Eddie entered the practice room and closed the door behind him. It was still dark inside. He flicked the light switch, expecting to see his mentor, but the room was revealed to be empty.

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Louis, we're in the right room right?"

"Right," Louis answered him, still nestled inside his bag. "We're on time too. Maybe he's running late."

"Should I message him?"

"Nah, he might be busy. Let's just relax while waiting."

Eddie grasped the strap of his messenger bag and removed it from his shoulder, letting it lean against the wall. He glanced at the right. The wake shakes had not even been prepared yet. Perhaps Giorgino was still ordering their drinks at the café. It should not take him too long.

His mind traveled backward in time to the moment they acquired their first ingredient. A slimy mass of scales slipped from his grasp as the dragon freed itself. Its slitted irises narrowed at him as it charged through the water. He was cornered. Helpless. Moments from being mauled to death. Eddie shuddered. Above the ground, he had all the power in the world, yet as soon as he submerged himself, he became powerless. Vulnerable. Weak.

It won't be that way anymore.

Eddie summoned a square target and held it in his left hand. Its surface was coarse and coated in black, with the exception of a yellow dot that marked its bullseye. He gazed at his right hand as he gathered heat in its palm and fingers. Once it was hot, he pressed it against the target.

The areas that he touched glowed a glaring red as soon as he applied heat to them. He lifted his hand. It blackened as it cooled. He then hovered his hand over the target, radiating heat from his palm. It reddened once more, though it took a few seconds longer for it to achieve the same shade of vermillion.

Beep, beep. Eddie beckoned to open his bag and retrieved his cellphone from a distance. He pressed a button and held his phone to his right ear.

"Hello?" Eddie said.

"Oh hi, Eddie!" Giorgino said, his voice obscured by the sound of leaves loudly rustling. "Look I'm really sorry, I'm really busy right now and I forgot to tell you that class is canceled but anyway, yeah, I'm sorry I can't make it."

"Wait, so will there be a substitute mentor?"

"A substitute? Uh, I forgot to arrange for that. There's no lesson today, so you can go home, but you can also stay in the practice room if you want. Sorry for not telling you in advance, I forgot to let you know. Bye."

His mentor then hung up. He indeed had a hectic schedule—so hectic that there was no time slot available for him to mentor his own student. Eddie shrugged. He was already quite advanced, as far as he was concerned. One missed lesson would not hurt him. Eddie summoned his bag and inserted his phone into it. As he kept his phone, Louis flew out of his bag and to his side.

"Hey, we can go home!" it said. "Let's go back and sleep."

"Can we go home later?" Eddie told it. "I want to try something new."

It levitated in front of his face, frozen in its spot. "You're serious?"

"I'm serious."

"Ed, you haven't taken any anti-sleeping serum. You're gonna doze off sooner or later."

"I don't feel sleepy yet. It won't take long anyway."

Louis snorted. "If you need me, I'll be napping."

It dove into his bag and zipped it shut. Eddie then flung it across the room. His attention returned to the square target. Back to practice. He made it float in midair as he took twelve steps back. His front leg shifted as he prepared his stance.

Pyrokinesis is not just controlling fire, but also controlling heat, Helene's voice echoed in his mind. Eddie extended two fingers from his right fist. He recoiled his arm, eyes narrowed at the black plate, and propelled his arm.

Zap! A spark of electricity zigzagged towards the target. Eddie shook his head. He inhaled, recoiled his arm once more, and fired.

Zap! Another bolt of electricity streaked from his fingers and landed squarely in the middle. Eddie shook his head once more. Perhaps there was something wrong with his technique. He took a deep breath. Heat flowed through his veins and to his fingertips. He opened his right palm, pulled back his arm, and thrust.

Nothing. He heard not a sound nor saw a speck of light coming from his fingers. For a moment, he thought he had failed once more. He later remembered: heat was invisible.

The target reddened a second later. His blue eyes brightened with delight. It worked! He opened his left palm and tried once more. The target soon glowed a brighter shade of red. The corners of his lips rose.

"Whatcha doing?"

Eddie cocked his head to the side. Louis was floating right next to him.

"I thought you said you'd be napping?"

"I was until you were making a lot of noise with all that thunder," it said, its voice laced with annoyance. "What's all this?"

"Just testing a theory. Heat flows through water through convection. I figured, if I could control pure heat, I wouldn't be so helpless underwater."

"Oh, that's neat. So is your theory correct?"

Eddie glanced at the other side. "Only one way to find out."

Poof. A pair of swim trunks materialized before him while a swimming pool appeared out of the blue. Eddie waved his hand. A dark cloth covered the door's glass pane. He then disrobed. He folded his clothes and kept them on the table before he wore the swim trunks. He lowered his hand, forcing the target to sink underwater, then ran towards the pool and dove.

Splash!

His eyes searched for the target as soon as his head sunk beneath the surface. It was a few meters from where he plunged, its dark surface a stark contrast to the pool's white tiles. It was time to find out. Eddie held his breath as he opened his palm, retracted his arm, and thrust.

A sharp current ripped through the water as an unseen beam of heat struck the target, leaving a ruby red mark. Eddie gasped.

He closed his mouth before water could enter his lungs. He swung his limbs as he swam towards the surface. Once his head escaped the pool, he gasped for air.

"Did it work?" Louis asked.

"It did!" he rejoiced. "Now let's go back home."

He climbed out of the pool, setting himself on fire to dry himself up. Louis swooped back into Eddie's bag as he dressed. He then picked up his bag, flicked the light switch, and left the room.

***

Eddie jolted upright as he woke up. He scanned the area around him. It was still midnight. He sighed, fell back onto the bed, and wrapped himself in a blanket.

It was the third time his body woke him up that night. He was struggling to sleep, not because of nightmares, but because he had been conditioned to rise during that hour. Every other night, Eddie would sneak out of his home, head to Nitea for his lesson, then return very early in the morning. Now that his mentor was occupied with other things, he had the chance to sleep. If only he could do so for several hours straight.

Eddie sat upright. There was no point in him fighting his insomnia. He might as well stay awake until his body felt weary enough to rest. What should he do to pass the time? He glanced at his shelf. No, he was not in the mood to read. He glanced at his piano. He was in the mood to practice. Eddie kicked off his duvet, set both feet on the floor, and waved his left arm. The curtains drew back, letting soft moonlight penetrate through the windows. Eddie then rose, careful not to stand up too quickly, and then staggered towards his piano.

Eddie sat on the piano bench and let his fingers rest on the keys. He pressed each key as he checked their pitch. Everything was in tune. He then began warming up with a prelude.

"Oi!"

The voice startled Eddie. He cocked his head to the left and glimpsed his shelf. Louis had untucked itself from its spot, waving its book jacket at him like how one would be shaking fists at a nuisance.

"Can you quit playing?" it said. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Well I can't sleep," Eddie said.

Louis sighed. "Just go back to bed, lay down, and close your eyes."

"You think I haven't done that?"

"Then read or something."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Look, I just want peace and quiet, okay? All that teleporting has been draining my energy," Louis said, exasperated. "I'll tell you a bedtime story."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah. Just go to bed."

Eddie stood up and walked toward his bed. He tucked himself underneath the duvet as Louis flapped to his side and wondered what kind of tale his book was about to tell him. It curled a page as it cleared its nonexistent throat.

"Once upon a time, there was a boy named Eddie," it began. "He went to bed, closed his eyes, and slept. The end. Now sleep."

Eddie gave it a deadpan expression. "That's not a bedtime story."

"It has a beginning, middle, and end, so it's a story."

"A rather boring story."

"For a rather boring person."

Eddie glared at it, but uttered not a word. He was accustomed to such remarks. All that mattered was that it obeyed his every command.

Louis squeezed itself back into its spot on the shelf. Eddie glanced at his piano. His fingers yearned to press the keys, but doing so would disturb Louis. His mind then went back to the Bösendorfer. It was past midnight; the music room should be completely empty. He could practice there instead. Eddie climbed off his bed and gave his private piano a soft pat before he departed for the music room.

He arrived a few moments later. The music room was cold, dark, and empty—like his heart, he would say, only to hear his close friends dispute him. Eddie did not bother to turn on the lights. He glided towards the center of the room and halted when he was near. Eddie lifted his right arm and waved it in front of him, his hand coming into contact with something wooden. There it was.

The Bösendorfer Imperial. His favorite piano. With a flick of his wrist, he lifted its lid and pulled out the bench. He took a seat. He rested one finger on the key, took a deep breath, and played.

It did not take long for him to be immersed in his music. His eyes looked at nothing else but the keyboard. His fingers moved on their own accord. Below the waist, the only movement came from his feet as they depressed the pedals. He pressed every key with intention. He was powerful when he needed to, and soft and delicate when the piece called for it.

Memories of the moment he first heard it flashed in Eddie's mind. Five-year-old Eddie was lounging on one of the chairs in the music room. His father was seated at the grand piano, playing Ravel's "Gaspard de la Nuit." Little Eddie moved not a single muscle as he listened to his father, appreciating the delicate melodies he produced and the impressive fluidity of his fingers.

"Papa, can I play?"

"Oh, sure. You can play on that," his father said, using his head to gesture to the other piano.

It was a digital Yamaha. It sounded splendid, no doubt about it, but was incomparable to the piano that his father was playing.

"I want to play on that one," Little Eddie said, pointing at the Bösendorfer.

"Oh, this? Sorry, you can't play on it yet."

"But I want to play."

"You can play, but not on this one."

"Why not? You let me play on the grand piano at home, and you said it's expensive."

His father lifted his fingers off the keys and rested them on his lap. "Edmond, this is no ordinary piano. It's very old and very precious. I can't trust you to play on it yet."

"I'll be careful with it," said Little Eddie. "I promise."

"Edmond, let's say you have a very old and fragile bell that's very expensive. Will you give it to someone who just learned how to hold a bell?"

Little Eddie shook his head. "No, papa."

His father gave a soft smile. "You understand, now?"

"I understand."

"Don't worry, my son, one day you will play here. Maybe in a few years. When you're good enough, then I'll let you play."

Little Eddie nodded his head and his father resumed playing. He sighed as he leaned against the back of his chair, looking longingly at the Bösendorfer's ivory keys. Oh, how his fingertips craved its touch. And the sound, the sound! Outside of professional performances, his ears had never been blessed with such beautifully-blended harmonies. He could only admire from a distance, for he was not worthy yet. One day, he vowed, I will be good enough.

So Little Eddie put his fingers through rigorous training. Back in their Parisian home, he would sit at the Steinway baby grand as his tutor taught him. He played everything he was told to, from scales and arpeggios to etudes and waltzes. His tutor only taught him to sight-read, but Little Eddie was determined to go further than that. Inspired by Chopin's habit of playing in the dark, he would sneak out of his room in the middle of the night and challenge himself to play with the lights turned off. He memorized whole pieces, played with his eyes closed, and even went as far as to switch hands.

His progress was noticeable, to say the least. By six, he could play Beethoven's Écossaises. By seven, he had mastered most of Mozart's Viennese Sonatinas. And by eight, he could handle nearly half of Chopin's preludes. He thought he was already worthy.

That all changed when he witnessed his father play one of Rachmaninoff's piano concertos. It was then that he realized that he still had a lot to learn. When his father played loudly, he pounded the keys with power and precision. When Little Eddie played loudly, he banged the keyboard with loose force. When his father played softly, each note was dampened yet resonant. When Little Eddie attempted to do the same, they sounded muted and muddled. When his father played fast, he was a master technician. When Little Eddie played fast, he sounded like he was in a rush to catch a train. Little Eddie was not worthy. He was far from it.

Which was why every visit to Le Vésinet pained him. He would enter the music room to practice and pass by the Bösendorfer, gazing at it for a short while before he proceeded to the digital piano. Every glance only deepened his desire. He would exit the room as soon as his father arrived to play on the Bösendorfer, for he could not bear to listen to what was out of his reach. It was a reminder of his unworthiness. His inabilities. His imperfections.

It was for this reason that he requested that a private piano be kept in his room. He expected his father to purchase a mid-range upright, so he was surprised when he found an antique grand piano laying near his bed. It was a Blüthner that had been in the storage room before it was brought out, restored, and sent to his bedroom. Little Eddie loved his Blüthner and its beautiful sound, but nothing captured his heart the same way the Bösendorfer did. Its voice held a certain je ne sais quoi that no other instrument possessed.

Then one summer, his father invited him to the music room and asked if he would like to play. Eddie remembered each step he took as he entered the music room and made his way to the digital piano.

"Where are you going?" his father asked.

Little Eddie halted. "To the piano?" he answered, gesturing to the upright Yamaha.

"I thought you always wanted to play on the Bösendorfer."

A twinkle lit up in his turquoise eyes. "I can play that?"

His father smiled. "Yes, you can."

Dimples formed on nine-year-old Eddie's face as he paced towards the Bösendorfer. After four years of distance and fervent yearning, he was finally going to play it for the first time. His fingertips tingled in anticipation. He sat on the piano bench and straightened his posture. His fingers rested on the keys and set his right foot on the damper pedal. He knew he wanted to play; he just did not know which piece.

"Go on," his father encouraged him. "Play."

A hesitant Eddie turned his head to his father. "What should I play?"

"What should you play? I suggest Chopin, Waltz in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 64 No. 2."

Eddie nodded and turned his attention to the keyboard. One finger on the low C Sharp, and his right hand resting about two octaves higher. He took a deep breath and pressed a key. It made a sound—no, it sang. No wonder his father prized it so highly. He played the next notes. The music that it produced awed him beyond belief. It was beautiful, delicate, and it came from his hands. His tiny, inexperienced hands. He closed his eyes as he played through the piece, losing himself in his music.

Eddie's mind returned to the present. Here he was, more than six years later, comfortably playing it in the dark. He could play any note or chord with laser-like precision, knowing just where every key was and how much force should be applied. He knew it better than the back of his palm. Yet, from time to time, he would question his own musicality.

His father was a maestro. He could have been a concert pianist had he pursued music as a career. And Eddie? Eddie was no stranger to adulation: his tutor called him one of the best pupils she had ever taught; his father told him he was gifted; his friends praised him whenever he played, with some even revealing that they envied him for his talent. Yet, whenever he listened to his father's playing, his doubts would resurface. I'm not as good as my dad. His father set a bar so high, he wondered if he would ever reach it. He wondered if he would even near it. He wondered whether he was indeed as brilliant as other people would say, or whether they were complimenting him out of courtesy.

After finishing a few pieces, Eddie let his hands rest on the keyboard. He intended to take a short break before practicing some jazz improvisation. Before he resumed, he turned his head to face the door. Fwoom.

Someone was watching him. He jerked his head backward once his telekinetic sight detected a woman, leaning sideways as she peeked into the room. He was unsure of who she was. It could not be his mother; she was too short. Her hair was too long to be Celestine. It was either Stella or her mother. What would either of them be doing there in the middle of the night? Eddie rose from his seat, careful to not make a sound. Creak.

She turned her back and scurried away.

He held himself back. Though he was dying to know who his mysterious audience was, he suppressed the urge to run after her. What good would it do anyway? Eddie sighed. He wondered how long she had been standing there, listening to him. Perhaps she was not even listening to him. Perhaps she was on her way to another room when she heard him play, and merely took a peek out of curiosity. Who would want to listen to him anyway? His father was a virtuoso, not him.

Eddie covered his mouth as he yawned. He closed the lid with both hands and pushed the stool into its place before he staggered out of the room, on the way to his bed.

✧ ✧ ✧

Fun Fact: I initially wanted Eddie's favorite classical composer to be a French composer, like Debussy or Ravel. However, after listening to Chopin's pieces, I realized that they suited him quite well. What do you think?

I'd like to thank you for reading this far into the book! If you liked this chapter, let me know by pressing the star-shaped button 😊