I know this place. My footsteps peel in a familiar pattern of echoes, lulling me to this half-awake state, one where I peer blurrily through my own eyes but can't seem to entirely see. Yet even encased in dimming fog, I would recognise this hallway anywhere. Its dusty air tingles on my tongue.

Tiredness pours through my consciousness like a sludge. I'm sleeping -- I'm aware of that, of the haziness it creates -- but I'm also here. Just barely here, but with every sharp tap of a step, I find more, deeper handholds, ones I shakily hoist myself up on, bit by bit, steadily goes. Don't breathe. Don't shift too abruptly, don't let my heart prance a rhythm any more complex than the content, spaced-out beats thrumming through me. Don't make a noise. She will hear, and I'll fall again.

Dalton's chain bites into my palm where I grip it. It stings enough to have drawn blood, but I don't seem to care. I drag him along roughly, laughter tripping from my lips when he teeters and slips on his own feet. He's clearly hurt badly, but I wish to hurt him more. Annoyance kindles at the idea that someone other than myself was allowed to begin.

Yes, annoyance. I weave that, fan it, encourage the burn to spread into a slinking, furious beast. It is delightful. It's all I need. A grin pokes my mouth into a sharp curve, fangs weighty and awkward against soft lips.

Anger distracts her. Hate gleefully snares her attention, brings her joy while the rest of the world goes free.

Play the fool.

I round a corner, and rusted metal bars stare back at me. Their dull surface reflects the smudges of inky black that form my dancing flame; it licks at every inch of my skin, crowding in everywhere, perfect and smothering. Beyond the bars is a sad cubby-hole square of a room. Drab, empty, homely. Insane as I know it is, I've missed it. The notion twangs like the string of an instrument, and I catch it hurriedly, gripping it tight before it can ring out any longer. No noise. I need to stay here. I can't fall again.

The door to my cell sways at my approach. It's been left just as it was when I last saw it: carelessly yanked open, the hole it leaves behind a gaping maw that still invokes discomfort, a well crawling with the sensation of insects' tiny claws. I resist the desire to shy away and watch, thoughts pinned tight, as I shove Dalton through the abyssal space. This time, I don't catch him when he topples to the cold stone ground, wheezing. My foot catches the edge of the door and nudges it mostly shut behind us.

Dalton is shaking all over, but he gradually pushes himself up, one hand flat against the floor while his opposite elbow props him up. His knees curl closer to him. His face and hair are caked in dust, matching to his soft, bright eyes, gaze narrowing as he attempts to meet mine. Exhales whoosh out of him weak and whistling. Blood trickles down his jaw.

A tsk sound clicks my tongue. "What happened to you, pretty boy?"

Mockery coats my voice, nearly thick enough to make me wince. My mouth tastes bitter. Shaula revels in that, but all I feel is a fisted tightness in my stomach, squeezing and anxious. She must sense it, but I can't contain it. Anger and chaos swirl around me, ever more exhausting to battle.

Dalton spends a moment collecting his words. "Collapsed hallway." His tone is short and bitten, breathless, though his gaze keeps drilling into me as if he's trying to see right through. Emotion swirls behind his expression. Terror? Sadness? Grief?

Distant fear trickles down my spine. I wish I had room to worry about Sarielle.

Instead, dark flame tightens its coils, and a blade pushes through my senses. Fire collects into the shape of a knife in my hand. I twirl its icy hilt as I bend down to Dalton's level, its tip dancing past his heaving chest and up to his face as I debate where to let it land. "You may regret not letting it finish crushing you. I must confess I am much less merciful than simple brick and stone." A hum glides from my lips, and I tilt the blade upward, earning a flinch as it trails past the wound on his cheek. "How about I start with your pretty eyes?"

Stupid, stupid instinct crashes my focus outward, skin alive with itches and chills as I feel it all at once, the knife's shape wavering as my fingers, for once, wriggle at my command. Fire roars in my ears. I jerk my wrist, though it travels no distance at all before a harsh blow hits my core and my body is stolen from me once more.

Do you think I do not sense you, Noli?

Stupid. This isn't a fight I can win on wild desperation, but it howls all the same, all I am made of. And now Shaula's presence strangles me more than ever, enough that her voice drowns out everything. My vision -- my distant view of the world, not the black eyes she's claimed from me -- flickers. I strive to bring it back, ignoring her question, ignoring my frantic, panicked desire to take in more air; my lungs are not my own, and so I don't have the choice. Shaula holds everything so steady. Even the shape of my knife in my hand has hardened again, barely distinguishable as flame.

An inward sigh ripples through my mind. And here I was thinking we could do this together, but you still choose those that do not matter over me. My flame flares, oddly malicious, stabbing from all sides. You are a foolish hindrance. Let go.

If the so-called handholds I cling to are buried in a cliff face, then the hill is crumbling around me, shaken by a growling earthquake that inches closer. I dig my fingers into the dry, breaking soil, every inch of what's left of me straining. I will not let go. If I could glare from within, I would.

My spite hits a wall and bounces back at me, twice as ferocious. A hiss cuts through my veins. Did you not like the hunger? An ache ruminates in my stomach in echo, a flick of punishment. Fine. Take a kinder memory. Perhaps then you can show me some gratitude.

Memories. That's what they are. That's where she's burying me. I want to fight harder, but I don't have the strength. My cliff slips from my grasp, and the world I know fades into the faraway sky.

The last thing I'm aware of is the black knife -- my knife -- dug in at the bridge of Dalton's nose before it slices across his eye. His pain twines my fingertips. I can only pray the pleasure I feel is Shaula's and not my own.

- ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ -

My father's eyes are my favourite to study, especially when he's reading. A focus catches alight within them as he scans a maze of words, a pleasant violet glow unlike any other colour in the world -- save the shade of his flame, of course. Golden wire pinches his nose and swirls around his eyes to form his spectacles. A faint, shimmering mist flutters within the wire coils, warping the colour ever so slightly.

The distortions I see today are far too strange to be caused by that, however. Like black, mingling specs. Brow furrowing, I shift closer to him, trousers scuffing the wooden floorboards. It looks like ink has splashed in his eye, staining the violet. I don't like it as much.

All the same, curiosity wells up in my chest, bright and brilliant as always. I jab a finger upwards at his face, elbow nudging his side as I do so. "Your eyes look weird."

"Hm?" He glances up, the leather-bound book on his lap crinkling as he splays a hand across the pages to hold his place. Shock flickers over his expression, and he knocks a finger against the underside of his spectacles, hurrying to twist away. "Oh, just the light, Noli. Do you really have to stare at me so intently all the time?"

He sounds annoyed, his voice grinding and lashing at me like a spear to the chest. I flinch, ducking backward, gaze downturned. "Sorry," I mumble.

A sigh puffs from him, and then his arm wraps around my shoulders, crackling warmth soaking through my skin and into my bones as I'm tugged into his side. Carefully tense, I crane my neck to peer up at him.

He flashes a momentary smile, and I relax a little, though still unnerved by the lack of matching light in his eyes. It's like he's faking the happiness, but his touch feels as real and as fiery as always. "It's okay," he says, words snagging awkwardly on his tongue. "It's just, ah... rude to point out things like that. Don't be rude."

I nod furiously. "I didn't want to be rude. I'm--"

"I know you're sorry." His hold shakes comfortingly up and down as he wriggles my shoulder. I giggle, tucking my head into his chest, his cloak soft and heavy like a blanket as its folds crease in around me.

The book in his lap catches my eye. Unable to resist, I grab his leg and lean forward, staring in wonder at all the perfectly inked words. It looks like there's pictures in this one, too, shaped by thin, scratchy strokes. The image displayed on this page is of a creature, one with many, many loops of a body and a mouth gaped open to display hooked fangs. Its eyes look like black holes in the page. I jolt back, fingers digging into Father's trousers. "Is that the bad guy of the story? It looks scary."

His palm slaps the page, hurriedly covering up the beast. "This isn't a story. It's not for you to look at."

My bottom lip sticks out. "But I like stories." I lunge closer to the book again, squinting at the tiny letters littered underneath his thumb as I try to read them. Maybe it really isn't a story; lots of the words are far too long, longer than the ones he's taught me to read so far. One in particular I don't recognise at all snares my attention. "Adee... Ay-deh..."

The book snaps shut. I don't even get to look at the words inscribed on its cover before it's shoved onto the floor and out of sight and reach. Father's arm wrapped around my chest keeps me from chasing after it. I wriggle anyway, annoyance bouncing in my chest. Why can't I look? I wanted to figure out what the new words meant. It's the only way I'll one day be as good at reading as my father.

"If you want to hear a story," he says, gently pushing me down until I still, "then I'll tell you one. How about that?"

His gaze glints over the upper rim of his spectacles, still a tad too dark but kindly and wise. The stories he knows are always fascinating. "Okay." I grin and settle into position, eager to behave well so he doesn't renege before I get to listen.

"Have I told you before how the world we know came to be?"

My chin bounces in a nod. "The white flame whooshed over the world and made everything come to life."

He chuckles, his chest shaking against my head. "Exactly. It whooshed through" -- his arm spreads in an exaggerated arc -- "and razed the barren earth with its blessing, breathing life into our world, but that was a very, very long time ago. Longer than you can imagine."

I frown, squinting my eyes as my nose wrinkles in thought. "What if I imagine really hard?"

"I doubt even your powerful imagination would be enough." He ruffles my hair, and a loose curl flops onto my forehead. I swat it away and pat at the rest of my curls in indignation. Beyond our warm, tucked-away corner of the house, evening light streams through a slitted window high up the mahogany wall of our house, the rays still a buttery yellow despite the late hour. Summer is magic like that: stretching the daylight out impossibly long.

My mother is out enjoying it while we stay inside and hide in old stories and books. She laughed at us for that before she left, but I don't mind. I like to split my days between her lively fun and this quieter time with my father.

"It was so long ago that we've forgotten the name of the being who wielded white fire," he's continuing while I study the dancing sunlight, "but we theorise that they must've been some ancient form of Synté, or perhaps even the creator of the Synté themself." He glances down at me. "I'm not losing you, am I?"

I shake my head, a question already burning my tongue. "Why can't the Synté tell us what happened?"

"They don't remember either."

"Why?"

"You and your whys." He smiles, gaze turning distant. The light catches on his earthy brown hair and shimmers, turning it a few different shades of clay. "Don't stop asking those questions, Noli." He sighs, and I shift impatiently, itching for him to continue. He does eventually. "This is the part I haven't told you before, but I think you're old enough to understand now, maybe."

"What?" I press. I am good at questions. I beam to myself, pride tickling my chest.

"The Synté don't remember because they were forbidden, likely by the nameless one of white fire themself." He takes a moment to let that strangely ominous statement sink in, worming into the pit of my stomach, before he starts explaining. "You see, there was once a time when the Synté had all their power to themselves. They could change form at will, and they could command flame in all its power without any need for a human Tía. Tía didn't exist at all back then. But the Synté we're not careful with their power. They used it recklessly to ruin and destroy, to play with nature, and they were punished for it. The nameless one confined them in restrictive animal forms and gathered the excess flame left behind, placing its blessing upon five selected families of humans. That's the five different colours of flame, the same as today. Can you name those families?"

I'm so lost in curious wonder that the request catches me off guard. Startled, I lift my fingers to count them off. "Us, Katasko, which is purple. Lisiaz is pink. And then, um, green is Idemona, and red..."

"Starts with O," Father prompts, and it hits my tongue immediately.

"Olemis!" I grin, though it fades quickly as I tap at my fifth finger. "I can't remember what blue is."

"Kynig," Father supplies, the name coming tight and short. I bite my lip, half-afraid he's annoyed at me for not remembering, but he seems to be looking at something else rather than me. My mind drifts back to the story instead, and my knee bounces.

"So what happened next? After the Synté were bad?"

"The nameless one told them that they could only access their flame's power via the humans he had blessed. Humans had fickle minds, but they had hearts -- something the Synté lacked -- and so they would have to work in partnership to govern the flame. That's how the system we have today came about. Does that all make sense?"

"I think so." I press a fist to my lips, mulling over it all. "I'm confused why all the Synté would do bad things, though. That seems weird. Izar is always nice to us."

Father is quiet for a moment before he twists to meet my eyes. His gaze twinkles, thankfully made only of purple fire once more. "Izar is very glad you think so." His smile only lasts a second before his expression turns serious. "Most of the Synté, like Izar, have steadily learned goodness, care and humility since their punishment. They are noble beings now, sworn to help us protect our secrets and look after magic's balance, and you must remember to be grateful and respectful to them. When you get your own partner, you must vow to always listen to their word and to follow it. Don't take this story to mean that the Synté are not worth your loyalty."

Most of those words wash right over my head, but I nod anyway. It hadn't crossed my mind to be anything but respectful. That's just the right thing to do.

Curiosity's taste lingers, though. "You said most of'. So there are some that are still bad?"

Father's breath catches, just a little. "You're very observant," he says, though his voice sounds sad, wound taut. "Yes, there were... some. One in particular was acutely angered by the loss of power. She manipulated her bond with her Tía partner and pushed more of herself into them, goading them down a... different path of magic than the one the white fire being desired. She, ah..."

His trailing silence is a package of taut, knotted strings, bunched tight around curious secrets. His eyes twitch wider. I nudge his arm, begging him to continue and to explain what he means so I can understand, before I realise he's looking at something.

Stilling, I glance up. My mother stands in the doorway, dark hair frizzed from being out in the sun and skin bearing the glow of a faint, slowly-emerging summer tan, though she's still paler than father. I flash her a wavering grin, unsure. Her arms are folded and her lips press a stern line. I'm not used to her looking angry. She never gets angry.

The back of my neck prickles, and I swallow. Is it at me? Have I done something wrong?

Father clears his throat forcibly, drawing my attention back to him. "I think that's enough story time for tonight, Noli." He smiles at me, but the soft emotion is fake again, and it makes me all the more uncomfortable. "Why don't you say goodnight to Mother and then head to bed?"

The tension feels heavy. I bow my head underneath it, twisty stomach making me squirm. "Will you tell me more about the bad Synté in the morning?"

He steals a glance at Mother rather than responding, then hoists his strange smile back into place. "Of course. Now go to bed, alright? Be quick about it."

I would never dream of calling my father a liar, yet in that moment, his gaze is full of lies. He doesn't want to tell me those secrets. Like the book hunkered by his furthest leg, they're forbidden. I wish he'd tell me why. My tongue stings with the desire to ask, but all I do is disentangle myself from him and get to my feet. I barely want to look at my mother and her hard, furious eyes. "Goodnight," I say quietly.

"Night, Noli." Her voice sounds flat, too, and it scares me. It isn't even angry. Her tone is simply empty, chiming dull notes rather than the light skip I'm used to. "Sleep well."

I open my mouth, close it, then nod and briskly exit the living room. The door to my bedroom creaks as I push it shut, sealing them both inside.

"We agreed we wouldn't discuss it in front of him, Rishi."

Mother's voice is really, actually furious this time, though it still sounds odd. I flinch, freezing with a sliver of a crack still letting sound leak through the door. My heart hammers. I clamp a hand to my chest, afraid the noisiness will give me away.

"I was only telling him about the fall of the Synté," my father responds, tone placative. "He's curious about the world, Mayci. It's important he knows about his history--"

"That's not what I mean and you know it." Mother's voice drops to a whisper. I inhale sharply, leg bouncing as I hesitate, then give in and press my ear to the door.

"You should not even be thinking about Shaula," she continues in a pointed hiss, "let alone telling our son about her. What's gotten into you?"

"He'll find out eventually, won't he?" The words meander, muffled and evasive, like the crinkle of pages that occurs whenever he lifts a book to hide his face behind it. Perhaps Mother's strangeness scares him, too. "At least this way he gets to know before it happens," he adds, voice wincing.

My mother breathes a hard sigh through her nose. "It will never happen. I won't let it. I've told you several times already. Will you stop being so damn selfish and just--"

"What other choice do I have?" The question snaps upward harshly enough to make me flinch again. My mother's anger is rigid and uncomfortable, but I can practically picture the air sizzling around my father as he stands up. It comes from nowhere, yet it hurts, pounding in my chest in searing waves as if my own flame roars in unison with his. His foot stomps the carpet. "Your magic can't hide the dark in my eyes now. Every time he touches me, or you touch me, I'm..." He sucks in a shaky, ragged breath, and the crackle of fire in my ears ebbs away as his tone softens. It's like molten rock, hardened off and now cracking apart into shards. "I'm terrified, Mayci," he says, and a lump builds in my throat. "What if I hurt one of you? How could I forgive myself?" He laughs, bitterly, a sound like acid. "Is that selfishness, then?"

A heavy silence drips into place. It's thick and exhausting, pressing down on my shoulder blades until my legs tremble beneath me and I have to twitch back to avoid making the door rattle. My heart pounds fiercely enough to thrum in my stomach, stirring it up, filling me with sick, itching discomfort. My mind slips over the details of my father's words without the means to make sense of it, but I do desperately want to understand. The fragments I catch cut and prod, stabbing cold fear under my skin.

Something is very, very wrong, and it's making Mother and Father angry at each other. It's making them keep secrets from me and talk about hurt and selfishness and bad things. It's making them act like different people, less nice people. I realise my eyes are wet, and hurriedly clamp both hands over my mouth, battling a sob.

My mother's eventual response is so soft I barely catch it. "You're not going to hurt anybody."

"I will." Father's words simmer with emotion, so gratingly contrasting to the flatness of her tone. "Unless I find another way."

"Then find another way." Mother's voice raises again, and a harsh thud tremors through the wall, a hand slapped against it. "But not this way. I won't let you do this."

"Why not?" my father growls, and tears burn as they run down my cheeks, my chest heaving and nostrils flaring as I do my best not to make any noise. I'm shaking all over. "Do you even care about me anymore? About Noli? Are you able to care?"

"Don't. Don't you dare deflect this onto me. This mess is--"

I'm not listening anymore. My hands move to my ears, blocking out the rest of the shouting, and I tiptoe over to my bed, fisting the blanket and hugging it close as I hide myself beneath it. Its violet colour fades like this, hidden as I swaddle myself in a pocket of darkness, though the muffled sounds of my parents' voices still seep through the fabric and jar my bones.

Does Mother really not care about me?

I shake my head furiously, dismissing the thought, knowing my father must have lied, but still I can't stop crying. Why would he lie about that? And why, why is his anger so painful?

Eyes squeezed shut and mouth tasting of salty panic, I curl up into as tight a ball as I can muster beneath the sheets. My thoughts wander again to the dark specs I saw in his eyes, spiralling around the image, my desire to understand mixing with anxiety until a fat knot forms in my stomach. I so wish I understood. I don't want to be afraid.

And yet as the night wears on, even as the voices in the other room fall quiet and my heartbeat gradually steadies, fear is still all I can think about. Fear and blackness and ruin.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

I've decided Rishi is the kind of dad who would try to teach his son university-level topics when he's literally just started school and I love him for it. He's goofy. Just ignore the fact that he also may or may not have caused a mass murder event and several other deaths afterward. Just a silly goofy nerd.

- Pup