness, that spring in his step that always made the air feel thinner. He reached for the chair beside Corvian—but before his hand met the backrest, it slid across the floor on its own, scraping a slow line through the silence and stopping just out of reach.
Kent paused, blinked, then laughed under his breath. "Alright," he said softly, pretending not to mind.
Corvian didn't look at him. He rested an elbow on the table, eyes lowered, as if the motion hadn't even happened.
I caught myself almost smiling. Almost. There was satisfaction in seeing him remind Kent of boundaries the rest of us could only name in private. Still, I kept my expression steady and turned my attention back to Igor.
"Show me dirt," I said.
Igor raised his hand without hesitation, his fingers loosening in a slow, deliberate motion. From his palm, dirt began to appear—first a trickle, then a steady pour, as if the soil itself bled from his skin. It was dark and fine, too even to be natural, cascading through the air in a quiet veil that caught the rooftop light. The grains drifted downward in perfect rhythm, each particle suspended for a heartbeat before surrendering to gravity.
The moment the earth left his hand, I moved. The air around us tightened, drawing heat from somewhere deep within my chest. I lifted a finger and let the spark form there, a thread of fire that caught the falling dirt midair.
The soil ignited—not into ash or smoke, but into shape. Each fragment liquefied, molten for an instant, before solidifying again into orbs that hovered between us. They glowed faintly at first, then deepened into the color of burnt amber. The particles reformed into drops that looked like water made tangible, their surfaces rippling as though reflecting some unseen flame beneath. They hung suspended in the air, shifting and turning with slow grace, light bending along their curves.
Igor's eyes followed them. His brow furrowed, a line cutting through the composure he wore so easily.
"Wait a damn minute," he said. "I'm not here to serve you."
I smiled. "Alright. Then what do you want to do next? I'll accommodate you."
He gave a low laugh and stepped forward, his tone turning sharp. "Let's test your control, then. You handle illusion, yes? Let's see how you do when I set the stage."
He spread his hands, and the ground responded. The concrete beneath our feet began to ripple, shifting as though the surface remembered being earth. Pebbles rolled toward the center of the roof, gathering into a small whirl of dirt that rose in spirals, circling us. The wind carried grit into the air, the dust rising like smoke.
I stood still, letting it build. The soil thickened, shaping itself into a ring that enclosed me. Then, without warning, Igor clenched his fist—and the circle collapsed inward.
I moved before it reached me. My fingers curled, pulling from the illusion instead of resisting it. The dirt froze mid-fall, the ring around me suspended in perfect symmetry. Then the pieces began to turn—each fragment glowing as if lit from within. The earth lost its color, bleeding from brown to white, until the entire formation resembled shards of glass held in air.
Igor's control faltered. I could see it in the tightening of his jaw, in the subtle shift of his shoulders. I caught his gaze and smiled faintly.
"You wanted a stage," I said. "Here it is."
The shards began to move, swirling upward like fragments of a storm that obeyed only me. The air shimmered with heat as the glass caught fire—not red, not orange, but a cold, radiant gold.
Igor tried to steady it, but I had already taken the rhythm from him. The dirt he conjured no longer belonged to the ground. It belonged to me.
He lowered his hand finally, and the shards softened, losing their glow until they turned once again to dust. The air quieted.
"You overstep," Igor said softly, his accent cutting through the wind.
"Only when I'm invited to," I answered.
From the table nearby, Corvian gave a slow, knowing laugh that barely reached the air. Kent pretended not to notice, though his eyes shone with that restless delight that came whenever someone bled dignity.
The rooftop felt smaller after that, the silence denser, as if it too had chosen a side.
Igor's eyes gleamed with a satisfaction that bordered on challenge. The night was deep enough now that the city lights below shimmered like water, the whole horizon trembling in gold and glass. He rolled his shoulders once, the movement sharp against the air, and said, "Now, let's try something else. You've had your fun with fire and dirt. Let's see what happens when we deal with water."
He spread his hands. From the emptiness between them, vapor began to bloom, gathering until droplets formed in the air—small, perfect spheres that trembled like pearls. They hovered for a heartbeat, then grew, folding into long threads that wove through one another until they became a floating ribbon of liquid, twisting above the rooftop.
It was beautiful in its simplicity, cold light catching against its surface. A reflection shimmered there—the city, me, the world turned sideways in water.
"Your turn," Igor said, his tone clipped but expectant.
I nodded and lifted my palm. I could feel the power in me stir, the familiar heat that sat beneath my ribs, the one that always rose at my command. I reached for the water, expecting it to yield the way fire did, to answer my thought before it was even fully formed.
Nothing.
I tried again, slower this time, drawing from the depth I always went to when I wanted to shape reality itself. Still nothing. The water hung where Igor left it, cold, unbothered, obedient to him alone.
For a moment, I didn't understand. It wasn't that I failed to focus—it was as if something had turned the key inside me and locked the door shut. The air felt heavier, the energy in my veins muted. I glanced at Corvian.
He met my eyes, still seated at the far table, and gave a slow shake of his head. A warning. His expression didn't change, but the movement was deliberate enough that I understood it wasn't refusal. It was instruction.
I swallowed and lowered my hand.
Igor's mouth curved slightly, not cruelly, but with the certainty of someone convinced the scales had tipped. He drew the water upward again, twisting it into a column that broke into a soft spray, falling like rain around us.
"Oh," he said, mock concern touching his voice. "I guess this one didn't work out. Are you alright, Hugo? Why didn't you react?"
I smiled faintly, though my pulse still felt slow in my throat. "This one is…" I paused, letting the silence drag, the performance of hesitation working for me now. "More powerful than me?"
Igor laughed—a full, rich sound that carried in the open air. "No way, I don't believe this. The last two tricks you were magnificent, and now your powers are gone?" He turned toward Corvian. "What's going on?"
Corvian lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, his expression unreadable.
I looked back at Igor, forcing my smile to return. "I guess now we have an idea what we're going to do on stage, right?"
"Of course," Igor said, still smiling. "We'll complement each other. Until someone yields."
"Right," I said. "Let's make sure we don't burn the stage… or the guests."
He laughed again, this time easier, the tension dissolving. "Yeah, sure. Fancy lunch together? Let's have lunch together."
"I—" I began, unsure if I should buy the warmth or ignore it. "Okay. Yeah, let's have lunch. I need to go change first, though."
"Fantastic," Igor said, clapping his hands once. "Let's move."
I turned toward the stairs, letting the cold air hit my face. Behind me, his voice carried in soft conversation with Kent. Corvian followed at a steady pace, his presence trailing close but never intruding.
Inside the elevator, the noise of the city dulled. The doors slid shut, cutting us off from the rooftop light.
Corvian spoke first, his tone quiet and precise. "Sorry about the last bit. But you shouldn't give him everything. Let him think he can overpower you. On stage, we'll show him real power."
The reflection of us in the elevator wall wavered in the dim light—his face calm, mine still burning faintly with what I'd held back.
I exhaled and nodded. "I got what you meant when you shook your head."
He smiled, small and knowing. "I love how we're on the same wavelength. So entertaining."
The elevator began to move, steady and slow. I leaned against the mirrored wall, letting the silence fill the space between us. For once, I didn't answer. I only watched our reflections climb, both of us caught in the same rising box of light—two shadows rehearsing what the world would soon call a miracle.