Inside the bedroom, the familiar scent of aged wood and Hannah's lavender sachets, held a stillness that felt both comforting and unsettling. Moonlight, fractured by the heavy curtains, painted silver streaks across the worn wooden floor.

  Hannah sat on the edge of the large, rumpled bed. Her shoulders were slumped, and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The soft, yellow glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her worry. They made her appear older, more fragile than she was. Across the room, Omar stood silhouetted against the window, focusing on the darkness beyond.

  "He… he could have been killed, Omar," Hannah whispered, her voice trembling. "Right here, in our house."

  She gestured vaguely towards the door, towards the guest room where Olt lay recovering.

  "And, that… that thing Mariah said. About the Aether, about him, changing. What if, what if he's not himself anymore?"

  Omar remained at the window.

  "He's alive, Hannah. That's what matters now. We got him through it… again."

  The last word had a subtle emphasis.

  Omar turned slightly, his view shifting from the darkness outside to the room itself. He focused on the faded family photos on the dresser.

  "This house has seen worse, you know. Seen us through worse."

  He walked slowly towards Hannah, his footsteps soft on the worn floorboards. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

  "Remember your father's stories? About this land? About what they went through, just to keep it?"

  Hannah looked down, her fingers tracing the intricate pattern of the quilt spread across the bed.

  "Rodrigo…" she whispered.. "I know he would have wanted so much for Olt. A different life. A safe life. Not this… not this violence."

  She looked up at Omar, tears welling in her eyes.

  "All those years… we tried so hard to shield him. From all of it. From this world."

  Her voice cracked, losing her composure.

  "And now, it's here anyway."

  Omar sat beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He took her hand. His calloused fingers engulfed hers, offering a silent strength.

  "We did our best, Hannah. You did your best. And Rodrigo, he would be proud of Olt.”

  Omar looked at the family photos on the nightstand. His eyes lingered on a faded image of a younger Hannah. Her arm wrapped around a man whose face was now blurred by time – Rodrigo.

  "Remember the stories your grandmother used to tell?" Omar asked, his tone softening.

  Hannah didn't answer immediately. She looked at her hands, and at Omar's hand holding hers.

  "My grandmother used to say the land itself protects us," she murmured. “But this… this isn't the land, Omar. This is something else."

  She shook her head slightly. The movement was a small, almost imperceptible gesture of denial.

  "We're Synoran born and bred, Omar. Farmers. Hard work, honest work. That's all we've ever known. Not… magic. Not, powers."

  Omar squeezed her hand gently.

  "Two hundred years since our people came back from Uraan, hoping for something more here. Hoping for this." He gestured vaguely towards the guest room. "Forty acres and some seeds is how we Bartholomews started. For generations we farmed Indigo. And for generations we tried the potion. Nothing, always nothing. We thought we just didn't have it…that spark, whatever it is."

  He looked at Hannah with wonder and a deep, abiding sadness.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "But, Olt? He never touched Indigo. I’m certain he wouldn’t keep that from us if he did. Somehow, he's got the gift. How is it even possible? After all these years."

  They sat there, hand in hand, lost in their own thoughts, as they grappled with the impossible reality of Olt's awakening.

  "Maybe it's from his mother's side. We know so little about her family,” Hannah said.

  Omar nodded slowly.

  "Rodrigo never spoke of them much. Always kept it private. Maybe there was something there we never knew."

  They both looked at each other. Perhaps, the key to understanding Olt's newfound power lay hidden in the secrets of his mother's past.

  "I don’t know, Omar. But I doubt this could be a gift." Hannah replied, her voice still trembling. "It doesn't feel like a gift, Omar. Not with all this danger."

  "Maybe it can be both, Hannah,” Omar countered, softly. “A gift and a burden. Like everything else in this world.”

  He held her gaze, his hand tightening around hers.

  …

  The bathroom mirror was a cracked, fogged panel reflecting a world steeped in sickly light. Water ran in the porcelain sink. Hunched over, Olt spat toothpaste, the sound wet and unpleasant in the small, tiled space. He rinsed, the iron tang of the tap water lingering on his tongue. He raised his head, and glanced into the mirror.

  His own reflection stared back, but not alone. Behind him, impossibly tall and thin even in the glass’s flawed surface, stood the pale creature. Shadow clung to its features, but its eyes were pinpricks of unwavering intensity. They were fixed on Olt. Olt’s surroundings went dark, with the exception of the sound of the water, dripping.

  Then, the reflection moved. The creature’s hand, skeletal and impossibly long, reached out, distorting as it passed through the mirror’s surface. Cold, clammy fingers clamped around Olt’s face. They stretched his mouth wide, wider, painfully wide.

  A chilling and distorted voice, not spoken but somehow inside his head, whispered, “Open wide Octavius!”

  A low vibrato began, emanating from the creature in the reflection. It vibrated through the mirror, through the tiles, through Olt’s very bones.

  “I hope you’re hungry, boy!”

  Morning sunlight, sharp and insistent, streamed through the window of the guest bedroom. Peace inside the room was broken when Olt gasped, a ragged, uneven breath that tore through the stillness. He jolted awake, bolting upright in the rumpled bed. His eyes snapped open, wide and frantic, his chest heaving. Sweat plastered his shirt to his skin, despite the room’s cool air.

  He looked around wildly, disoriented, still trapped in the clinging remnants of the nightmare. The room was empty. Sunlight was reassuringly mundane, painting the faded floral wallpaper in cheerful hues. Slowly, his rapid breathing began to even out, his gasps softening to shallow breaths.

  Silence returned.

  Olt rubbed his eyes, slowly, trying to scrub away the lingering terror of the dream. Gingerly, he shifted in bed, bracing himself for the searing pain that had radiated through his body. He paused, surprised. He rubbed his left rib cage, tentatively at first, then more firmly. His expression shifted, as shock gave way to disbelief. There was little pain. Just a slight, dull pinch.

  Faint voices drifted from beyond the door. Women were talking. Olt swung his legs out of bed, cautiously at first, then stood, testing his weight. Flexing his torso, he moved around the small room, wincing slightly. But the excruciating pain was undeniably gone. Hesitantly, he walked towards the door.

  Olt walked into the living room. The damage from the fight was still starkly visible, yet softened by the clean up from the night before.

  Cristina paced restlessly, her steps tight and agitated. Mariah sat perched on the arm of the repaired armchair, her posture showing exhaustion. Rebecca stood near the broken window, fixed on the overgrown yard outside.

  Olt’s unexpected appearance fractured the hushed atmosphere. All three women turned sharply. Their faces showed surprise, relief, and a lingering thread of worry.

  Cristina rushed towards him.

  “Olt, You’re awake! Are you okay? How do you feel?”

  Olt blinked, slightly dazed, but calmer than he had been in the bedroom.

  “Yeah, I think so. I… I feel much better. Almost normal.”

  He gestured vaguely towards his ribs, touching them gently. The disbelief showed on his features.

  “It’s like it barely even happened.”

  He shifted to Cristina, truly seeing her for the first time since the chaos. A light bruise blossomed on her cheekbone. Olt frowned.

  “Cristina… your face. Are you okay?”

  Cristina waved a hand dismissively.

  “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. Don’t worry about me.”

  Her eyes remained fixed on him, worried and searching.

  Olt analyzed the room, anxiety returning as he scanned for the familiar faces of his family.

  “Where… where’s grandma, gramps…Jeffrey?”

  Cristina placed a reassuring hand on his arm.

  “Calm down, Olt. Everyone’s fine. Jeffrey just stepped out for a bit. Dad’s in the shop. Mom’s in the kitchen, probably already making breakfast.”

  Olt finally focused on Mariah and Rebecca. He nodded slowly. His expressions displayed understanding and gratitude, as they warmed his eyes. His shoulders loosened, as he relaxed.

  “Okay, good.”

  Cristina smiled gently with relief.

  “Go wash up. We’ll get some breakfast ready for you. You must be starving.”

  Gently, she steered him through the hallway, and towards the bathroom. Mariah and Rebecca watched him go. Their expressions were thoughtful with a shared concern that lingered in their eyes, despite the relief.