Era's Domain, A Few Days Later

  Niche lies in the grass, staring at nothing. His element perception still hasn't returned, so staring at nothing is literal. Just darkness and the feeling of sun on his face.

  Footsteps in the grass. Slow, unhurried.

  "What are you doing out here?" Era asks.

  "Just sitting."

  "You've been sitting for a while."

  "It's nice out."

  Era settles beside him. Niche can feel his presence, warm and steady. It's become familiar over the past few days. The only thing he can really track in this place.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Okay, I think." Niche pulls at a blade of grass. "It's quiet here."

  "Too quiet?"

  "No. I like it."

  They sit for a moment. Niche finds himself leaning slightly toward Era without meaning to. It's hard not to. He can't see anything, can't do anything. Era is the only constant.

  "I have something for you today," Era says.

  "What is it?"

  "You're meeting your family."

  Niche's hand stills on the grass. "My family?"

  "The one you'll be staying with for your training. A mother, a father, a sister. They've been preparing for you."

  Niche doesn't respond.

  "You'll like them," Era says.

  "What if they don't like me?"

  The question comes out before he can stop it. Small. Childish.

  "They will." Era's voice is certain. "Come. I'll walk you there."

  Niche stands, but he stays close to Era as they walk. Close enough to follow his footsteps. Close enough to reach out if he needs to.

  "How far is the house?" Niche asks.

  "A while."

  They keep walking. The ground changes under Niche's feet several times. Stone to grass to dirt to stone again. He hears water at some point, a fountain or a stream, then it fades behind them.

  "This place is huge," Niche says.

  "Everything within the fence is mine."

  "The fence?"

  "You won't be able to see it. But it's there. It marks the boundary of my domain."

  They walk for a while longer. Niche hears voices in the distance at one point. Laughter. Children, maybe.

  "Who else lives here?"

  "My people."

  "Your people?"

  "The ones I trust." Era's voice is calm. "They've earned their place here. They live, they work, they raise families. A small community, but a good one."

  So these aren't just random people. They're special. Chosen.

  "And the family I'm staying with?"

  "Good people. They'll take care of you."

  Good people. Chosen people. And I'm supposed to live with them. Learn from them.

  What if I can't be like them?

  He doesn't ask that one out loud.

  "One thing," Era says as they walk. "Your training is between us. Don't mention it to your family."

  "Why?"

  "It's special. The others would be jealous if they knew."

  Niche nods. He doesn't fully understand, but he doesn't question it.

  Don't talk about training. Got it.

  They keep walking. The house comes into view, Niche assumes, based on Era slowing down.

  "This is it," Era says. "I'll leave you here."

  "You're not coming in?"

  "No. This is your family, not mine."

  Niche is quiet for a moment.

  "What if I need you?" Niche asks.

  He says it simply. Not trying to hide it, but not dwelling on it either.

  "You won't," Era says. "But I'll be around."

  "Okay."

  Era’s hand on Niche’s shoulder is brief. Then footsteps moving away.

  Niche stands there for a moment, listening to Era leave. Then he walks forward, towards his new family.

  Era’s Domain, Family House, Night

  Niche sits at the dinner table. The mother is setting down plates. The father is already seated at the head, napkin tucked into his collar.

  The sister comes in last, pulling someone by the hand. "Everyone, this is my friend. She's joining us tonight."

  "Welcome, welcome." The mother gestures to an empty chair. "Sit, sit. There's plenty."

  The friend sits across from Niche. She has a nervous energy, glancing around the room like she's cataloging everything.

  “So you're the new brother," she says, leaning forward slightly.

  “I guess so,” he responds.

  "What's that like? Just showing up and having a whole family?"

  Niche shrugs. "Strange."

  "Really good strange or just good strange?"

  "Haven't decided yet."

  She laughs. It's a real laugh, not polite. "Fair enough."

  The mother sits down. "Let's eat before it gets cold."

  Plates are passed. Rice. Vegetables. Some kind of meat Niche doesn't recognize. He takes a portion of everything.

  "You'll like it here," the father says, cutting into his food without looking up. "Era's grounds are peaceful. Good place to clear your head."

  “That's the idea,” Niche says.

  "What are you training for?" the friend asks, leaning forward on her elbows.

  “Can't talk about it,” Niche replies.

  She grins. "Not even a hint?"

  "It's a secret," the sister says, elbowing her friend. "Stop prying."

  "I'm not prying. I'm curious. There's a difference."

  "No there isn't."

  "Yes there is."

  The mother sighs, setting down her fork. "Girls."

  They stop, but the friend is still smiling. She turns back to Niche.

  "Fine. Keep your secrets.” She rolls her eyes.

  "I will."

  "But if you ever want to share, I'm a good listener."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  The father clears his throat. "How's school going?" he asks the friend.

  "It's fine." She shrugs, picking at her food. "Professor Helim is assigning more reading than I thought he would. It definitely surprised me. I’m still doing the work; it just wasn’t I expected at first."

  The mother nods her head. "What about you?" she asks the sister. "How's that mathematics class?"

  The sister smiles. "I’m doing good, but I can’t think of a real-life application for it. When will I use geometry? I can only think of a few examples."

  "Well…" the father says, reaching for more bread. "I use math every day at work."

  "You're an architect. That's different." The sister smiles.

  The friend laughs.

  The mother rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. The sister throws a piece of bread at the friend, who catches it and takes a bite.

  Niche eats. The food is good. The voices blend together into something warm. He can't remember the last time he sat at a table like this. Maybe never. Maybe his memories of before don't include anything this simple.

  He finishes his plate.

  "I'm going to head to my room," he says.

  "Already? You barely touched the dessert."

  "There's dessert?"

  "Of course there's dessert."

  "I'll have some tomorrow. I'm just tired."

  "First night," the father says. "Understandable. Get some rest."

  “Thank you for dinner,” Niche says.

  The mother smiles. "Of course."

  "It was nice meeting you," the friend says.

  “You too,” Niche responds.

  He gets up and walks down the hallway. The voices continue behind him, muffled through the walls. Someone laughs again.

  He finally reaches his room and closes the door behind him.

  The room is small. A bed. A desk. A window showing nothing but dark. He stands there for a moment, still thinking about the dinner. The friend's laugh. The sister's teasing. The mother's food.

  Something like contentment settles in his chest.

  Maybe this won't be so bad.

  Then he hears it.

  A sound. Low. Close. Behind him. A pressure in the room that wasn’t there before.

  His body goes cold.

  He opens his mouth to speak and his legs give out. His knees hit the floor first, then his hands, then his face. And then everything is needles.

  Thousands of them. Everywhere at once. Piercing through his skin, pushing into muscle, grinding against bone. His back. His chest. His arms. His face. The spaces between his fingers. The soft tissue inside his mouth. His throat. His lungs.

  He tries to scream but his voice won't come. His lungs are full of them. He tries to move and his body doesn't respond. Every nerve is firing at once, every part of him lit up with the same sharp agony.

  What did I do? I didn't do anything. I was just – I was happy. For a second. I was happy.

  He lies there. On the floor of his room. Needles filling every inch of him.

  Down the hall, someone is laughing. The mother asks if anyone wants seconds. The friend says something that makes the sister snort.

  They're still eating. They don't know. They can't hear me.

  It doesn't stop.

  He waits for it to peak. For the worst of it to hit so it can start fading. It doesn't peak. It just continues. Each needle a separate line of fire. He can feel every single one. He could count them if he tried. He doesn't try.

  I just wanted one night. One normal night. I wasn't asking for anything. I just wanted to sit at a table and eat dinner and feel like things might be okay.

  Help me. Please help me, Era. I need your help. Era…

  Time stops meaning anything. There's just the pain and the floor and the distant sound of a family that isn't his having dessert without him.

  Is this what Era meant? Is this the cleansing? Every time I feel something good, this happens?

  So I'm not allowed to be happy.

  That's the lesson.

  When it finally ends, he doesn't know how long it's been. Minutes. Hours. He's on his back, breathing in shallow gasps.

  No one came. No one checked on me. They just kept eating.

  Maybe they couldn't hear. Maybe the walls are thick. Maybe Era made it so they wouldn't know.

  Or maybe they knew and it didn't matter.

  He lies there until his heartbeat slows. Until his hands stop shaking.

  I was happy. That's all I did. I was happy and this is what happened.

  Okay.

  I won't be happy again.

  His hand moves to his chest. His fingers trace his skin.

  Nothing. No holes. No blood. No wounds.

  It's in my head. It's just in my head. That's fine. I can handle that. I just have to endure it. It'll pass. It always passes. Everything passes.

  His hands won't stop shaking.

  It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine.

  He curls onto his side. The floor is cold against his cheek.

  I just won't be happy again. That's all. That's easy. I can do it. I've done it before. I can do it again. I just won't feel anything and then it won't happen and I'll be fine.

  Down the hall, someone's washing dishes. Dinner is over, and half the family is asleep.

  I'm fine.

  He pulls his knees to his chest.

  I'm fine.

  He doesn't sleep that night.

  Era's Domain, Tomorrow Morning

  Niche lies in his bed, facing the wall, when he hears the door open. He hears voices in the kitchen. The sister's laugh. Another voice responding. He recognizes it.

  The sister’s friend is here again.

  He turns on his other side and picks up a book Era gave him. He starts reading. Doesn't go outside. Doesn't seek her out.

  The voices fade. The front door closes. She's gone.

  Niche keeps reading.

  That night, it comes.

  Shorter than the first time. But the needles are different now. They don't just pierce. They twist, rotating inside him like something burrowing deeper.

  His body convulses, throwing him on the floor. Can't move. Can't breathe.

  Can't think.

  That's the part that scares him. He always thinks. Even in the worst moments, his mind is working. Analyzing. Looking for the exit. Looking for the angle. That's how he survives. That's how he's always survived.

  But there's nothing now. Just white. Just the needles twisting through his spine, his joints, behind his eyes. His brain is full of them too. Every thought that tries to form gets shredded before it finishes.

  He can't escape into his head. There's nowhere to go.

  The night stretches. He doesn't know how long. Time doesn't exist when you can't think. There's just the pain and the floor and the dark.

  When it finally ends, he lies there until morning. His body is whole. His mind is not.

  Why?

  The question comes now. After. When he can think again.

  I didn't talk to her. Didn't see her. She came to the house and I stayed in my room.

  He goes through the day. Breakfast. Lunch alone. Reading in his room. He did nothing wrong.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He goes out of the room to have breakfast.

  As he takes a seat in the kitchen, he notices the sister finishing her eggs.

  “My friend asked about you yesterday,” she says.

  Niche's hands stop moving.

  “She thinks you're interesting.” The sister’s voice is light, teasing. "She likes you, I think."

  She thought about me.

  That's why. Last night. She thought about me and I'm being punished for it.

  But I can't control what she thinks. I can't stop her from asking about me. I didn't do anything.

  Why?

  No answer.

  Niche stands up and grabs the sister's plate, bringing it to the sink.

  "Thanks, Niche." She sounds surprised. "You're not going to eat anything?"

  "I already ate."

  "You sure? There's more if you want."

  "I'm going outside."

  “Okay. Have fun.”

  He finds the garden. The same spot as before. He lies down in the grass and stares at nothing.

  Hours pass. The sun moves across his face. Birds somewhere. Wind through leaves. Nothing else.

  Here, at least, I'm at peace. No chance of pain. No one thinking about me. No one asking questions. Just this.

  He stays there until the footsteps come.

  Era crouches down beside him.

  "Your control is improving," Era notes, almost lighthearted. "The punishments come less often now."

  Niche doesn't move. "They come when they want to come."

  "Do they?"

  Niche doesn't answer.

  "Something's holding you back," Era says.

  Niche doesn't respond.

  Era watches him for a long moment. "During the sand exercise. You remembered your parents. Your brother. The memorial world."

  "Yes."

  "There's one more barrier," Era says. "The last one. I've been waiting until you were ready."

  "What's behind it?"

  "The part you didn't let yourself remember. The part before the assassination.”

  Niche's chest tightens. "I remember everything already."

  "You remember what happened. You don't remember why."

  Era places a hand on Niche's forehead. Gentle. Brief.

  “This might be uncomfortable,” Era warns.

  Something shifts in Niche’s head again.

  Flashback, Original World, Phenoa

  Young Roy watches from the window as the diplomatic convoy loads. Servants rush back and forth, carrying bags and documents. His father adjusts his tie, speaking quietly to one of the guards. His mother holds little Riku against her chest, bouncing him gently to keep him calm.

  Roy presses his hand against the glass.

  His mother looks up, sees him, and waves. His father follows her gaze and does the same, a small smile on his face.

  Roy waves back.

  They climb into the car. The doors close. The convoy begins to move, wheels crunching against the stone path, until it disappears past the gate.

  Roy stays at the window for a while after they're gone.

  "They'll be back before you know it," Lin says behind him.

  Roy turns. The maid is standing in the doorway, hands folded in front of her.

  "I know." He steps away from the window. "Where are they going?"

  She pauses for a second, finding her words. “Your parents are going somewhere very important.”

  “Yeah.” Roy lowers his voice, hanging his head down.

  Lin sees Roy’s melancholic expression. “What’s wrong, young master?”

  "It’s just…” Roy starts, “they never tell me anything. I know I wouldn't understand it. But still. What if something happens to them?”

  Lin doesn't answer right away.

  Roy turns to look at her. "Please."

  She pauses for a moment. "Across the sea," she says. "One nation beyond the ocean has plenty of resources we need. We have an abundance of money. Your parents are going to negotiate terms that benefit both sides."

  She pauses, watching his face.

  "It's not dangerous, young master. They've done this many times. Diplomats meet, they talk, they sign papers, they come home, they both profit. That's all it is."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it." She kneels beside him. "One day you'll have to do the same, when you become king. Travel far from home. Make hard choices for the good of the people, no matter how much it hurts you."

  Roy looks at her. She's smiling.

  "Okay," he says.

  "Good." She stands, brushing off her dress. "Your grandmother's resting. Try not to wake her."

  Roy nods. Lin leaves to attend to her duties, and the house settles into quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Roy wanders into the library and pulls a random book off the shelf, but he only makes it a few pages before the words start blurring together. He tries another one and gives up on that too.

  He ends up walking the halls just to hear his footsteps echo, the house too big and too quiet for its few residents.

  By afternoon, he’s made his decision.

  He's already at the servant's door when he realizes the problem. It locks from the outside. He can get out, but he can't get back in.

  Roy finds Lin in the kitchen.

  "Lin, I'm going to the market. Can you let me back in through the servant's door in one hour?"

  She doesn't look up from the pot she's scrubbing. "The market?"

  "Yeah. I'll knock three times so you know it's me."

  I just want to see what it's like. Riku gets to go everywhere with them, and I have to stay here and do nothing.

  "One hour?"

  "One hour."

  She shrugs. "Fine."

  Really? That was easy.

  "Thank you, Lin!"

  He's already at the door when she calls after him. "Don't get lost."

  "I won't!"

  She doesn't say anything else. He hears the pot scrubbing resume before he's even outside.

  One hour. I'll be back right on time, just like I told you, Lin. You'll see.

  Young Roy slips out through the servant's door, heart racing with excitement. The palace gardens alone usually take half an hour to walk through, but his legs move quick and eager, and he's past the outer gates before he knows it. The market is only ten minutes from there, close enough to explore but far enough to feel like adventure.

  The market buzzes with life. A vendor sells sweet bread from a cart, and Roy buys one with coins he'd been saving. He takes a bite, and the filling burns his tongue. Too hot. He keeps chewing anyway, eyes watering, because he already paid for it. He eats it walking, crumbs falling on his shirt, and nobody bows or calls him "young master." Just a boy with sticky fingers like everyone else.

  An orange cat watches him from beneath a fruit stall. Skinny. Unblinking.

  Roy tears off a piece of bread and holds it out. The cat doesn't move. Just watches.

  He sets the piece on the ground and steps back. The cat still doesn't move.

  "Fine." Roy leaves the rest of the bread beside it and walks away. When he glances back, the cat is gone. So is the bread.

  A toy stall catches his eye. Wooden swords, painted horses, puppets on strings. But one thing stands out - a small metal creature, like a spider or a crab, with straps on the back.

  "You wear it on your hand," the merchant says. "Like armor. The claws move when you move your fingers."

  Roy straps it on. The metal is cold against his skin. He flexes, and the little claws flex with him. It feels like part of his body. Like it belongs there.

  He checks his coins. Not enough. He unstraps it, sets it back on the table, and the merchant is already turning to another customer.

  Further down, a man stands behind a table with a small crowd gathered. On the table sits a wooden figure of a person, no bigger than Roy's hand. It's on fire.

  "Undying light," the man announces. "The wood is coated in a solution that feeds the flame while protecting itself from burning. It cannot be consumed. Watch."

  The figure has been burning since Roy walked up. The wood hasn't blackened. Hasn't shrunk. The fire just keeps going, small and steady.

  "A candle burns out," the man continues. "Oil runs dry. But this? This sustains itself. No fuel needed. No maintenance. It simply exists."

  A woman in the crowd shakes her head. "Everything runs out eventually."

  "Not this. The fire combusts from the wood. The wood is alive and regenerates itself by using the fire’s energy for photosynthesis. They both continue existing."

  Roy watches the little wooden person burn. The flame flickers but holds.

  The man is still talking, but Roy is already stepping back from the stall. He doesn't have enough coins anyway, and even if he did, he's not sure he wants a tiny burning person following him home.

  This is nice. This is what normal people do.

  He checks the sky. The sun is lower now, orange bleeding into the edges of the blue.

  How long has it been? Thirty minutes? Forty?

  I still have time. Plenty of time.

  He starts walking back anyway. No need to rush, but no need to push it either. Lin said one hour, and he told her he'd be back right on time.

  The palace gardens stretch out in front of him, familiar paths he's walked a hundred times. He knows every turn, every hedge, every shortcut.

  His legs are tired from all the walking, but it's a good tired. The kind that makes you want to lie down in the grass and watch clouds.

  I'll ask Lin for something to eat when I get back. Maybe she'll let me have the sweet pastries father said I couldn't have before dinner.

  He's smiling as he approaches the servants' entrance.

  Then he sees the cart.

  Tam is loading something into the back. The gardener is old and usually keeps to himself, barely speaks to anyone, just tends to the hedges and goes home. He wasn't supposed to be here today.

  Roy watches him lift something covered by a cloth.

  "Tam?" Roy calls out.

  Tam turns. His face does something strange when he sees Roy, something Roy doesn't have a word for yet.

  Then he grabs the handles of the cart and hauls it away, moving faster than Roy has ever seen him move, the wheels rattling against the stone path.

  Roy stands there, watching until the cart disappears.

  That was weird.

  He walks to the servants' door. Knocks three times, like he told Lin.

  No answer.

  He tries the front door. Locked.

  Okay. The backup.

  Roy walks around the garden. "Nira!"

  The cat appears from behind the hedges, trotting toward him. He kneels down and scoops her up, holding her against his chest.

  One of her claws has been trimmed into the shape of the house key, used only for emergencies. But her claws are retracted, and he doesn't want to force her paw open.

  He scans the garden. The light is fading, but he spots movement near the wall. A mouse, darting between the stones.

  Roy holds Nira's paw gently, positioning his fingers around the middle claw. Then he turns her toward the mouse.

  "Look, Nira. Look."

  Her ears perk up. Her eyes lock onto the movement. Her claws extend automatically, ready to pounce, and Roy feels the metal one press out against his fingertip.

  He runs to the entrance and slides the claw into the lock on the servants' door before she can retract.

  Click.

  "Good girl." He sets her down and she darts off toward the mouse, annoyed at being used as a key.

  Inside, the house is too quiet. No servants bustling. No grandmother humming in her room.

  "Grandmother? Lin?" Roy calls out.

  He climbs the stairs. At the top, something dark stains the floor. In the dim light, it looks like spilled wine.

  It’s dripping from under grandmother's door.

  Roy pushes it open.

  His grandmother lies on the floor. Still. Too still. Her white robes are red now, spreading out from her chest like spilled wine, except it's not wine, it's not wine, it's—

  "Grandmother?"

  She doesn't answer. Her eyes are open. They're looking at the ceiling. They're not looking at anything.

  Why isn't she answering? Why is she on the floor? Did she fall? She fell and she's hurt and I need to get help, I need to—

  He takes a step closer. His foot touches something wet.

  That's b-blood. That's her blood. That's—

  His stomach lurches. He doesn't throw up. He wants to but nothing comes out.

  She's dead.

  The word doesn't make sense. He knows what dead means. He's seen dead birds in the garden, dead mice the cats leave on the doorstep. But this is his grandmother. She was humming this morning. Lin said not to wake her. She was just sleeping. She was just—

  She's dead. Someone killed her. Someone came into the house and killed her while I was gone.

  Movement outside catches his eye.

  Through the window. Lin runs toward Tam's cart, which is now repositioned by the side of the fence. She clutches a bag against her chest, and through a tear in the corner Roy can see grandmother's collection - gold coins from centuries ago, jeweled brooches passed down for generations, a porcelain music box with gold filigree that grandmother wound up every night before bed. Some pieces fall as Lin runs. A crystal perfume bottle shatters against the stone. A gold-framed portrait of grandfather cracks down the middle, glass splintering across the path. She doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just lets irreplaceable things, things grandmother spent a lifetime gathering, shatter against the ground like they're garbage.

  Lin doesn't look back.

  Lin did this.

  Lin.

  Lin who smiled at me. Lin who let me out the servant's door. Lin who said one hour, that's all.

  She wanted me gone. She needed me gone so she could—

  Roy's legs give out. He sits down hard, right there in the doorway, right there in the blood. It soaks into his clothes. It's warm. It's still warm.

  The person who did this is still out there. They're leaving now but what if they come back? What if they realize I saw? What if—

  I'm going to die.

  The thought is quiet. Almost calm.

  I'm going to die like grandmother. Someone is going to come back and find me and kill me and I'll be on the floor too with my eyes open looking at nothing.

  He looks at his grandmother. At her face. At her open eyes.

  I don't want to die alone.

  He crawls over to her. The blood is everywhere now, on his hands, on his knees, soaking through to his skin. He doesn't care. He sits beside her body and pulls his knees to his chest.

  If I'm going to die, at least I won't be alone. At least she's here. At least—

  He starts crying. Not loud. Just quiet, shaking sobs that hurt his chest and make it hard to breathe.

  He cries until he can't anymore. Then he just sits there. Waiting.

  The blood dries. The body goes cold. The room gets dark and then light again.

  Roy doesn't move.

  The door creaks open.

  Roy doesn't move.

  Okay. Okay. It's fine. I knew this was coming.

  He closes his eyes. Waits.

  It will happen now. I can’t fight it anymore. Just wait for it to come. Just wait until I stop feeling, then I’ll know I am dead.

  "Roy?"

  The voice is small. High-pitched. Not Lin.

  He turns around.

  A girl stands in the doorway. His age, maybe younger. Six at most. She's in a nightgown, like she just woke up. Her eyes are wide, staring at the blood, at the body, at him.

  The neighbor's daughter. Maruka.

  "What are you doing here?" His voice comes out hoarse. He hasn't spoken in hours.

  "I heard... I heard something. Last night. And then nothing. And your lights never came on this morning, and I just..." She trails off, still staring at the blood. "Is that... is that your grandmother?"

  Roy looks at her.

  Unless that's the trick. Unless she's like Lin. Unless everyone is like Lin.

  He stands up. His legs are stiff. The blood on his clothes has dried, cracking when he moves.

  "Are you here to kill me too?"

  Maruka's face crumples. "What? No. Roy, I—"

  "Because you can." He walks toward her. "I won't fight. I've been waiting all night. Just do it."

  He stops in front of her. Holds out his arms. Closes his eyes.

  Just make it quick. Please.

  Nothing happens.

  He opens his eyes. Maruka is crying.

  "I don't want to kill you," she says, voice shaking. "I came because I was worried. You're my friend."

  Friend.

  The word doesn't make sense. Friends betray you. Friends take your grandmother's gold and run without looking back.

  But Maruka is six years old, standing in a doorway in her nightgown, crying because he asked her to kill him.

  "I don't..." Roy's voice breaks. "I don't know what to do."

  Maruka steps forward. She's smaller than him, has to reach up. She wraps her arms around him, blood-soaked clothes and all.

  "It's okay," she whispers. "It's okay. I'm here."

  Roy stands there, stiff, not knowing what to do with his arms. No one has hugged him since....since before.

  This is a trick. This has to be a trick.

  Something in his chest cracks open.

  He hugs her back, burying his face in her shoulder. And for the first time since he found the body, he cries. Really cries. Not quiet shaking sobs, but loud, gasping sounds that hurt his throat and make his whole body shake.

  Maruka holds on.

  “Why…” Roy chokes out between sobs. “Why are you here? You live… you live so far…”

  “I was on a walk last night,” she says, her voice soft against his ear. “I like walking at night. It’s quiet. I passed by your house and I heard something.”

  He’s still crying, but he’s listening.

  “I should’ve slept in this morning, but I woke up early. I never wake up early.” She pauses. “But I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I thought maybe if I walked I’d get tired again.”

  Roy’s sobs have quieted to shaking breaths.

  “On the walk, I remembered the sound from last night. So I came to check.” Her arms tighten around him. “The door was open.”

  Roy doesn’t say anything. He just holds on.

  She doesn’t let go until her parents finally arrive, looking for her, and find two children covered in blood, holding each other in the doorway of a dead woman’s room.

  The garden returns.

  Era’s Garden, Present

  Niche is on his knees. He doesn’t remember falling.

  “They betrayed us,” he says. His voice sounds far away. “Started a rebellion. Used grandmother’s assets to buy their way to the top. When my parents went for peace talks, Lin and Tam were there. They made sure my parents never came home.”

  Era stands over him.

  Niche stares at the grass.

  “I understand now,” Niche says quietly. “Why I am the way I am.”

  “Good.” Era is already walking away. “Your training is almost complete. Return to the house when you want. I’ll check up on you again soon. We’re done here.”

  He doesn't look back.

  I want to hate him for making me see that again. For dragging me back to that room. That body. That moment.

  Niche buries it, pushing it down before it fully forms.

  He stays on his knees for a moment longer, alone with the flowers and the breeze. Then he stands, brushes off his clothes, and starts the walk back.

  Era’s Domain, Family House, Night

  Dinner is quiet. The mother made soup. The father is talking about something that happened in town. The sister is distracted, pushing food around her plate.

  Niche eats. The soup is good. Warm. His body still aches from the night before, but he's learned to keep that off his face.

  "You're quiet tonight," the mother says.

  "Just tired."

  "You're always tired lately."

  "Training makes me that way."

  She accepts this and goes back to her soup.

  The father continues his story. "So I'm walking past the fountain, and there's this bird – beautiful thing, blue and gold feathers – and it lands right on the baker's shoulder. Doesn't fly away. Just sits there. And the baker starts singing, and the bird sings back. Perfectly in harmony. The whole square stopped to watch."

  The sister smiles. "That's lovely."

  "It was. Truly lovely."

  Niche half-listens. Everyone is smiling. No one questions how a wild bird would do that. No one finds it strange.

  Then he hears it.

  Footsteps. Slow. Coming from somewhere in front.

  He stops chewing.

  The father keeps talking. The mother is refilling the sister's bowl.

  The footsteps get closer.

  Niche waits, listening for someone else to react. For the conversation to pause. For the father to turn his head. For the mother to say "what was that."

  Nothing. They keep eating. Keep talking.

  The footsteps stop, right behind his chair.

  "Did you hear that?" Niche asks.

  The table goes quiet.

  The father looks at him. "Hear what?"

  "Just now. Footsteps."

  The family exchanges glances.

  "I didn't hear anything," the sister says.

  "Must be the house settling," the mother offers. "These old buildings make all kinds of noises."

  "Right." Niche picks up his spoon. "Never mind."

  The father leans back in his chair. "So the bird is still on his shoulder, right? And the baker, he doesn't know what to do. He's just standing there, frozen, and the whole square is watching."

  Something touches the back of Niche's neck.

  Cold. Light. Like fingers resting there.

  What—

  "And then - this is the best part - the bird starts preening his hair. Just grooming him like he's one of her chicks."

  The fingers tighten. Slowly. Pressing into the sides of his throat.

  Something's behind me. Something's behind me and I can't see it.

  "More soup?" the mother asks him.

  "No thank you." His voice comes out wrong. Too tight.

  The pressure increases. His airway starts to close.

  Era's world. Era's world is safe. Nothing here can actually hurt me. Nothing here can—

  “You sure?” the mother asks. “There's plenty.”

  “I'm fine,” he dismisses.

  A small sound escapes his throat. A whimper.

  "You okay?" the mother asks.

  "Mm." He nods. Doesn't trust his voice.

  "So the baker," the father continues, "he finally moves, very slowly, and he reaches up to pet the bird. And she lets him. Just lets him stroke her feathers like they've known each other for years."

  He can feel it now. The full weight of it. Leaning on him. Wrapping around him. He doesn't know what it looks like. Can't see it. Can only feel it pressed against his back, breathing on his neck.

  What is it. What is it. What the fuck is it.

  "And then she flies off. Just like that. Gone." The father shakes his head, smiling. "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

  "That's wonderful," the mother says.

  "Pass the salt?" the sister asks.

  Move. Just move. Act normal. It's fine. It's fine.

  Niche reaches for the salt. His hand is shaking. He steadies it and passes the salt.

  "Thanks." She smiles.

  "No problem."

  The thing's grip tightens. His head is starting to pound. His lungs are burning.

  Era wouldn't let me die here. He wouldn't. This is a test. This is just a test.

  The father laughs at something. The mother stands to start washing dishes.

  Niche sits there. Can't breathe. Can't move. Can't ask for help.

  I can't see it. I can't see what's killing me.

  No one sees it either.

  "You okay?" the sister asks. "You look pale."

  "Fine." The word barely comes out. "Just tired."

  Please let go. Please.

  "You should get some rest."

  "Yeah."

  He pushes his chair back. Stands. The thing is still on him. Still squeezing. He can feel it wrapped around his chest now, constricting.

  Walk. Just walk. Get to your room. Don't run.

  "Goodnight," he says.

  “Goodnight,” the sister responds.

  He walks down the hall. Each step is effort. His lungs are screaming. The thing is squeezing tighter with every step.

  He makes it to his room and closes the door, collapsing on the ground.

  The thing doesn't let go. It presses him into the floor, wrapping around his throat, his chest, his face. Suffocating him slowly while down the hall the family washes dishes and talks about nothing.

  He's alone. Completely alone. No one can help him. No one even knows.

  The pain wanes. He gets up cautiously, sitting on his bed now, letting his body remember what it feels like to be whole.

  It's over.

  He exhales. His hands are still shaking but the pressure is gone. He can breathe. He can think. He lets himself relax, just for a moment, and his mind drifts to dinner. The father's story. The mother's soup. The sister asking about—

  Her friend. The one who thinks I'm interesting.

  It starts.

  The thing slams him back onto the bed. His face presses into the pillow. He can't turn his head. Can't scream. Can't do anything but feel it crush him into the mattress while his lungs scream for air.

  I just thought about her. I didn't even say anything. I just thought—

  The pressure releases. He gasps, sucking in air, and for one second he thinks it's done.

  It's not done.

  The thing grabs him again. Harder this time. His face is in the pillow and he can feel his heartbeat in his skull and his chest is burning and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't—

  Release.

  Air.

  Please. Please stop. I won't think about her. I won't think about anyone. Just stop.

  It doesn't stop.

  It grabs him again. And again. And again. Every time he thinks it's over, every time his body starts to relax, it comes back. He stops being able to tell where one ends and the next begins. It's just pressure and release, pressure and release, his face in the pillow, his lungs on fire, his mind going blank as he falls out of consciousness, his mind returning, happening all over again.

  The thought comes clearly, cutting through the white noise.

  But it won't let him die.

  At some point he stopped being able to think. That scares him more than the rest of it. Niche always thinks. That's how he survives. But there's nothing now. Just white noise where his mind used to be.

  It releases him again. He lies there, face still half in the pillow, breathing in shallow gasps. The light through the window is different now. Grey. Morning, maybe.

  He doesn't know how long it's been.

  He lies there on the floor, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the thing inside him that gets up and keeps going.

  It takes a while.

  Something is different. The thing that was holding everything together inside him has a crack in it now. Or maybe it was already cracked, and this just made it bigger.

  But there's something else too, a feeling settling into his chest.

  It's done.

  Years.

  The thought sits in his stomach like a stone.

  More years of this.

  He stares at the ceiling.

  No.

  Something hardens inside him.

  I've had enough.

  He gets up out of bed.

  He leaves his room.

  He walks out of the house he was never pure enough for with a new purpose.