The third morning in Smallville felt different. By now, the unpacked boxes in the hallway were finally starting to look like furniture instead of obstacles, and the silence of the Kansas plains didn't feel quite so deafening. The air was crisp, smelling of damp earth and distant woodsmoke, and for the first time since we'd crossed the state line, I didn't feel like I was vibrating out of my skin.
I stood in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting my favorite denim jacket. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and visualized that inner lake of blue Mana. I didn't try to pull it out; I just smoothed it over, like tucking a blanket around a sleeping baby. When I opened my eyes, my skin looked normal. No sparks. No hum. Just an eight-year-old kid with a fresh haircut and a steady gaze. After two days of Grandmother Pandora's intense drills, I finally had enough of a grip on my spark to walk around without looking like a static-electricity accident.
"Look at you," Mama said, leaning against the doorframe. She was dressed in a sharp, yellow sundress that made her red Mana undertones pop, even though she was keeping her light tucked away beneath the surface. "Hands out of your pockets, head up. You feeling steady?"
"I feel like a human, Mama," I joked, flexing my fingers and watching the way the sunlight hit my skin. No blue mist. No flickering light. "No blue stuff. I promise."
"Good. Because Aunt Rose is about to have a nervous breakdown if she doesn't see a storefront that isn't a tractor dealership," Mama laughed.
"I heard that!" Rose shouted from downstairs. Her voice drifted up from the parlor, accompanied by the sharp clack of her heels on the hardwood. "And I'm not joking! If I don't get a decent cup of coffee in the next twenty minutes, I'm going to start levitating the furniture just for entertainment!"
We piled into the station wagon and made the short drive into the heart of Smallville. It wasn't like New York, where the buildings reached for the clouds and the streets were a river of yellow taxis. This was a town built on a human scale, where everything felt sturdy and permanent.
We pulled onto 176th Street, the main artery of the town. It was lined with brick buildings that looked like they'd been there since the dawn of time, with colorful awnings and wide sidewalks. It was picturesque—the kind of place where everyone knows your name and the town square feels like everyone's front yard.
"Well," Rose said, stepping out of the car and adjusting her oversized sunglasses with a flick of her wrist. "It's quaint. In a we-don't-have-a-Sephora kind of way."
"It's charming, Rose. Try to use your nice voice," Mama reminded her, smoothing out her dress as we stepped onto the sidewalk.
As we walked down the street, I noticed people staring. It wasn't mean staring; it was the kind of look you give a rare bird that landed in your backyard. We were new, we were stylish, and we were definitely the only Black family on the block. But every time someone made eye contact, Mama gave them a dazzling smile and a polite "Good morning," which seemed to disarm them instantly.
"First stop," Rose pointed a manicured finger toward a storefront with a steaming mug on the sign. "The Beanery. If their espresso is burnt, we're moving back to Brooklyn."
Inside, The Beanery smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon. It was cozy, with mismatched wooden chairs and a chalkboard menu. A group of men in flannel shirts sat in the corner, nursing black coffees and talking about the rain forecast.
Behind the counter was a tall, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a friendly, tired face. His nametag read Hank. He was wiping down a portafilter with the practiced ease of someone who had served half the town every morning for twenty years.
"Morning," Hank said, his voice a gravelly baritone. He paused, taking us in with a curious but welcoming nod. "New in town, I take it? You folks must be the ones who moved into the old Miller place."
"That's us," Mama said graciously. "The Hall family. I'm Rashandra, this is my sister Rose, and this is my son, Sage."
"Well, welcome to Smallville," Hank said, setting a fresh cup on the counter. "I'm Hank. If you're looking for the best caffeine fix within fifty miles, you've found it. We keep things simple here, but we keep 'em strong."
Rose actually smiled, clearly relieved to find a professional behind the machine. "I like your style, Hank. Give me the strongest latte you can make without it being a health hazard."
With our drinks in hand, we wandered further down 176th Street. We passed Smallville Lanes, the local bowling alley. I could hear the rhythmic clack-thump of pins falling and the cheers of a Saturday morning league. The neon sign outside flickered even in the daylight, promising cheap soda and heavy balls.
"Can we go there sometime, Mama?" I asked, pointing at the bowling pin.
"Maybe next weekend, Sage," she said. "Let's see if we can find some lunch first. My stomach is starting to think I've forgotten about it."
We ended up at Victoria May's, the most popular diner in town. The booths were red vinyl, and the air smelled like grilled onions and malted milkshakes. It was packed. As we walked in, the bell above the door chimed, and for a split second, the chatter died down as heads turned.
But then, a familiar voice boomed from a back booth.
"Rashandra! Over here!"
It was Jonathan Kent. He was sitting with Martha, both of them looking right at home with plates of pie and coffee. Jonathan waved us over with a hand that looked like it could crush a bowling ball but held a fork with surprising gentleness.
"Well, look at that," Jonathan said as we approached. "You folks didn't waste any time finding the best spot in the county. Martha was just saying she hoped you'd find your way here today."
"We followed the smell of the burgers," Mama said, sliding into the booth next to them. Rose and I squeezed into the other side, the vinyl squeaking under us.
"Sage, you looking for a milkshake?" Martha asked kindly, her eyes crinkling. "The chocolate ones here are famous. They use real cream from the dairy down the road. It makes a difference."
"Yes, please!" I said, my eyes wide.
For the next hour, we just talked. No magic, no Anodite history, no gold talk. We stayed completely calm and collected, playing the part of the new city family perfectly. We talked about the weather, the upcoming school year at Smallville Elementary, and how to get the best produce at the farmer's market.
I watched my mother and Aunt Rose. They were relaxed and perfectly human. Rose even shared a laugh with Martha about the lack of high-end shopping, and Jonathan told me stories about the legendary high school football games that took place under the Friday night lights.
"It's a good town, Rashandra," Jonathan said seriously, leaning forward. "People here look out for one another. Might take 'em a minute to get used to new faces, but once you're in, you're family."
"We're looking forward to it, Jonathan," Mama replied.
As we left the diner, the sun was high and warm, turning the sidewalk into a bright ribbon of concrete. I walked between Mama and Rose, feeling the steady thrum of the town around me. I saw a group of kids my age playing with a frisbee in the park across the street. For a second, I felt that familiar itch in my palms—a desire to reach out and catch the frisbee with a flick of blue Mana.
But I didn't. I kept my hands at my sides, enjoying the fact that I didn't have to hide them in my pockets anymore. I looked at the brick buildings, the smiling faces, and the vast, blue Kansas sky.
"You okay, Sage?" Rose asked, looking down at me through her shades.
"Yeah," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. "I think I'm gonna like it here."
"Of course you are," Rose said, checking her reflection in a shop window. "It's the only town in America with an Aunt Rose and a blue-ribbon pie. What more could you want?"
We walked back toward the station wagon, the Smallville sights blurring into a beautiful, quiet memory. It was a fun day—a normal day. And as an Anodite in hiding, normal was the greatest magic of all.
The drive back from downtown Smallville was quiet, the kind of comfortable silence that only happens after a day of being perfectly, convincingly human. Mama hummed a tune that sounded like old jazz, and Aunt Rose spent the whole ride checking her cuticles, though I noticed her looking out the window at the passing silos with a little less disdain than usual.
But as soon as the station wagon's tires hit the gravel of our driveway, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't a noise. It was a pressure.
As I stepped out of the car, the air felt thick, like walking into a room where a heavy storm was about to break. The birds in the nearby trees had gone silent. The wind, which had been whipping through the cornfields all afternoon, suddenly died down to a dead calm.
"Grandma's waiting," Mama whispered, her playful diner-mood vanishing. She didn't look at the house; she looked at the backyard.
I followed her gaze. Standing in the center of the overgrown grass was Grandmother Pandora. She wasn't moving. She wasn't even looking at us. But as I walked toward her, I noticed the grass wasn't just sitting still—it was bowing. Every blade of green was leaning toward her, as if she were a magnet pulling on the very life force of the earth. The sunlight hitting the yard seemed to filter through a prism, shifting from golden yellow to a faint, bruised lavender.
She turned to face me. She didn't yell. She didn't have to. When she spoke, the sound seemed to come from the ground beneath my feet rather than her throat.
"You've had your fun in the world of dust and manners, Sage," she said. Her voice was low, yet it carried a weight that made my chest tighten. "Now, remind yourself what you are made of."
Mama and Aunt Rose retreated to the porch, their colorful dresses vivid against the white peeling paint. They knew better than to interfere. This was the circle. This was the forge.
"Yesterday, you learned to hold the light," Pandora said, stepping toward me. With every step she took, the air seemed to compress, the sound of the distant highway dulling until it felt like we were trapped in a vacuum. "Manipulation is the shield. It is the cage. But an Anodite is not a creature meant to be caged. We are the storm that moves."
She held out her hand, palm up. She didn't make a sound, but the air above her hand began to warp. It looked like heat rising off asphalt, but then it ignited into a swirling, violent sphere of shimmering pink energy. It didn't just glow; it roared with a silent, crystalline friction.
"Mana Projection," she murmured. "The second pillar. It is the art of sending your will outward. It is the strike. It is the bridge. It is the fire of the soul made manifest in the physical realm."
She flicked her wrist toward a rotted tree stump at the edge of the woods. The pink sphere didn't travel like a ball; it streaked like a comet, a blur of violet light that hit the wood with a dull thump that felt more like an explosion of pressure than a physical impact. The stump didn't just break—it disintegrated, turned into a fine, glowing dust that drifted away on a wind that didn't exist a second ago.
"Now," she said, her eyes turning a solid, glowing violet. "Show me your strike."
I took my stance, my sneakers digging into the dirt. I felt the blue Mana inside me, that lake of potential I'd been keeping so still all day. I reached into it, pulling a handful of that cold, electric light up through my core.
"Focus, Sage," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt louder than a shout. "Do not just throw it. Imagine the destination. The air is not an empty space; it is a conductor. Weave your light through it."
I pushed my hand forward, trying to mimic her flick. A jagged, messy bolt of blue energy sputtered out of my palm. It traveled three feet, hissed like a dying sparkler, and vanished into thin air.
I growled in frustration, my shoulders tensing.
"You are trying to throw a rock," Pandora said, and as she spoke, the shadows of the trees lengthened unnaturally, stretching toward me. "You cannot throw the soul. You must project it. Reach out with your mind and touch the target first. Then, let the Mana follow the path your mind has cleared."
I closed my eyes. I didn't look at the next stump. I felt it. I felt the rot in the wood, the dampness of the earth beneath it. I felt the line between my palm and the target. I breathed in, and as I did, I felt the blue light in my chest expand, turning from a lake into a pressurized geyser.
I snapped my hand open.
A streak of vivid blue light, sharp and focused as a needle, shot from my fingers. It didn't hiss; it hummed. It struck a low-hanging branch, shearing it clean off with a crack that echoed through the silent yard.
"Better," she said. The air around her began to swirl, carrying the scent of ozone and ancient stars. "But a needle is not enough to survive in a universe of giants. You must learn to project with volume. Again."
For the next hour, there was no shouting. There was only the rhythmic thrum of my blue light and the heavy, atmospheric pressure of Pandora's presence.
Every time I grew tired, she didn't yell "Again!" Instead, the world around me simply became harder to breathe in. The gravity seemed to increase, pushing my knees toward the dirt, forcing me to use my Mana just to stand upright. It was a silent, relentless demand for excellence.
"Projection is not just a weapon," she said, her voice now a resonant vibration that seemed to bypass my ears and go straight to my bones. "It is how we move. It is how we communicate. If you were stranded in the void, Sage, your projection would be your only voice. Speak louder."
I gathered everything I had left. I didn't just pull from my chest; I reached down into my legs, into the very soles of my feet. I imagined the blue light not as a bolt, but as a wave—a crushing tide of electric sapphire.
I thrust both hands forward.
The air in front of me distorted. A massive, roaring wall of blue Mana erupted from my body. It wasn't a spark anymore. It was a flood. It hit the line of trees with the force of a physical gale, shaking the trunks and stripping the leaves. For a moment, the entire backyard was bathed in a brilliant, blinding blue noon.
The pressure snapped. The birds began to chirp again. The grass stood back up. The sunlight shifted back to its normal, fading Kansas gold.
I fell forward, catching myself on my hands and knees, gasping for air. My skin felt like it was buzzing with a thousand tiny needles, and my vision was swimming with blue spots.
Grandmother Pandora walked over to me. She didn't offer a hand to help me up—that wasn't her way—but she did place a cool, firm hand on the back of my neck. The remaining violet light in her eyes faded, returning to the soft brown of a grandmother's gaze.
"You have found the voice of the flame, Sage," she said softly. "It is loud. It is bright. But remember, a flame that cannot be contained eventually consumes the hearth. Tomorrow, we learn to draw it back in."
I looked up at her, my lungs burning, but my heart soaring. I had done it. I had moved the air. I had bent the world to my will.
"I saw it, Grandma," I whispered. "It was blue. It was really blue."
She gave a rare, small smile. "Yes, Little Spark. It was."
On the porch, Mama and Aunt Rose were watching, their silhouettes dark against the glowing windows of the house. We were the Hall family. We were Anodites. And in the heart of Smallville, a new sun was beginning to rise.
The intensity of the backyard had evaporated with the setting sun, replaced by the warm, amber glow of the dining room chandelier. The transition from cosmic forge to family dinner was a seamless one for the Halls—a necessary survival skill. The air no longer vibrated with the roar of blue fire; instead, it hummed with the domestic clatter of silverware and the savory steam rising from a massive platter of roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes.
I sat at my usual spot, my arms still feeling a bit like overcooked noodles, but the heavy, leaden exhaustion had been replaced by a light, tingly hum. It was the afterburn, as Aunt Rose called it.
"Pass those greens before Sage inhales the whole bowl," Aunt Rose said, reaching across the table. She had swapped her town-day sundress for a silk robe the color of a bruised sunset.
Aunt Region, sitting opposite her, didn't reach for the bowl. She simply flicked a finger, her emerald green Mana manifesting as a thin, ethereal tether that lifted the bowl of collard greens and drifted it gently into Rose's waiting hands.
"Region, use your hands," Mama chided, though her voice lacked any real bite. She was busy carving the chicken, her own red light shimmering faintly around her wrists—a subconscious leak of energy that happened whenever she was relaxed. "We're trying to practice being normal, remember?"
"We're behind closed doors, Rashandra," Region countered with a smirk, taking a sip of her iced tea. "If I can't use a little kinetic assist in my own dining room, I might as well be back in that New York apartment." She turned her attention to me, her green eyes softening. "So, Little Spark, I heard the town didn't burn down today. Tell me, what did you see on 176th Street? Is Smallville as thrilling as the brochures claim?"
I swallowed a mouthful of potatoes, feeling the warmth of the food grounding my flighty energy. "It's different. Everything is closer to the ground. We went to The Beanery. There's a guy named Hank there who makes coffee that smells like it could wake up a statue."
"And Victoria May's," Mama added, sets of plates moving around the table. "We ran into the Kents. Jonathan and Martha. They're good people, Region. Solid. The kind of people who actually look you in the eye when they talk to you."
"The Kents," Grandmother Pandora mused from the head of the table. She was eating slowly, her presence no longer the crushing weight of the afternoon. Now, she was just the matriarch, the anchor. "Jonathan Kent has a spirit that is very grounded. It is rare to find a human whose inner frequency matches the earth so closely. It's no wonder they've survived out here as long as they have."
"They don't have kids," I said, thinking back to the brief shadow I'd seen on Martha's face. "Martha seemed a little sad about it, but she was really nice. She bought me a chocolate milkshake."
"A chocolate milkshake? Well, aren't you the local celebrity," Aunt Rose teased, nudging my shoulder. "Did you manage to keep your hands in your pockets, or did you try to levitate the straws?"
"I was perfect," I said proudly, puffing out my chest. "I didn't even spark once. I just looked at the bowling alley and the old buildings. There's a lot of brick. And everyone waves. Like, everyone. It's kind of exhausting."
The table erupted into light laughter. It was a good sound—the kind of sound that filled the high ceilings of the old Victorian house and made the shadows in the corners feel less like hiding places and more like part of the furniture.
"The town center is charming, in its own way," Mama said, leaning back as she finished her meal. "It's a rhythm we aren't used to. In the city, everyone is projecting—even the humans. They're all pushing their energy out, trying to carve out a space. Here, the energy is receptive. It's like the land is waiting for you to tell it a story."
"Just make sure it's a boring story," Region cautioned, her green light fading as she settled into her chair. "We don't need any legends about the glowing family on the hill."
Grandmother Pandora set her fork down, her gaze sweeping over all of us. The air didn't compress this time; it just went still, a natural silence that commanded respect.
"You did well today, all of you," she said. Her voice was soft, but it held that unmistakable authority that didn't need to yell to be felt. "Sage, you showed restraint in the town, and you showed courage in the yard. Projection is a heavy burden for a spark of eight years. You carried it with the grace of a Hall."
I felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with Mana. It was just plain old-fashioned pride.
"Tomorrow," Pandora continued, "we finish the cycle. Absorption is the next lesson. It is the most quiet of the three, but it is the one that will keep you whole when the world tries to break you. But for tonight, we rest. We are just a family in a quiet town, under a quiet moon."
We sat there for a long time after that, the conversation drifting from the paint colors for the upstairs bedrooms to the best way to handle the creak in the third step of the staircase. There was no talk of Anodyne, no talk of the special books, and no talk of the gold hidden away.
As I helped Mama clear the table—using my actual, physical hands—I looked out the window at the dark Kansas fields. The fireflies were out again, tiny pinpricks of yellow light dancing in the dark. They didn't have to train. They didn't have to hide. They just were.
I climbed the stairs to my room a few minutes later, the house feeling warm and full. As I pulled the covers up, I could hear the muffled sound of my aunts laughing downstairs and the clink of a teacup. It was the sound of a family winding down, a sound that felt more like home than any skyscraper ever had.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time, I didn't try to see the blue. I just let the darkness of Smallville take me, knowing that tomorrow, I'd wake up and do it all again.