Questions suddenly fill my head.
Questions meant to help me focus.
To steer my concentration.
To give me a sense of something—of my inner self. Of that power we Wunder call our own.
"Do you remember? The first time you felt it?"
A house. Two figures. And a fire.
Flames, heat, smoke—everywhere.
"What kind of feeling runs through you right now?"
Fear. I'm afraid of the flames. But even so, I can't back down. Not now. Not ever.
"And do you feel anything inside your body?"
Heat. I feel the heat rising through my veins, up into my lungs that gasp for air, and the pulsing throb in my ears.
"What goes through your mind because of it? What are you thinking about?"
I have to protect.
I have to protect him.
No matter what it takes.
"And what do you see? What image do all these feelings form?"
A small candle, with a violet flame—cold and calm, surrounded by pure darkness, too deep for even its light to pierce.
I see that flame clearly.
That's it.
My power.
My core.
The thing that makes me a Wunder.
It's weak—barely there.
Even the faintest breath could snuff it out.
Until I take a deep breath in.
Until I feel the oxygen race through my body—and the flame grows a little, just a little, but enough to notice, because it was so tiny before.
So I don't stop.
I hold my breath.
Not in, not out.
I feel my pulse rising, the oxygen turning into heat.
A heat that climbs through my veins, filling my body from within.
Then the stabbing pain in my lungs, begging for air.
And the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears.
Which all blur into one spark of realization—a hazy image of a lost sibling.
Just for an instant.
But that instant is enough to feed the violet flame, to ignite it until it bursts upward, exploding into a roaring blaze.
A fire, purple as the sparks flaring at my toes.
As the glow beneath my eyelids.
As the swirling storm that rises from those sparks, wrapping around me from head to toe until it forms a flickering tip just above me.
A thin, violet veil coils around my body, fragile, uneven, scattered—but there.
And that's what they wanted to see.
So I exhale.
Fill my lungs with fresh air again, almost lose focus, almost choke, but intentin the end.
Then I breathe out, lift my glowing lids and meet the eyes of my mentors, my role models, with my own eyes shining bright in shimmering violet.
"Oh, very nice!" Daclan claps enthusiastically — a little too soon, since I'm not done yet.
My hands come together in front of my stomach, forming a ball.
A faint, brighter glow gathers between my palms.
Carefully, I pull them apart, close my eyes again, inhale,
hold my breath and then, between my fingertips, a tiny, lilac-colored sphere begins to form.
A moment later, it floats freely in the air between my hands — detached from my body.
"Hey, amazing! You're a natural!" Daclan cheers even louder.
"Ha! What else did you expect from my training?" Shato replies, clearly ready to take all the credit.
But I'm not about to let that slide so easily.
So I let the marble-sized sphere rise, up toward my forehead, and higher still—so high, in fact, that I have to expand the violet veil still wrapped around my body.
A bit more.
Then more.
And more.
The little sphere now hovers above my head, but I want it higher. I want more.
Maybe a little too much.
The veil wavers, grows uneven, starts to flicker, like a lightbulb about to burn out.
And still, I push further.
I raise the sphere higher, ignoring the warning signs, the trembling in my hands, my legs, my breath growing heavier, heavier—too heavy ...
Until the tiny sphere flares brightly in a flash and in the next instant, it vanishes, taking the veil with it, as if neither had ever existed.
And I collapse.
Flat on my back, gasping for air.
"Vio!"
Daclan and Shato yell at once.
A pair of arms lifts my upper body, another hand offers me a water bottle hovering right above my face as I slowly open my eyes.
My head spins, the world swims — shapes moving on their own.
A wave of nausea hits me, and my hand shoots up to cover my mouth.
I push myself upright, grab the bottle.
Before the cap even hits the floor, I'm drinking—chugging half a liter in seconds, like I haven't had water in days.
And honestly? That's exactly how it feels.
My ears ring. My hands still tremble. My vision's a blur—completely hazy—and only slowly begins to clear as I blink, breathe in again, and start hearing things once more.
First, Daclan's mumbling.
Then Shato's sigh.
And finally, Zane's voice — crisp, cutting through the air like a blade.
"Someone seems a little too full of himself and doesn't know his limits. You'd think our dear Shato would know the proper order by now."
His skeptical look isn't aimed at me — not directly — but his words still echo inside my head, heavy with implication.
Because he's right.
I acted on my own.
Again.
"Uh? I mean… I have no idea what you're talking about?" Shato tries to play innocent, but the way Zane's eyebrow arches says more than a thousand words ever could.
"Uh—I mean, of course… sorry, my bad!" Shato corrects himself quickly, which actually manages to make Zane sigh.
And we're talking about Zane here—the guy who couldn't possibly look less interested in anything if he tried.
"Well," Daclan cuts in, trying to smooth things over,
"at least now we know where we stand."
To be honest, I have no idea what they're talking about.
Last time Shato trained me, he only said one thing: don't tell the others about our sessions.
Then he showed me that awesome trick with the blades along my hands.
That was… months ago now—half a year, maybe—but I've made a lot of progress since then!
I mean, I can fight with those super-cool blades now, and no one else here can.
So basically, I've got my own secret ultimate technique.
Which makes me wonder why they're all coming down so hard on Shato… and why he looks so embarrassed.
"Alright, I've got an idea!" Daclan's voice snaps me out of my thoughts—
loud as ever.
Though honestly, I doubt his plan is any better than Shato's training.
"We'll show him. Our external circuits—how we sustain them, how they feel," Daclan explains confidently.
"With we, you mean you two show off while I sit here doing nothing?" Zane replies flatly.
"Oh, come on, can't you just be satisfied for once, you pessimist?" Daclan shoots back.
"Yeah, fine. I'll just retreat to my quiet little corner," Zane says, already heading to the far end of the room.
"Come on, Zane, that's not what I meant! Get back here!" Daclan yells after him.
Zane just presses both hands over his ears and starts humming a tune.
"Seriously? You're ignoring me now?"
Daclan sounds genuinely offended.
I'm just… confused. I've already lost track of what the original problem even was—if I ever understood it in the first place.
But that doesn't matter, because Shato has tuned out the whole circus and closed his eyes.
Just like me—cross-legged on the floor.
Only, in his case, his body starts to glow.
Two different colors—white on one side, black on the other.
Unlike most Wunders, Shato's energy manifests in multiple hues.
Though, back in school, they told us that black and white aren't technically colors at all.
Not that it matters now.
From his feet, threads of light begin to rise—like warm breath curling into the cold air of a winter night—drifting upward, smoothing out into a calm, flowing current.
That's the best way to describe his veil: sharp-edged, steady, split perfectly down the middle between those two shades.
Daclan follows right after him.
Only this time, brown sparks flash at his feet—gathering, swirling violently—until they burst upward in a blazing spiral,
ending in a roaring, earthen fire.
"Vio, you can touch them now," Shato says, opening his radiant eyes. I'm a bit skeptical because I don't quite get it.
Also a little confused — it really doesn't make sense.
But if Shato says so…
So I lean forward a little, squeezing the last hesitation out of my fingertips, and dip once into the thin veil.
A shiver runs through my body as I feel the noticeable temperature difference on my fingers. Like dipping into a bucket of cold water, like swimming through it — that's probably the best way to describe it. Opposite me, Daclan's brown veil feels much warmer. It's more like the lukewarm water of a bathtub that was filled a while ago. Then I pull my hand back, breathe out, look at both of them — and understand even less.
"Why… did I just do that?" I ask cautiously, instantly drawing a smile onto Daclan's face.
"No idea!"
"Huh? But Shato said…"
I stop.
I stop when Shato tries to avoid my gaze. When Shato grins. And I realize.
"Someone in this room clearly isn't taking this all that seriously," Daclan explains the obvious, aiming his eyes deliberately at that someone.
And he's right. So right — nobody on this planet would deny him that. He's so right, and yet I can only laugh.
Laugh, because I find it funny. Amused.
After all, Shato is always like that. He hasn't changed since the last training. Maybe that's why Rin always says I'll never make progress with him.
"Well, now that that's settled… how about we move on to something truly instructive?" Daclan takes the initiative.
"For example?" I reply skeptically, my trust freshly abused.
"Just hit me!" Daclan bellows with a grin.
At first I can't believe it; I want to get up and leave. Then the thought of revenge pops into my head. If he insists so much, I can use it to get back at his ridiculous lecture from earlier. So I clench my right fist. Look at him. At his smile, that I strike.
"Ouch!"
There was nothing wrong with my hit, and yet it feels like I struck a concrete wall. It had felt so fluid a moment ago and now I have to shake my hand out.
"Ouch, ouch, ouch!" I call, shaking my hand and looking back at Daclan's veil.
It really has changed. Just before my blow there had been no problem seeing through it and aiming at Daclan's smug grin. Now the brown color is so dense I can hardly make out his beard hairs, let alone any facial feature. It seems thick, much denser than before, as if no light could pass through. Then I feel a sting in my hand again and look down at the swelling red around my knuckles.
"Owwww…" I yelp on, but Daclan seems to have no patience for that and just launches into one of his eternally long lectures.
"Hehe… so? Do you know what happened?"
"That you're a treacherous asshole?" I snap back.
"Huh?"
"What 'huh'?"
"Huh?"
"Stop with the 'huh'."
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant at all!"
"Ha! So you won't even deny it?"
"Huh?"
"Don't 'huh' me!"
"Uh, no, that…"
Daclan falters, shakes his head and thinks for a moment.
"No, what I meant is that your power can be physical and nonphysical."
"And who asked?" I retort angrily and flee into Shato's arms.
"Huh, but we are–" Daclan tries to justify himself, but I interrupt him.
"Shato! Daclan hit me!" I shout.
"Daclan?" Shato asks as if he hadn't noticed what really happened.
"What? But you… Why me? What did I… Ah, forget it." He sighs, gives in and lets his energy fade. In an instant, as if it were never there.
"Ha ha… Ahahaha!" Shato suddenly bursts out laughing, drawing everyone's attention.
"What's so funny now?" I ask, confused, but Shato just shakes his head.
"It's fine. You don't understand yet."
His tone is so condescending that normally you'd call him some kind of snob. Then again, it's still Shato. And he's not entirely wrong. The fact remains that all of us were picked up by him somehow. Whether me, Daclan, Rin, Talan, or Zane — Shato was always there. I'd sooner wonder why he still looks so young than question that. But not all secrets are for revealing, and it doesn't even matter. What matters is the fact that we're here now, laughing together, teasing each other, having fun.
And then continuing the training session as Shato finally takes the lead.
"Alright, I think you're right. It's about time," he begins, nudges me slightly aside and stands up.
"So," he adds, stretching his back like he's carried decades on it.
"Vio, here's your first task: You remember how you strengthen the inside of your body with your power?"
I nod.
"Good, then for the next half hour you're going to keep jumping around this room until you collapse."
At first, I think it's just another one of his jokes and I'm about to turn away — before I stop. Then I reply,
"Only half an hour?"
"If you can even last that long."
A challenge. Shato is serious this time. And he knows I could never refuse something like that.
"What are we betting?" I ask with a grin, looking up at him.
"Hmm," he muses.
And he thinks for quite a while, until finally something fitting seems to come to mind.
"Sondies," he declares at last.
"Really?"
My eyes light up instantly, and the violet aura flares around my entire body only to fade again a heartbeat later.
"One pack. If you win, I'll give them to you."
Sondies — little dough balls on a stick, filled with sweet vanilla cream. Shato always says that there used to be all kinds of better things in the world long ago. But honestly, these Sondies are enough for me. I can't even imagine anything better. Which is why that purple glow spreads, rushing through my whole body until it settles around my legs — giving them a faint, violet shimmer. Gentle, like the small flame burning inside me.
"The Sondies are mine!"
My roar echoes through the hall before I crouch, clench my fists and launch myself forward in a mighty leap. 4 meters later, I land on both feet, only to push off again and again and again for several more meters. There's a sparkle in my eyes that doesn't come just from my power.
And another spring in my legs as I finish the first minute, forced to turn around when I reach the far end of the room.
But I don't stop jumping — not as long as those Sondies are on the line.
"Sondies, huh?" Daclan mutters, clearly unimpressed.
"You really sound sure he won't make it. We're nearly broke as it is. If we even have enough left for food."
His concerns seem justified, yet Shato only smiles.
"Don't worry. That suicide mission the other day turned out to have some payoff in the end. So we won't be short on cash. But even if we were… there's no way he lasts half an hour," he answers confidently.
"You think so, huh? I wouldn't underestimate him if I were you. It's Sondies, after all."
"We'll see who's right in the end. How about a round of poker?"
"Where did that come from?"
Daclan stares at the black case Shato just pulled out of his cloak as if by magic.
"Well, everyone's got their secrets, don't they?" Shato replies, turning away.
"Zane, you in?!" he shouts across the hall — and from the far corner, Zane pushes himself off the wall in response.
Without even changing his expression, he strolls across the laminate floor toward the grand poker game, passing right beneath one of my many jumps.
Of which there are many.
Far too many to count on one hand.
Too many to count at all.
Or to keep track of how many minutes have already passed.
Sweat starts dripping down my forehead.
A faint pull runs through my legs — then my arms — and finally surges through my entire body.
Suddenly, I stumble.
My leg buckles, my balance slips, my eyes widen — the violet light flickers.
It sputters.
Then flares again.
Because I push off with my other foot — just barely catching myself — and keep going.
And going.
And going still.
The image of steaming dough balls flashes through my thoughts.
The sweetness of cool vanilla cream makes my mouth water.
The cozy smell of baked pastry floods my nose.
So I take one last deep breath — one last jump.
And another.
And another.
Then one more.
Dizziness hits me.
Out of nowhere.
Sudden and complete.
How long has it been?
When did I start?
Is it almost over?
The questions flood my head.
I'm barely aware anymore — don't even notice my drenched clothes.
Or the fact that I'm falling.
And lying there.
Hearing… not voices exactly, more like a muffled echo.
Something that could be voices, but is too blurred to tell.
As I lie there, I can't even make out the floor beneath me.
No breath.
No movement.
Nothing.
Only silence.
And then — the image of warm dough balls.
I jolt upright.
My head snaps up.
I gasp for air — and crash straight into Shato's head.
For a moment I hear nonsense sounds, my mind still swimming. A dull ache pulses through my skull, then fades. My vision clears.
I look up — Shato's nose is bleeding, yet he's staring at me with concern.
But against all expectations — or maybe not, maybe it was inevitable —
I ask the one question that matters:
"How… long?"
I'm still stammering, lips trembling, ears not fully awake. It feels like everything had been shut down, like my body was stuck in some kind of standby mode.
Then again, I'm a living person, so that doesn't even make sense.
Not that it matters, because this is about Sondies. My favorite treat.
"Well, it was close, but in the end ..." Shato begins, his voice higher as he pinches his nose and tilts his chin up,
"... you didn't quite make it."
Grief floods through me — then anger.
Anger that all that effort was for nothing.
I want to storm off in a huff, if only my legs didn't feel like jelly.
If only the world would stop spinning.
If only my ears weren't half-deaf.
If only my fingertips would stop trembling.
I would have walked away — if my mind were still capable of thinking straight — but then a flicker of hope slips in.
Daclan's voice.
And the stopwatch on his wrist, showing 00:30:01.
One second more than half an hour.
Which means… one second more than Shato predicted.
"To be precise, dear Shato," Daclan says with that unmistakable grin, "he beat your estimate by exactly one second.
So technically, he did win."
The smug smile spreading across his face is impossible to miss as he pushes the silver watch practically into Shato's nose.
"You cheated," Shato mutters, barely above a whisper.
"But you can't prove that, can you?"
Daclan doesn't deny it — but Shato stays silent.
Because he really doesn't have a watch.
Which means he can't prove otherwise.
Even if Daclan had cheated, it wouldn't matter.
Which, in turn, means only one thing.
"Sondies?" I ask, my voice soft and trembling.
Zane and Daclan both nod.
"YES!" I breathe out joyfully, as loud as I can.
Which isn't very loud at all.
"Ugh… my poor wallet," Shato sighs.
"Well," Daclan teases, "what do you always say? The war is won before the battle begins. Guess that round goes to me."
"Tch… yeah, yeah."
Shato's expression darkens.
Which is funny, honestly, because I got my Sondies.
There's really no better ending.
At least not for me.
"So!"
Shato claps his hands sharply, as if to cut through our thoughts and drag the attention back to him.
"Now you're going to create your outer circuit."
I just stare at him, dumbfounded — because right now, I can barely move my fingers.
"What are you waiting for?" he presses, sounding impatient.
"With what… exactly?" I ask.
"With the little bit you've still got left. And you're going to keep it running for the rest of the day."
It sounds like revenge.
For the Sondies, maybe — or for Daclan's little stunt.
But Shato's not usually the type to hold grudges.
"How am I supposed to do that? There's nothing left in me. I'm as empty as… I don't even know what's this empty."
"Well, figure it out. We'll be making dinner in the meantime."
His tone — his wording — everything about it sounds offended.
Even as he turns and walks away without looking back.
Closing the door behind him with a quiet thud.
Leaving us speechless.
"Uh… I could help you, if you want," Daclan offers with a guilty smile — probably because he feels responsible for how things turned out.
But I shake my head.
Because I know.
I see it as clearly as anyone possibly could.
"He's challenging me."
Daclan frowns, glancing from Zane to me, then back to Zane again — as if searching for confirmation that he's not the only one confused.
But there's really no reason to be.
Because I know exactly what Shato wants from me.
So I inhale.
Close my eyes.
Begin to focus—
"I don't think—"
"Shhh!"
I cut him off, glaring at him for interrupting.
I can't win this challenge if he keeps talking.
"Alright, alright, you… clearly know what you're doing," he concedes quickly, realizing his mistake, before turning toward the door.
A moment later, he and Zane both leave the room.
And at last, I can close my eyes in peace.
Searching for the flicker of my candle, deep in the darkness within me.
I search, and search.
Breath after breath.
Tremor after tremor.
I ask myself the questions again, try to organize my thoughts, keep them steady — but the flame, it won't appear.
Wait—
There it is.
Small. Weak.
Even weaker than before.
So tiny that I almost missed it.
Too small, really, to reach or to draw anything from.
But Shato challenged me.
He thinks I can't do it.
Which is why my thoughts fall silent.
Why all my focus narrows to that single spark.
That sliver of violet above a dying wick.
That shimmering breath.
That trembling veil of heat.
That faint trace of energy.
And suddenly I can see it clearly.
That flickering light, the remnant of a once roaring fire.
I can feel its cool warmth tingling at my fingertips.
I can almost hear the crackle of a long-forgotten comfort.
So I take a deep breath.
Hold it.
Focus harder.
And then —
I jolt.
A violent cough tears through me.
I gasp for air, but no sound comes out.
My eyes fly open. I cough again. And again.
Each heave sends sharp pain shooting through every limb.
Then I see it — blood on the dull laminate floor.
Then I taste it — the metallic sting at the back of my throat.
Then I try again to breathe.
And fail.
Because every attempt ends in another fit of coughing, with more blood, more pain and tears flooding my eyes.
Tears that drip down.
Tears that mix with the blood.
Until my vision blurs and panic surges through me.
I glance around — toward the door.
Reach for it.
My sight flickers.
And I pray.
For help.
That maybe one of them forgot something.
That maybe they'll turn back — just in time.
That maybe…
No.
I'm already crouched on the laminate floor, staring at the blood that's smeared across my hands and already pooling beneath me.
But it's all blurry.
I can't even move a finger anymore.
I can't see, can't feel, can't be.
So I close my eyes.
And do the only thing left for me to do.
I focus.
I look inward.
I cling to a hope that might not even exist.
And then — I see it.
My flame.
That violet glow, deep inside me.
This time it's clearer — so much clearer than ever before.
And yet it's so small. So faint it's almost not there.
Almost.
Because it flickers and crackles and warms me.
I feel it in my fingertips, in my eyes, in my veins, in my lungs.
And suddenly, there's a pull — a soft, delicate urge. But it's there.
That impulse to act.
That next breath.
That moment when my eyes begin to open.
I jolt upward — or at least, I try to.
A thin, weightless veil wraps around my body, a faint lilac shimmer dances across my eyes.
And all at once, my vision sharpens.
I see the blood, fluid and real.
I see the darkest corners of the room.
I see the air itself.
I see my breaths escaping in even intervals.
I see the flicker of my violet aura.
I see the lamplight's rays, as if they were tiny suns breaking through cracks in the wooden shed.
I see the dust, stirred from the dirty floor, drifting in slow motion.
And I see something else.
A shape.
A figure.
Blurry — so blurry that maybe I'm not seeing it at all.
Its face is indistinct, its hair colorless, its clothes a shapeless black haze.
And yet I have this feeling, that it's there.
Even though I know it isn't.
Then a tear falls.
And I understand.
I can't feel my limbs, can barely control my breath and hardly turn my eyes away.
But I'm still alive.
At least I think I am.
And I can still see the veil — or maybe "feel" fits better.
Because I can't actually see myself.
But I feel the flame.
The warmth within, the comforting crackle in my ears.
I've never felt anything like it.
It's as if I'm standing on the edge of a cliff — one step away from the end.
As if this moment marks a border and beyond it lies something vast.
Nothing else seems to matter except that edge.
That abyss, waiting to swallow me whole.
Like a warning:
Don't you dare.
Do not go further.
Take one more step, and you'll die.
You're already halfway gone. Keep the other foot firmly here.
And yet — a shiver runs through me.
Curiosity.
What would really happen if I fell?
What would it feel like?
The air, the drop, the crash —
How long would it last?
What's on the other side?
At the bottom of the gorge, beyond the horizon of this abyss?
But even if I wanted to move, I can't.
Not a finger.
Barely a blink.
Just enough breath to survive.
Maybe it's fear.
The fear of falling.
The fear of what's beyond that edge.
Maybe I'm just clinging to life — because there's still more I have to do.
Someone I still have to find.
So I'm not allowed to move.
Not now.
No matter how strong the curiosity burns.
No matter how much the abyss calls to me —
I have to resist and endure.
Because now is not the time to fall.