From her earliest years, Emma's magic intertwined with the essence of living creatures. It was not a gift she sought, nor one she understood. It simply was. That autumn afternoon beneath skeletal birches proved no exception. The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of unseen creatures and the whisper of leaves stirred by the wind. Alan floated ahead, his eyes scanning for wild animals, while Emma trailed behind, her gaze wandering.
A faint, labored sound broke the stillness. Emma froze. Her head tilted, her ears straining to catch it again. There it was—a shallow, uneven breath. She turned toward the sound and dropped to the ground. Alan called her name, but she didn't respond. Her focus was elsewhere.
Through the underbrush, a wounded hare emerged. Its hind leg dragged uselessly behind it, crimson droplets marking its path. Briars had torn through its fur, leaving raw, jagged wounds. The creature should have fled at the sight of people, but it didn't. Instead, it moved toward Emma, its twitching paws scraping through the leaf litter. It was as if an invisible force pulled it closer, like metal drawn to a magnet.
Alan moved back, his hand outstretched to stop her, but it was too late. Emma sat up, her delicate hands hovering in the air. Her fingers twitched, and the hare responded. Its movements were jerky and unnatural, as though it were a puppet obeying unseen strings. Emma's unblinking eyes tracked every spasm, every fresh welling of blood from the torn flesh. The red streaks it left behind painted a grim trail through the fallen leaves.
"Emma, stop," Alan called out.
But she didn't. She couldn't. Instead, she gave him a pitiful, innocent look—eyes wider than a newborn puppy—and giggled. He reached for her shoulder, but before he could pull her back—
—PLORK!
The burst came without warning. The hare's fragile body exploded, painting the nearby oak saplings with gore. Emma's giggle, light and innocent moments earlier, twisted into a shriek. Warm droplets spattered her cheeks, and her small hands trembled as she stared at the mess. But it wasn't fear that caused her tremors—it was exasperation or something else.
Alan grabbed her shoulders, pulling her away from the scene—but she wouldn't move. Her wide eyes locked on the remains of the hare, red streaks dripped down her cheek, her lips twitched into a smile—then curled into a terrifying pout. Alan's heart sank.
Emma's growth brought neither safety nor restraint to her magic. What little control she gained during the day unraveled at night. Alan's memories clung tightly to one midsummer disaster—the incident that revealed the true cost of her gift.
They were in their usual clearing, a quiet spot surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers. Emma's laughter rang out as she crawled through the grass, her tiny hands reaching for the petals. Alan watched from a distance, perched on the low branch of a lightning-struck oak, keeping an eye on her as he always did.
The sound of rustling leaves caught his attention. He turned to see a group of children emerging from the undergrowth. They were townsfolk kids, drawn by Emma's laughter. Their faces lit up when they saw her, and they quickly joined her in the clearing. Bare feet tamped circles into the soil as they danced and played. Emma's joy was infectious, rippling through the glade like the chime of distant bells.
But the transformation came just as suddenly as a lightning bolt from a clear sky. One moment, she was giggling as the older boys lifted her into the air. The next, her laughter stopped. Her pupils expanded, swallowing the color of her irises. Her small body tensed, her throat constricting as if gripped by invisible hands. Her eyes widened into that innocent gaze.
The children's laughter turned to screams. Wet, gurgling cries filled the air as their bodies contorted. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, joints swelling grotesquely. Blood moved unnaturally beneath their skin, writhing like trapped eels. Alan leaped from the tree, but he was too late.
A boy's femur snapped, the bone punching through his kneecap. A girl's fingers clawed at her own face, carving deep, bloody runes into her cheeks. Emma stared uncomprehendingly at the carnage, tiny hands still conducting their nightmare symphony.
The cascade began when freckled Marla launched for Emma's outstretched hand.
They made contact, and Emma's magic detonated.
Marla's body twisted violently, her spine bending in ways it was never meant to. Her jaw hung open, her ribcage splitting open like a blossoming flower.
Alan reached Emma, but he couldn't stop the skull from tearing free—THWUCK-Thud! It bounced twice before wedging in blackberry thorns, glassy eyes staring at its still-twitching torso.
SPLURCH! SPLAT! SQUELCH!
Alan swirled around. Jarek. Tomas. Little Lin. Their rupturing heads painted birch trunks red. Emma knelt untouched at the center, cradling Marla's severed hand like a wilted flower, rocking back and forth.
No burial. No fire. They left the clearing as the sunset painted false innocence across the carnage. Let the townsfolk whisper of wolves and vengeful monsters. Let them nail horseshoes above door frames and avert their eyes at the marketplace. Alan still floats by Widow Harn's stall each Tuesday. Her silent tears, a tribute to little Tomas, fell as she handed Lix a loaf of bread.
—
Milla's voice broke through the fog of memory. "Earth to Alan." Her fingers wrapped around Emma's. Alan blinked, the blood-soaked images fading from his mind.
"Her power's always been...fluid," he said quietly. "Uncontainable."
"Like mercury," Milla murmured. "But mercury has rules. We'll figure them out."
A chill crept up Alan's spine as he watched them—Milla's sunburned arm against Emma's porcelain skin, like two halves of an ancient pact. His nails dug into his flesh. Let them have their theories and secret whispers. When the time came, he'd be the one to face the danger—either saving Milla from twisting claws or Emma from thrashing stones.
Whatever it took to keep the city from turning against them—living in one Nedr was more than enough.