Colours crashed over Lucian like a tide of molten glass.
Ruby red seared across his vision, followed by waves of topaz that tasted like lightning and joy. Azure blue filled his lungs until he couldn't tell if he was breathing water or sorrow. The colours had weight here, substance that pressed against his skin and tried to force their way inside.
He thrashed in the prismatic ocean, searching for something solid, something real. But there was only colour and the terrible certainty that if he opened his mouth to scream, the rainbow would pour down his throat and transform him into something that was no longer human.
Emerald green wrapped around his ankles like seaweed made of envy and growth, dragging him deeper. Violet whispers promised secrets if he would just stop fighting, just let go, just become—
A child's laughter echoed through the spectrum, high and terrified.
Lucian twisted toward the sound, glimpsing a small figure drowning in crimson light. He reached out, fingers stretching through the resistant medium of liquid colour, but the harder he swam, the further the child drifted. Other shapes writhed in the rainbow depths—a woman with flowers in her hair sinking into obsidian darkness, an old soldier dissolving into silver mist, a village consumed by flames that burned in every hue imaginable.
The laughter turned to screaming.
"No!" The word tore from Lucian's throat, and with it came light—not the drowning rainbow, but something pure and unified. It burst from his chest like a star being born, and for one perfect moment, he could see clearly. The child reaching back toward him. The woman's eyes opening in recognition. The soldier raising a salute as he faded. The village—
Lucian woke with his right hand blazing.
Thin threads of colour writhed between his fingers like captive lightning. Ruby. Topaz. Azure. They danced across his palm in defiance of the pre-dawn darkness of his room. He clenched his fist, focusing on the rough wool blanket, the smell of sawdust from his father's workshop below, the distant crow of the Hendersons' rooster. Real things. Solid things.
The colours faded reluctantly, leaving only mundane flesh behind.
Lucian forced his breathing to slow, counting heartbeats the way Keeren had taught him. Four in, hold for seven, eight out. The tremor in his hands eased from earthquake to mere vibration. He sat up, sheets soaked with sweat despite the cool spring air drifting through his window.
Through the thin walls, he heard his father's steady snoring and Mira's quiet sleep-mumbles about catching fireflies. Safe. Everyone was safe. It was just a dream.
Except his dreams had been getting worse for weeks now, and the colours harder to contain during the day.
The rooster crowed again, joined by others throughout Oakhaven. Lucian swung his feet to the floor, toes finding the familiar grooves in the wooden boards. No point trying to sleep now. Besides, working with his hands always helped quiet the storm inside.
He dressed in the dark with practiced efficiency—worn trousers, linen shirt, leather vest that had been his father's. The clothes of a carpenter's son, not someone who could accidentally shatter windows with a stray thought. His reflection in the small mirror showed a young man who could have been anyone. Average height, common brown hair, pleasant but unremarkable features.
Except for the eyes. Even in the dim light, they held too much colour, shifting between green and amber like leaves caught between seasons.
Lucian looked away and headed downstairs.
The workshop smelled of cedar shavings and linseed oil. His father's current project—an ornate cabinet commissioned by Merchant Aldwin—stood half-finished near the window. Lucian ran his fingers along the smooth wood, feeling the grain's natural patterns. Wood was honest. It didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was.
He selected a piece of oak that would become part of the cabinet's door and began to work. The rhythmic scrape of the plane against wood settled his nerves. Shavings curled away in perfect spirals, each pass revealing the beauty hidden in the raw timber. This was a magic everyone could understand and appreciate.
"You're up early."
Lucian didn't startle—he'd heard his father's footsteps on the stairs. Julian Ashford moved with the careful precision of a man who'd spent forty years working with sharp tools. His hands, scarred and strong, could craft wonders from wood but trembled slightly when they touched his son's shoulder.
"Couldn't sleep," Lucian said, not pausing in his work. "Figured I'd make myself useful."
Julian examined the wood with a critical eye. "Good grain alignment. You've gotten better at reading the timber." He paused, and Lucian could feel the weight of unspoken words. "Bad dreams again?"
"Just excitement about the festival." The lie came easily, wrapped in a smile that had deflected a thousand worried questions. "You know how I get before big events."
His father's expression suggested he knew exactly what kind of excitement woke someone before dawn with trembling hands, but he didn't press. They worked in companionable silence as the sky lightened from black to grey, two men finding peace in the ancient rhythm of craftsmanship.
"Morning, slugabeds!" Mira burst into the workshop like sunrise itself, already dressed in her festival clothes—a blue dress with embroidered flowers that she'd spent weeks perfecting. At fifteen, she had their mother's delicate features but their father's determined jaw. "The Veilfall Festival waits for no one, and we still have half the lanterns to hang!"
Julian smiled, the expression transforming his weathered face. "The festival doesn't start until evening, little moth."
"Which is why we need every minute to prepare!" She spun in a circle, making her skirts flare. "This is going to be the best festival ever. I can feel it."
Lucian caught the brief shadow that crossed their father's face. They all felt things differently since Mother had passed two years ago. The festivals were brighter and more desperate now, as if joy had become something that required conscious effort.
"Speaking of preparations," Mira continued, producing a scroll from seemingly nowhere, "I have a list. Lucian, you're in charge of organising the youth volunteers for decoration duty. Father, Merchant Aldwin needs his cabinet delivered before noon so he can display his foreign wines. I'll be coordinating with Mrs. Henderson about the food tables."
"When did you become the festival coordinator?" Julian asked, amused.
"When Elder Molnar realised I'm the only one who actually reads his planning notes." She fixed Lucian with a stare that was uncomfortably perceptive. "Are you feeling alright? You look pale."
"I'm fine." He set down the plane and stretched, making his movements deliberately casual. "Just need some breakfast and I'll be ready to wrangle volunteers."
Mira's eyes narrowed slightly, but before she could voice her scepticism, a familiar whistle echoed from the street. Three short notes, two long—Keeren's signature.
"Punctual as always," Julian muttered. "Go on, boy. Can't keep your teacher waiting."
Lucian grabbed a heel of yesterday's bread and headed for the door, grateful for the escape. Behind him, he heard Mira say quietly, "He's getting worse, isn't he?"
He didn't hear his father's response.
Keeren Ironwood waited in the small courtyard behind their house, surrounded by the training posts Julian had helped install years ago. At sixty-seven, the old soldier moved with an economy that spoke of hard-won survival. His grey beard was neatly trimmed, his clothes simple but clean. Most people saw a retired guard who taught village boys how to throw a proper punch.
Lucian saw the way Keeren's eyes constantly tracked exits, how his weight stayed balanced on the balls of his feet, the pale scar across his throat that he never explained.
"You look like hammered shit," Keeren said by way of greeting.
"Charming as always." Lucian took his position across from the older man. "Are we doing forms or sparring today?"
"Neither." Keeren pulled something from his pocket—a smooth river stone. "Catch."
He tossed it underhand, a gentle arc that a child could have managed. But as the stone reached the apex of its flight, Keeren's entire demeanour shifted. The lazy morning disappeared, replaced by killing intent so focused it had physical weight.
Lucian's body reacted before his mind could process. Colour exploded from his palm—a crackling shield of azure that sent the stone ricocheting into the wall. The moment shattered. Keeren was just an old man again, and Lucian stood with his hand outstretched, wisps of blue energy still dancing between his fingers.
"Fuck," Lucian breathed, forcing the colour to dissipate.
"Better," Keeren said, retrieving the stone. "Your reaction time is improving, but you're still bleeding energy like a slit wineskin. In a real fight, that display would have every Vigil sensor in three leagues screaming."
"Good thing we're not in a real fight then." Lucian tried to keep his tone light, but his heart hammered against his ribs. The colours were getting easier to call. Too easy.
Keeren studied him with eyes that had seen too much. "The Hendersons mentioned strange lights in the Whisperwood last week. Garrett's sheep won't go near the north pasture. And young Tam swears he saw flowers blooming in impossible colours near the old well."
"So? Weird things happen near Veilfall. Everyone knows that."
"Aye. And everyone knows to be careful when weird becomes dangerous." Keeren pulled out a second stone. "Again. This time, try not to light up like a festival lantern."
They trained for an hour, Keeren finding increasingly creative ways to trigger Lucian's defensive instincts. Each time, the colours came faster, stronger. By the end, Lucian could summon a barrier of pure force—colourless, invisible, the way Vigil doctrine demanded. It felt like trying to paint with grey when his soul screamed for the full spectrum.
"That's enough," Keeren finally said. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool morning. "You're as ready as I can make you."
"Ready for what?"
The old soldier was quiet for a long moment, absently rubbing the spot where something had once hung around his neck. A pendant, maybe. Or a medallion.
"For whatever comes next," he said finally. "The world has a way of testing us when we least expect it. Best to be prepared."
"You're unusually cryptic this morning."
"And you're unusually powerful." Keeren's expression softened. "Your mother would be proud of how hard you work to control it. But Lucian... there may come a time when control isn't enough. When you have to choose between hiding and acting."
"I know what my choice would be."
"Aye. That's what worries me." He clapped Lucian on the shoulder. "Go on. I hear there's a festival to prepare for, and Mira will skin us both if you're late."
Lucian jogged back toward the house but paused at the courtyard entrance. "Keeren? Thank you. For everything."
"Don't thank me yet, boy. The day's not over."
The town square transformed throughout the morning as volunteers swarmed over every surface. Lucian threw himself into the work, grateful for the distraction. He directed the hanging of lanterns, mediated disputes over booth placement, and somehow convinced the Hartley twins that no, they couldn't build a tower of festival cakes tall enough to "touch the Veil."
His natural charisma made the work easier. People wanted to help when he asked, wanted to be part of whatever he was building. It was a different kind of magic, one that didn't require Aetheria or Resonance. Just a smile, a remembered name, a genuine interest in their lives.
"Lucian! The puppet stage is crooked!" Emma Fairweather, all of seven years old and deadly serious about theatrical presentation, tugged on his vest.
"A crooked stage? That's practically criminal." He let her drag him to where a group of children practiced their traditional Veilfall play. The stage did indeed list slightly to the left. "What's the show this year?"
"The Shepherd's Dream," piped up Matthias the Younger, not to be confused with Matthias the Elder or Matthias the Miller. Oakhaven had a limited imagination when it came to names. "I play the shepherd who falls asleep and visits the Astral Weave!"
"And I'm the Dream Guardian who guides him safely home," Emma added proudly.
"I'm a nightmare wolf!" This from Pip, who demonstrated with an enthusiastic but not particularly frightening howl.
Lucian knelt to adjust the stage supports, but his hands stilled as he noticed the painted backdrop. Swirls of colour depicted the Astral Weave in childish but eerily accurate detail. Too accurate. The way the painted colours seemed to move in the corner of his eye...
"Who painted this?" he asked carefully.
"Old Vera," Emma said. "She said she copied it from a dream."
A chill ran down Lucian's spine. Vera was nearly ninety and had never shown a hint of Shaper talent. If she was having true dreams of the Weave...
"It's beautiful," he said, finishing with the supports. "I can't wait to see the performance tonight."
The children beamed and returned to their rehearsal. Lucian watched them for a moment—innocent faces playing at powers they couldn't understand. He hoped they never would.
The morning progressed in a blur of activity. Three times, someone mentioned odd happenings—birds flying in perfect spirals, water in the fountain turning briefly iridescent, shadows falling in directions that didn't match the sun. Each anomaly was dismissed with nervous laughter and festival excitement, but Lucian felt them like discordant notes in a familiar song.
"You're brooding," Mira announced, appearing at his elbow with a water flask. "You always get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're overthinking."
"I'm not brooding. I'm supervising." He accepted the water gratefully. Around them, the square had transformed into a riot of colourful banners, paper lanterns, and booth frames. "Besides, someone needs to make sure the Hartley twins don't actually try to build that tower."
"They're currently attempting to train pigeons to fly in formation. I've redirected their energy." She studied him with those too-knowing eyes. "The dreams were bad again last night."
It wasn't a question. Lucian considered deflecting, but Mira had a way of seeing through his masks that no one else could match.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "They're getting more vivid. More... urgent."
"Have you told Father?"
"What would I say? That I dream of drowning in colours while the world burns? He worries enough as it is."
Mira was quiet for a moment, watching a group of women arrange flowers on the memorial stone at the square's centre. Mother's name was carved there, along with all the others Oakhaven had lost to illness, accident, or the occasional Veil breach.
"She told me once that power isn't good or evil," Mira said softly. "It's just power. What matters is the hand that wields it and the heart that guides it."
"When did you get so wise?"
"When my older brother was too busy being charming to notice." She bumped his shoulder affectionately. "Whatever's coming, Lucian, you won't face it alone. You've got Father, and Keeren, and me. Even the Hartley twins, Aether help us all."
Before he could respond, Elder Molnar's voice boomed across the square. "Attention! Attention, good people of Oakhaven! I need strong backs to help move the festival wine from Aldwin's cellar!"
"That's my cue," Lucian said, grateful for the interruption. Emotional conversations had a way of weakening his control. "Try not to reorganise the entire festival while I'm gone."
"No promises!" Mira called after him.
The afternoon sun beat down as Lucian helped roll barrels from Merchant Aldwin's extensive cellars. The work was mindless, physical, perfect for keeping his power buried. But even as he strained with the other volunteers, he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness in the air.
The Aetheric currents were disturbed. He could see them if he let his vision shift just slightly—streams of barely visible energy that flowed through all things. Usually they moved in lazy, predictable patterns. Today they churned and eddied like a river before a storm.
"Oi, Lucian!" Jonas who had just returned from a year's apprenticeship in the city, waved from across the square. "Heard you've been running the youth volunteers like a tiny army!"
"Someone has to keep them from burning down the village in their enthusiasm." Lucian clasped his old friend's hand, noting the new calluses from forge work. "How's city life treating you?"
"Can't complain. The money's good, and my master's not a complete bastard. But I'll tell you, they don't have festivals like this." Jonas lowered his voice. "Though I heard some odd things on the road. Travellers talking about increased ephemeral sightings, Vigil patrols doubling their routes. You haven't noticed anything strange here?"
Lucian's smile never wavered. "You know Oakhaven. Our biggest excitement is when Farmer Henrik's prize pig escapes. Again."
Jonas laughed, but something in his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Right. Well, I'll be staying through tomorrow at least. We should catch up properly. Maybe you can finally beat me at knife throwing."
"I beat you the last three times!"
"Lies and slander!" Jonas moved off with a wave, called by other friends eager for news from the wider world.
The sun tracked across the sky, and gradually the preparation gave way to anticipation. Children ran through the streets wearing flower crowns. Musicians tuned their instruments. The smell of cooking food drifted from a dozen sources.
Lucian found himself on the platform where the memorial flame would be lit to begin the festivities. From here, he could see all of Oakhaven spread below—the tight-packed houses near the square, the outlying farms, the dark line of the Whisperwood to the north. His home. The place he'd die to protect.
The colours stirred beneath his skin, responding to the thought.
"Impressive work." Elder Molnar climbed the steps with surprising agility for his seventy years. His ceremonial robes rustled with each movement. "You've got your mother's gift for bringing people together."
"Just doing my part, Elder."
"Hmm." Molnar surveyed the square with satisfaction. "Your part seems to involve making everyone else do their parts with unusual enthusiasm. That's a kind of magic in itself."
Lucian tensed, but the Elder's expression remained placid.
"Tell me," Molnar continued, "what do you know of the first Veilfall Festival?"
"Same as everyone. It celebrates the creation of the Veil that protects us from the worst of the Astral Weave."
"The traditional answer. But traditions have a way of smoothing rough edges. The first festival wasn't a celebration—it was a mourning. For all the wonders lost when the realms were severed. For the dreamers who could no longer touch infinity." The old man's eyes grew distant. "It was said that colours had taste then, and music could reshape stone, and a determined soul could walk between worlds as easily as crossing a room."
"That sounds..."
"Dangerous? Chaotic? Yes. But also beautiful. The founders of the festival understood something we've forgotten—the Veil isn't just protection. It's also a prison. And prisons, no matter how necessary, should be acknowledged as such."
The Elder's gaze sharpened, fixing on Lucian with uncomfortable intensity.
"Some are born with keys to that prison in their very blood. They face a terrible choice—use the key and risk everything, or leave it unturned and wonder forever what lies beyond." He patted Lucian's shoulder with a gnarled hand. "But that's philosophy for another day. The sun sets, and we have a festival to begin!"
Molnar descended the platform, leaving Lucian alone with racing thoughts. How much did the Elder know? How much did everyone know? Sometimes he felt like the entire village was engaged in an elaborate dance of pretence, everyone aware of the secret but agreeing to look away.
The sky painted itself in shades of rose and gold as the sun touched the horizon. Veilfall. The moment when the barrier between worlds grew thin and dreams leaked through like light through coloured glass. Already, Lucian could see the first signs—fireflies that glowed in impossible shades, shadows that fell upward, the faint sound of distant music that had no source.
People gathered in the square, dressed in their finest clothes. Children clutched lanterns they'd made themselves, each one unique. The puppet stage stood ready. Musicians took their positions. The festival wine flowed freely.
And beneath it all, barely noticeable unless one knew to look, the Aetheric currents writhed like living things.
"Lucian!" A small hand tugged at his vest. Emma again, now in full costume. "It's almost time! You have to light your lantern!"
He let her pull him down from the platform into the crowd. His father stood with other craftsmen, Mira nearby with her circle of friends. Keeren leaned against a wall, watchful. Jonas laughed at something one of the merchants said. Hundreds of faces he'd known all his life, gathered in joy and fellowship.
"Here!" Emma thrust a lantern into his hands. Unlike the elaborate constructions others carried, this was simple—white paper, unadorned. "I made it especially for you. So you can paint it however you want!"
The innocence of the gesture nearly broke his control. Colour trembled at his fingertips, wanting to transform the blank canvas into something spectacular. He forced it down, smiled, and produced a piece of charcoal from his pocket instead.
"Let's see what we can do without magic," he said, sketching quick designs on the paper. A sun, a moon, stars. Simple shapes that nonetheless made Emma clap with delight.
Elder Molnar took the platform as the last light faded from the sky. His voice carried easily across the square.
"Friends! Family! Welcome to the Veilfall Festival!" Cheers erupted. "Tonight we celebrate the barrier that keeps us safe, the dreams that remind us of wonder, and the community that sustains us through all trials. Let the festival begin!"
He touched a torch to the memorial flame. Fire bloomed upward, and as if it were a signal, hundreds of lanterns sparked to life throughout the square. The paper constructions glowed from within, casting dancing shadows and warm light. Music swelled. People began to dance.
"Come on!" Emma grabbed Lucian's hand. "The puppet show is starting!"
He allowed himself to be pulled toward the stage where children had gathered in an excited semicircle. The painted backdrop of the Astral Weave seemed even more vivid in the lantern light, colours shifting and swirling in ways that made his chest tight.
The show began with Matthias the Younger as the shepherd, falling asleep in his field. The moment his head touched the ground, the lights dimmed and strange music played—pipes and drums that evoked otherworldly spaces. Emma emerged as the Dream Guardian, draped in scarves that fluttered without wind.
"Welcome, dreamer, to the realm beyond sleep," she intoned with adorable seriousness. "Here your wishes take form and your fears have teeth. Stay close, and I will guide you home."
Pip bounded onstage with an enthusiastic growl, representing the dangers of unguarded dreaming. The children gasped and giggled as the shepherd fled from the nightmare wolf, protected by the Guardian's light.
It was innocent. Traditional. Safe.
So why did Lucian's power rage against his control, demanding release?
The lanterns flickered. Just for a moment, their warm yellow glow shifted—red, blue, green, violet. A rainbow pulse that lasted less than a heartbeat. Most dismissed it as a trick of the light.
But Lucian felt the Veil shudder.
Something was coming. Not tomorrow or next week, but now. Tonight. The certainty hit him like a physical blow, driving air from his lungs. The colours inside him didn't just stir—they screamed.
"And so the shepherd returned home," Emma concluded, "wiser for his journey and grateful for the waking world!"
The children applauded. Parents smiled. Everything was perfect and normal and terrifyingly fragile.
Lucian's hands trembled. The simple lantern in his grip began to glow brighter, the charcoal drawings moving on the paper surface. He set it down carefully, backing away from the crowd. He needed space. Air. Distance from all these people he might hurt if his control—
A child screamed.
Not playful shrieking or delighted squealing. True terror, high and sharp. Heads turned toward the sound—the Fairweather booth where Emma's younger brother pointed at the sky with a shaking hand.
"The stars are falling!"
Lucian looked up, and his blood turned to ice.
Lights streaked across the night sky, but they weren't stars. They were tears—places where the Veil had worn so thin that the Astral Weave bled through in drops of liquid light. Each impact point would spawn... something. The only question was what.
"Everyone stay calm!" Elder Molnar's voice cut through the rising panic. "Into the town hall! Quickly but carefully!"
Training took over. Adults grabbed children. Men rushed to gather what weapons they could find. Women herded the elderly toward shelter. But Lucian could see what others couldn't—the Aetheric currents weren't just disturbed anymore. They were shredded.
A tear opened directly above the puppet stage.
The painted backdrop of the Astral Weave suddenly wasn't painted at all. It was a window, and through it, something looked back. Something vast and hungry and made of every nightmare that had ever stalked a child's sleep.
It pushed through.
The puppet stage exploded outward as the creature emerged—a Dread Hound the size of a horse, its body an ever-shifting mass of shadow and teeth. Eyes like burning coals fixed on the fleeing children, and its howl was the sound of every parent's worst fear made manifest.
Keeren moved. For an old man with a bad leg, he crossed the distance impossibly fast. His walking stick swept up, cracking against the creature's jaw. "Run!" he roared. "All of you, run!"
The Dread Hound shook off the blow and lunged. Keeren rolled aside, but his age showed. The creature's claw caught his shoulder, spinning him into a booth that shattered under the impact.
More tears opened. Grief Grubs poured through like pustulent rain. Anxiety Sprites manifested in swirling clouds. A Shadow Weasel pack materialised in the alleys, cutting off escape routes.
Oakhaven's few guards tried to respond, but they were equipped for bandits and wild animals, not nightmares given form. Lucian watched a guard's spear pass harmlessly through a Grief Grub that latched onto his face, draining the colour from his skin as it fed on his sorrow.
His father appeared at his side, carpenter's hammer in hand. "Lucian, get to the hall!"
"I can help—"
"No!" Julian's face was carved granite. "Not like that. Never like that. Go!"
But Lucian couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Because Emma stood frozen in the square's centre as the Dread Hound oriented on her. Seven years old. Flower crown askew. Still clutching the Guardian's light from the puppet show.
The monster tensed to spring.
Time slowed. Lucian saw it all with terrible clarity—the trajectory that would carry the Hound to Emma in a single bound. Keeren struggling to rise, too far away. Guards fighting their own battles. His father raising a useless hammer. Mira screaming his name.
And the colours inside him, patient no longer.
Choose, they seemed to whisper. Control or connection. Hiding or acting. Safety or salvation.
The Hound leaped.
Lucian chose.
"Emma, close your eyes!"
Power erupted from Lucian like a breaking dam. Not controlled, not careful, not any of the things Keeren had tried to teach him. Just raw, desperate need given form in a prismatic explosion that turned night into day.
Ruby rage at the creature threatening a child. Azure determination to protect. Topaz hope that he could make a difference. Emerald will that refused to let innocence die. They burst from his outstretched hands in a spiralling torrent that caught the Dread Hound mid-leap.
The impact sounded like thunder. The Hound's shadow-flesh met Lucian's emotional hurricane and lost. It tumbled through the air, slamming into the fountain with enough force to crack stone. Water erupted, briefly forming impossible shapes as it caught the light still pouring from Lucian's hands.
But he wasn't done. Couldn't stop. Years of suppression had built a reservoir of power that demanded release. Chroma constructs materialised without conscious thought—shields of crystallised calm blocking Anxiety Sprites from reaching fleeing townspeople, spears of focused courage piercing Grief Grubs, walls of solid joy cutting off Shadow Weasel flanking attempts.
"By the Veil," someone whispered. "He's a Shaper."
The Dread Hound rose from the ruined fountain, shadow-flesh knitting back together. Its coal eyes fixed on Lucian with something that might have been recognition. When it spoke, the words bypassed the ears and carved themselves directly into the mind.
You burn so bright, little star. How long before you collapse into darkness?
It charged again, but this time Lucian was ready. His hands wove patterns Keeren had never taught, pulling on instincts he didn't know he possessed. A construct bloomed between them—not a simple shield but a prismatic lotus that opened layer by layer. Each petal was a different colour, a different emotion, a different denial of the monster's existence.
The Hound hit the construct and began to unravel. Its shadow-flesh couldn't maintain cohesion against the full spectrum of human feeling. But as it dissolved, it laughed.
We are legion. You are one. And you have shown them what you are.
The creature ruptured with a sound like tearing silk, leaving only wisps of nightmare that the wind carried away. Around the square, other ephemeral beings retreated through the tears they'd emerged from, apparently deciding this hunting ground was no longer easy prey.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Lucian stood in the square's heart, breathing hard. The fountain was destroyed. Booths lay in splinters. Scorch marks decorated the cobblestones where his constructs had manifested. And everyone—everyone—was staring at him.
Some faces showed awe. Others, terror. Most were a mixture that Lucian couldn't parse. The colours were fading from his hands, but their light remained in too many eyes.
Emma broke the tableau. She ran forward and wrapped her arms around his legs, sobbing. "You saved me! You're like the Guardian from the story!"
"Shaper," someone else said, and the word rippled through the crowd like stones in still water. "He's a Dream Shaper."
"He saved the children," Mrs. Henderson said firmly.
"He lied to us," Garrett countered. "All these years, pretending to be normal."
"Would you have preferred he let Emma die?" This from Jonas, pushing through the crowd to stand near Lucian. "I just watched him drive off nightmares that were slaughtering us."
"The Vigil—"
"The Vigil isn't here," Elder Molnar interrupted, his ceremonial robes torn but his dignity intact. "Lucian is. And thanks to him, we're alive to have this debate."
But Lucian barely heard them. His legs shook with exhaustion. The colours had receded, but they left him feeling hollow, scraped clean. Using that much power without proper training... Keeren was right. He bled energy like a slit wineskin.
Mira reached him first, checking him for injuries with gentle efficiency. "You absolute fool," she whispered. "You beautiful, brave, absolute fool."
His father stood frozen ten feet away, hammer still raised. Their eyes met across the distance, and Lucian saw his worst fears realised. Not anger in Julian's face. Not disappointment. Just grief for a future that had shattered as surely as the fountain.
"I'm sorry," Lucian said. To his father. To the crowd. To the life he'd just lost. "I'm so—"
The world tilted. His knees buckled. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Keeren's weathered face, split by something that might have been a proud smile.
Lucian dreamed of wings made from every colour that had ever existed, carrying him high above a world that couldn't decide if he was salvation or catastrophe. Far below, a light approached—silver and stern and inevitable as judgment.
The Vigil was coming.