Alora stood near the window, Tulip curled comfortably against her chest. The dog’s warmth was grounding, steady, real. She watched the field beyond the glass, her reflection faintly overlapping the scene outside.
John stood across the yard.
Even from here, she could tell something was wrong.
Rook faced him with his arms crossed, posture rigid, feet planted like the earth itself had decided to claim him. John stood opposite, shoulders squared, jaw set, hands empty—but tense, like they were waiting for permission to become something else.
Linda’s voice drifted softly from behind her. “He doesn’t rest easily,” she said, not accusing. Just stating.
Alora didn’t turn. “No,” she replied quietly. “He never really has.”
Outside, Rook moved first.
No warning.
No signal.
He stepped forward in a blur, striking with the flat of his hand toward John’s chest.
John barely reacted in time—he stumbled back, boots skidding through the dirt as he raised his arm to block. The impact landed hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
“Too slow,” Rook said flatly.
John sucked in air, teeth clenched. “You didn’t say go.”
“I didn’t need to.”
From the window, Alora flinched.
Rook advanced again, relentless. “A half-dreamer doesn’t get permission,” he continued. “He reacts—or he dies.”
John snapped his hand outward, summoning the hasta in a flash of dark light. The obsidian tip formed sharp and immediate, humming faintly as it settled into his grip.
Rook smiled.
“Good,” he said. “Now you’re honest.”
John lunged.
Steel met obsidian with a crack that echoed across the field. The force rattled up John’s arms as Rook turned the strike aside, pivoting smoothly and driving his elbow into John’s ribs.
John grunted, staggering, but didn’t fall.
Not this time.
He swung again—harder, faster—gravity pressing down with the motion, the ground beneath them trembling faintly as his weight carried through the strike.
Rook slid back a step, boots carving lines into the dirt.
“Better,” he admitted. “Still reckless.”
From inside the cabin, Alora tightened her grip on Tulip, unease knotting in her chest. Linda stood beside her now, head tilted slightly, listening—not to the clash of weapons, but to something deeper.
“They’re not just sparring,” Alora said.
“No,” Linda replied softly. “They’re deciding something.”
Outside, John wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and set his stance again, eyes locked on Rook with a fire that hadn’t been there before.
“Again,” he said.
Rook raised his blade.
The wind shifted.
And whatever peace the cabin had offered moments before was already gone.
Rook lowered his blade and let out a slow breath.
“Look, kid,” he said, voice losing some of its edge. “You’re strong. No question. I just happen to have many, years of actual experience on you.”
John wiped sweat from his brow and gave a tired huff. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Rook muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “I’m going to regret this.”
Then he looked up, voice firm again. “Here’s the reality. You’re a half-dreamer. You be able to walk all over me. Right now, though, your mind is narrow. All you’re thinking about is beating me.”
John frowned.
“Expand it,” Rook continued. “Stop thinking about winning. Start thinking about what isn’t real.”
John sat back on his heels, puzzled, eyes unfocused as he tried to follow.
Rook gestured broadly. “You shouldn’t be limited to simple objects. You can make platforms. Liquids. You can move things that shouldn’t move. You can change the space between moments, not just what’s in your hands.”
John looked up at him. “Why is this so important to you? To all of you?” he asked quietly. “Alora and I just want to go home. I’m starting to feel like I’m stuck in the middle of your drama.”
Rook’s jaw tightened.
“It’s yours,” he snapped back, voice rising, “just as much as it’s ours.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?” He stepped closer. “What are you not telling us?”
Rook inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “I’ve already said too much,” he said. “This is something you have to learn on your own. Trust me.”
John scoffed. “Why do you and Chad keep saying that? Just tell me, damn it.”
For the first time, Rook didn’t look like a soldier.
He looked tired.
“I really wish I could, kid,” he said quietly.
Something in his eyes—sorrow, regret—made John stop. He looked away, accepting that no more answers were coming. Not today.
After a moment, he tried again, softer. “What kind of things has Chad done before? As a half-dreamer, I mean.”
Rook’s expression eased slightly, appreciative of the change. “My master is always analyzing,” he said. “Once, I saw him face a dreamer head-on. Chad blocked out the sun entirely—left both of them blind so neither had the advantage.”
John went still. His gaze drifted toward the trees. “Asani,” he whispered.
Rook let out a short laugh. “No, kid. Asani’s just a half-dreamer. Like you.”
The words lingered, heavier than they sounded.
“Oh. Right,” John said slowly. “So… kind of like Alora, then?”
Rook froze.
Just for a breath.
Then he continued, carefully. “Yeah. Like Alora. And this stays between you and me.” His voice dropped. “It’s too dangerous for her to learn these things.”
John frowned. “Why?”
Rook didn’t answer right away. When he did, his tone was grim. “Because if she ever got good at it— good—she could wipe this entire world out by accident.” He met John’s eyes. “Think about it. How do you think this place was made in the first place?”
John’s expression tightened. “A dreamer,” he said. “The journals I’ve been reading… that guy sounds like one. And he lost himself.”
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Rook nodded, choosing his next words with care. “Exactly.”
He stepped back. “Let’s try something. Just out of curiosity.”
John hesitated, then nodded.
“Close your eyes,” Rook said.
John did.
“Good,” Rook continued. “Now feel the air around you. Don’t think about it. Just notice it.”
John focused. The breeze brushed his skin, subtle at first.
“Now imagine the wind circling you,” Rook said. “Just a little stronger.”
John’s brow furrowed. His mind told him nothing was happening—yet a strange sensation grazed his arms, like pressure without weight.
“Okay,” Rook said softly. “Now picture the ground moving away from you. Not you rising—. Like a dream.”
The word echoed.
Something shifted.
John saw it in his mind—a familiar place. The fountain. Still. Endless. And then he heard voices.
Alora’s.
Asani’s.
All at once—
John snapped his eyes open.
Asani lunged at him.
John gasped—
—and the world exploded into motion.
A violent crash shook the ground as Rook slammed into him, tackling him hard and rolling them both through the dirt. The impact knocked the breath from John’s lungs, snapping his focus back into his body.
John lay there, chest heaving, staring at the sky. “What the hell just happened?”
Rook laughed—short, breathless, almost relieved. “You were floating, my boy,” he said. “Then you started tearing chunks out of the land. I had to snap you out of it.”
John staggered to his feet, patting himself down as if expecting to be broken. He looked around.
The yard was ruined.
Four massive craters gouged the earth, dirt and grass scattered like shrapnel across the field. The ground still trembled faintly beneath his boots.
John swallowed. “I did that?”
Rook nodded once. “Yes. You did.”
Alora leaned toward the open door and called out, concern sharp in her voice.
“Are you two alright out there?”
“Yeah,” John replied after a moment.
She turned back toward Linda with a small exhale. “Good thing you can’t see,” she said lightly. “You really don’t want to see what they did to the yard.”
Linda laughed—soft, genuine, utterly unbothered. “That’s quite alright, love. Chad will rearrange everything when he returns. He always does.”
Alora smiled and crossed the room, settling beside Linda at the dining table. Linda lifted her glass of iced tea and twirled the spoon slowly, the faint clink of ice marking the rhythm of her thoughts. She did love her tea.
“It’s been so nice having new company in the house,” Linda said warmly. “And I adore your new friend. Tulip has already blessed me with many very enthusiastic kisses.”
Tulip’s tail wagged furiously, and she barked twice, as if she understood she’d been praised.
“She really is a blessing,” Alora said, smiling. Then, after a brief hesitation, “I’ve been curious—have you been blind your whole life? Sorry, I know that’s personal.”
Linda smiled, unoffended. “I did see once,” she said gently. “A very long time ago.”
She paused, her expression softening as a memory passed through her. Alora watched her closely.
“Do you miss it?” Alora asked.
Linda lifted her glass, took a slow sip, then set it down. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But most days, I’m content. I have everything I need here.”
Alora nodded, then continued, curiosity bubbling back up. “Chad was telling us about Rook. He said he’s his champion.”
Tulip hopped into Alora’s lap. Linda, having heard the movement, reached over without hesitation and rested her hand on the dog’s head, petting her affectionately.
“Yes,” Linda said. “Chad was the first to create one. Through him, we learned many things about what it means to make a champion.”
“We?” Alora asked.
“Chad, Asani, and I,” Linda replied calmly.
Alora blinked. “Oh. Great. That creep has one too?”
Linda laughed—light, graceful. “Yes. And from what I hear, he isn’t particularly easy on the eyes.”
Alora laughed with her. “You’re incredible.”
“Where’s your champion?” Alora asked after a moment.
Linda’s smile didn’t fade. She reached out and gently placed her hand over Alora’s.
“She’s right here.”
Alora flushed, instinctively brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re a charmer,” she said softly.
Linda only smiled—serene, knowing, and silent in a way that felt deliberate.
Alora’s eyes drifted to the notepad near the edge of the table.
The writing wasn’t a language she recognized. Short lines. Letters paired with numbers. Each entry neat, deliberate, as if rewritten until it felt .
- d4 Nf6 5. Nf3 O-O 9. Bh4?Na6
- c4 g6 6. Be2 e5 10. O-O?Bd7
- Nc3 O-O 7. d5 a5 11. Nd2?Nc5
- e4 d6 8. Bg5 h6 12. b3
- c4 g6 6. Be2 e5 10. O-O?Bd7
Whatever it was, it felt like a turning point. The spacing changed after the last line, the pen pressing harder into the paper—as if whoever wrote it had known something was being given up, willingly, to gain something later.
Tulip padded off into the front room, nails clicking softly against the floor. Alora watched her go, smiling faintly, before Linda spoke again.
“Alora,” Linda said gently, “how did you and John meet?”
Alora’s expression softened, but there was humor in it too. “He didn’t look like someone waiting for anything,” she said. “He looked like someone who’d already lost.”
Linda listened without interrupting.
“We were both new in town. Same time. Same kind of lost,” Alora continued. “Back then, that park downtown wasn’t a park yet—just a patch of trees people pretended didn’t exist. And there he was. Sitting under one like life had finally worn him down and left him there.”
She gave a small laugh. “Honestly, he looked like a public service announcement for depression.”
Linda laughed quietly.
“So I walk up and say, ‘Hey. You know sitting under a tree won’t solve your problems, right?’” Alora tilted her head, mimicking John’s deadpan.
‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’
Alora rolled her eyes. “Like I was about to pitch him on essential oils or something.”
She leaned back, folding her arms loosely. “He tried to scare me off. Short answers. No eye contact. That whole routine.”
Linda smiled knowingly.
“But I could tell,” Alora said, voice quieter now. “He wasn’t pushing me away because he didn’t want company. He was doing it because he didn’t think he deserved any.”
The humor faded, replaced by something steadier.
“At that moment,” she said, “neither of us really had anyone. No history. No safety net. Just two people who ended up in the same place at the wrong time.”
She shrugged lightly, trying to keep it casual. “So I stayed. Not because he asked. Because he didn’t.”
Linda let out a soft, appreciative sound.
“We adapted differently,” Alora went on. “John got quieter. Smaller. Found routines that didn’t ask much of him.” She smiled. “I did the opposite. Talked to everyone. Opened a beauty salon. Turns out people will tell you their entire life story if you give them a chair and don’t interrupt.”
Linda laughed again, genuinely enjoying herself.
“He hated that,” Alora added fondly. “Said it sounded exhausting. Which, to be fair, it is.”
She glanced toward the window, where John was still visible in the yard beyond.
“But I kept coming back,” she said. “Because even when he didn’t say much… he listened. And when you’ve lost enough, that matters.”
Linda was quiet for a moment.
“That’s a good reason,” she said at last. “To stay.”
Alora smiled. “Yeah. Someone had to.”
Linda was quiet for a moment after Alora finished. Not silent in thoughtlessness — silent in consideration.
“You know,” Linda said at last, her tone thoughtful rather than indulgent, “people like John don’t announce when they’re slipping. They make themselves smaller and hope the world won’t notice.”
Alora’s smile faded just a touch. “Yeah. He’s good at that.”
“Yes,” Linda agreed gently. “Too good.”
She turned her head slightly toward Alora, as if orienting herself not by sound, but by presence.
“It’s a rare thing,” she continued, “for someone to stay near a person like that without trying to fix them. Rarer still to do it without asking for gratitude in return.”
Alora shifted, a little uncomfortable with the attention. “I wasn’t trying to be anything special.”
Linda smiled — not indulgent, not maternal. Appreciative.
“I know,” she said. “That’s usually how it works.”
She paused, then added, “He’s very fortunate to have you watching over him. Even if he pretends he doesn’t need it.”
A beat.
“And you’ve been kind enough to do it without making him feel smaller for needing it.”
Alora swallowed, caught off guard. “I just… didn’t want him to disappear.”
Linda nodded once, as if that answer confirmed something rather than explained it.
Another brief silence passed, comfortable this time.
“Alora,” Linda said softly, “would you mind if I… met you properly?”
Alora blinked. “Met me?”
“For those of us who cannot see,” Linda said with a faint, almost apologetic smile, “we ask permission instead.” She gestured lightly, hands relaxed and open. “May I touch your face?”
There was nothing invasive in the request. No urgency. Just respect.
Alora hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s okay.”
Linda’s hands lifted slowly, giving Alora time to pull away if she wished.
And the room, somehow, grew still.
Linda’s hands rose slowly, deliberately, giving Alora time to pull away if she wanted to. When Alora didn’t, Linda smiled faintly and continued, fingertips light as they made contact.
She navigated carefully, the way someone does when sight has been replaced by attention. The curve of Alora’s cheek. The line of her jaw. The warmth of her skin beneath Linda’s palms. Her thumbs brushed gently beneath Alora’s eyes, then traced the bridge of her nose, as if mapping something familiar without knowing why.
Alora didn’t know what she expected to feel.
But the longer Linda’s hands lingered, the more something inside her tightened.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t frightening. It was… overwhelming in a quiet way. Like being seen without being looked at. Like being known without being named.
Her heart began to beat faster, the rhythm unsteady, and she swallowed, unsure where the sudden weight in her chest had come from.
Linda stilled.
Her breath caught.
For a moment, she didn’t move at all—hands frozen against Alora’s face, as if the world had shifted beneath her without warning. Then her fingers trembled, just barely, before she withdrew them and brought one hand up to her own face.
Tears slipped free, tracing silent paths down her cheeks.
Linda turned away slightly, embarrassed not by the emotion, but by its intensity, and wiped at her eyes with a soft, practiced motion.
Alora stared at her, startled. “Hey,” she said gently. “What’s wrong?”
Linda took a breath.
She held it.
And then she spoke.
Linda’s voice was quiet when she spoke again, steady but threaded with something old.
“I did not choose you because the world was kind,” she said softly,
“but because it was not.”
Alora stilled. The words settled into her chest before she understood them.
“You were the place my guard could rest,” Linda continued,
“the name my breath learned to trust.”
Alora’s lips parted slightly. Her heart was still racing, but now it felt… familiar.
“Where others saw silence,” Linda said, her voice trembling just a fraction,
“I found shelter.
Where time tried to thin us, you remained.”
There was a pause.
And without thinking—without knowing why—Alora spoke.
“If all else is taken,” she whispered,
“know this—”
Linda turned her head toward her.
“I would still recognize you,” they said together,
“by the way my soul stands straighter when you are near.”
The room went utterly still.
Alora blinked, breath shallow. She let out a quiet, nervous laugh and shook her head.
“I—” She swallowed. “I don’t know why I knew that. Or where it came from.”
Linda smiled through the tears she hadn’t quite managed to stop.
“My father once said that to my mother,” she said.
“John carries a great deal on his own,” Linda said gently.
“It helps him… when you’re near.”
Alora nodded, unsure why the words felt less like advice and more like recognition. She only knew one thing for certain — wherever John went next, she wouldn’t be far behind.