"So you're taking him into the orphanage too?"

  Mom's voice came from somewhere above me, like always. Her hands pressed on my shoulders with some force and the smell of the bread she made that morning still lingered around her like a cloud.

  I couldn't look at her. Couldn't tear my gaze from what I had in front of me.

  Those eyes.

  Red. Red like fresh blood. Like fire that doesn't burn but looks and sees something it shouldn't.

  The girl in front of me didn't speak. Just stared at me, still as a statue, and her black hair fell past her shoulders in a cascade that ended in red tip, like someone had dipped the ends in scarlet ink.

  The pupils were strangely small, tiny black dots in all that red. She seemed to watch the world through a door's peephole.

  She didn't blink. Not even once.

  A light smell. Dust and some kind of flower? No. There was no smell or scent. The air tasted of cold stone and morning. But for a moment…

  "Yes, we have plenty of space. No problem at all."

  The new voice made me blink. I glanced away from the girl and at the woman who'd spoken.

  Brown hair tied back, kind green eyes. She was young. Far younger than my mother.

  She wore a simple black dress, modest, fitted enough to show a very generous figure.

  Around her neck was a transparent five-pointed medallion that caught the light and refracted it into tiny colored rainbows that made me blink when they entered my eyes.

  We were just outside one of the city's churches. A pentagonal building of gray stone that stood solid against the morning sky, with a small bell tower pointing upward like it wanted to ask the gods permission to speak.

  The doors were open, and the air inside tasted of incense and old wood.

  "Sister Cora... hungry." A boy peeked out from behind her skirt. His voice was small, hesitant, coming from behind the woman's legs.

  He had messy black hair and light gray eyes, almost silver, that gleamed like freshly minted coins.

  He was hiding. Not completely, but enough. Looking at him gave me the feeling the world was too big and he was too small to face it.

  His fingers gripped the black skirt tightly.

  Something in my stomach tightened.

  Those... hands? Did I see them before?

  When he peered up at me, his eyes were clear, almost silvery, and shone with that particular light things have when they reflect instead of emanate.

  "Yes, Sipar, we'll go inside now and I'll cook you something."

  Sipar?

  Sister Cora stroked his hair with an affectionate gesture, and the boy, Sipar, softened his gaze under the gentle touch.

  Tarin shifted to my left. His weight moved from one foot to the other. His heavy hand settled on top of Mom's on my shoulder, pushing it down abruptly with his weight, but reassuringly.

  "It's wonderful they finally opened the orphanage," said Mirina, smiling at the young brown-haired woman. "I remember Tarin was making the first beds when Arek was just born. The city needed it for a long time."

  Her shoulders dropped slightly when she said it.

  "Father Tyeron agrees. He always says it took a while, but children are the future Eteria entrusts us with."

  At that name, Eteria, I felt an itch. I brought my hand to my chest.

  Did something sting me just now...?

  A pain, small, insignificant, in some undefined spot when she said the name Eteria.

  My gaze drifted to the pentagonal building with open doors. The interior was dark and a light fog of incense floated lazily in the air.

  Feels familiar. Did they bring me here before I learned to walk? I don't remember.

  "Sipar arrived a few days ago," Sister Cora continued.

  Sipar. The air grew heavier. His name is Sipar.

  "His parents died just outside the city. A Dark Elf attack near the Singing Hills."

  "Dark Elves?" My father tensed the muscles in his arms.

  Sister Cora nodded grimly. "It's been generations since we've seen them around these parts. Though Father Tyeron says he encountered them a long time ago, before he took his vows. He was a warrior cleric once."

  Her gaze slid to Sipar, and something in her expression broke.

  He wasn't listening. He stared at the fountain, eyes fixed on nothing, lost somewhere I couldn't follow.

  How does he not cry? If it were me, I'd already be... but he just stared at emptiness.

  "And the little one?" Mom asked, her voice low, a nod toward the red-eyed girl with a stony face.

  "Oh, Emma's been with us since the day we opened, just over a month ago." Sister Cora turned to the girl. Her smile became softer, almost sad. "She's mute, poor thing. At least, she's never spoken yet. But she's very sweet."

  Emma.

  Emma…?

  Emma didn't react to her name. She kept staring at me, those intense red eyes, and then, slowly, she raised her hand.

  Her fingers opened and closed slowly, then clenched as if grasping something invisible: a thread stretched in the air, or a flutter of wings.

  She touched my wrist and her fingers were cold, almost icy. Smooth like candle wax.

  She slid her hand down and squeezed my fingers.

  Her smile was warm, familiar. A shiver ran down my spine looking at her and the other child.

  Siblings.

  The word came from deep within. Not 'friends,' but 'siblings.'

  Why siblings? Who are you? I've never met them before, have I?

  It didn't make sense.

  "The beds you ordered are in the cart," Tarin resumed talking, shifting to a lighter subject. "Solid oak. Will last for generations."

  Sister Cora smiled.

  "You're always so kind. The orphanage needs more people like you, Master Grey. People who understand."

  "I slept on straw for years in this orphanage before it burnt down," my father said, his voice flat. "It's the least I can do to help."

  Sister Cora nodded and said nothing more.

  Beds... Oak... Boring... I stopped listening.

  My feet tingled. They wanted to move.

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  A fountain? Maybe I could...

  The pentagonal fountain, the same shape repeated over and over in this city for important buildings and places, occupied the center of the small square in front of the church.

  Water slid down the five faces of polished stone, catching the light of the midsummer morning.

  On each side was carved a deep symbol: a circle with rays and an eye, the same as on the church facade.

  I approached calmly and my fingers touched the basin's edge, cold stone that sent a shiver up my arm. The contrast with the day's heat was pleasant.

  The water was so close my reflection shimmered on the surface. A small child with eyes too blue and blond hair neatly combed with a part down the middle.

  I ran a hand through my hair to mess it up.

  I hate the way Mom always combs it.

  Better now!

  Then my attention shifted from the reflection to the liquid that created it.

  It doesn't seem right for the water to be there, still, trapped in stone. It wanted to move. I felt it.

  My fingers traced the air grasping an invisible energy. A presence I didn't know how to call.

  Without thinking. Without deciding. They just traced a small, circular gesture, like they were drawing something in the air that only they could see.

  The water's surface trembled just for a moment, a vibration of the drops at the bottom.

  "You can't create. You can only move what already exists." I murmured to myself.

  Those had been Mom's words months ago. Since then, after my request and Dad's numerous objections, Mom had agreed to teach me.

  But the shock of that day, when I'd spoken for the first time, when I'd asked too many questions, had never really gone away. It remained there, subtle, in looks that lasted too long, in silences that stretched a breath too far.

  Every small bit of progress came with joy in her eyes, but every time she looked at me again she seemed to realize how small I was, and sighed.

  With Dad it started from the other direction. "Absolutely not, not this soon," he'd said the first day, his voice hard. "He's too young."

  That day I'd lifted a trembling drop into the air for a few moments. Dad had left the room when it happened.

  Just one penta-week later, only five days, and I'd managed to make four water drops dance for the entire time Mom sang her song. Dad had stayed, loading his pipe, sitting in the rocker.

  When the drops returned to the glass, I'd glanced at him, but he'd just gotten up to go outside and smoke with a grunt.

  A month later and I'd lifted the entire contents of the glass, making it divide, swirl, and stretch at my will. Tarin's eyes had widened and one side of his mouth had curved up.

  Yesterday, though, when I'd made the entire bucket's contents fly to surprise Mom and clean the room, Dad had cheered, picking me up again, like he used to.

  Mom instead had asked if I was tired. When I'd answered no, she'd smiled. But I knew her, and I understood that smile wasn't genuine.

  The thought returned to the water and the first lesson: "You can only move what already exists." Those words have become my mantra lately. Were they really true? Something inside me said no, but I didn't know what it meant.

  Something in those words was... incomplete. Like when they explain a story but skip a piece. There was more underneath, something Mom didn't know or couldn't tell me.

  The water must already be there. Then you move it.

  I stroked the cool air above the water with two fingers. Beneath it the water churned and flowed following those movements.

  I lifted my fingers and a thin stream broke away from the fountain's surface following my hand, rising and snaking upward.

  Slowly... focus, Arek… Don’t lose it.

  My fingertips seemed to vibrate and the tingling reached all the way to the center of my palm, spiralling.

  The water danced and gathered in a small circle above my open palm. A slow, elegant movement, like it had always belonged there.

  I lifted it to let sunlight pass through and see the rainbow.

  I didn't know why, but stopping suddenly felt wrong.

  I wonder if that time they were afraid of me... or 'for' me.

  I lowered my hand and the water vibrated, losing its circular shape and condensing into a ball.

  Maybe they're afraid I might hurt myself.

  I brought my other hand above the ball and pressed lightly. There was resistance even though I wasn't directly touching the liquid, like when I played with the magnet my father used sometimes in his furniture making. If aligned properly they repelled each other and the pressure was similar.

  I moved my hands under the transparent bubble, making it more stable.

  I wish they'd trust me.

  The water stretched slightly on two sides.

  Sometimes they make me feel breathless.

  It flattened, front and back coming closer.

  "Like a fish out of water," I whispered, and the shape defined itself with strange fins on the back and on the sides.

  The murmur behind me died out. Too sudden.

  "Arek?"

  I turned. Everyone was staring at me with wide eyes.

  The water on my palm had a particular shape. Almost like that of... a fish. It appeared to swim in the air above my hand with long fins dancing in hypnotic synchrony through the air.

  "Ah!" I opened my hands and the water fell at my feet, wetting my shoes. "Ah...Damn it."

  Mom's hand grabbed my wrist. I recognized the look in her eyes, the same look as that time.

  "What's your name, little one?" Sister Cora had approached, holding the two orphans by the hand.

  "Mh-Arek."

  The Sister smiled. But her gaze… her gaze studied me.

  "Arek. You're very talented with magic. You know?"

  I glanced at Mom. She didn't move but her hand around my wrist tightened until I felt my bones shift.

  "He's always been very precocious, plus both Tarin and I have affinity with some magics. I hope that's not a problem."

  "Problem? No, not at all. The church always supports magic." Cora's eyes were half-closed, like she was repeating words said over and over, then she addressed me again. "You know I can handle water too, little boy?"

  "Really?!"

  "Yes, and others too. Between Father Tyeron and me we have almost all the elements of the Gods. If you wanted to learn something more..."

  "Can I? Mom ca…" I started before she could finish the sentence, but the yank Mom gave my arm cut me off mid-sentence.

  "That's very kind of you, Sister," Dad said, coming toward us and spreading his arms, smiling like the salesmen at the market. "But we can't afford it. And Arek, when he's old enough, will have to help me in the shop."

  "Oh, but the Church offers teaching to gifted children," said Sister Cora, smiling. "Such a talented child should..."

  "Thank you, we'll think about it," Mom said, her voice barely trembling. "But we really have to go now. We still need to stop at the market."

  "Of course, of course, Mirina." Sister Cora nodded. But her gaze lingered on me a moment too long. "The offer stands. When he's ready."

  She turned toward the orphanage, then looked back.

  "Children with the gift are rare. It would be a shame not to cultivate the Breath of the Gods."

  Emma raised her hand, not to touch me this time, but in a gesture that seemed like a wave but wasn't. Her fingers opened and closed slowly, then clenched around something that wasn't there, like she was holding a secret in the air.

  Her lips shifted. No sound came out, but the words formed slowly, deliberately, and I read them clearly. "See you soon, Arek."

  Why are you so sure?

  I wanted to ask. I wanted to…

  ~ * ~

  A flash. Just a split second.

  The dark ceiling. The beams. Two giant faces looking down at me. And that certainty, cold, final, that had washed over me as my eyes closed.

  “This is the last one.”

  ~ * ~

  The last what?

  I didn't know. But I knew Emma was right.

  I have to answer. I have to let her know I'll be here for her.

  What? What am I even promising her?

  It didn't matter.

  I raised my hand. Slow and deliberate. My fingers opened, just like hers, then closed. They gripped air that felt thicker than before, as if I were actually grabbing onto something.

  A pact. An answer. A "yes" to a question neither of us had asked.

  Emma nodded once. A small movement and her eyes were shimmering.

  No one else saw. No one else understood.

  Tarin's arms wrapped around Mirina and me and guided us toward the cart. Behind us, Sister Cora's voice.

  "May Eteria protect you."

  Another small pang in my ribcage, sudden and unexpected. Another insect sting, I thought, but this time the sensation came with a shiver too, even if the air was warm.

  I peered up. She was there, hand raised, fingers tracing a symbol in the air. It looked like the same circle with rays I'd seen on the fountain, on the church.

  And from her fingertips emerged a small golden light. It spread in the air between us like poured water, slow, thick, almost tangible.

  My chest.

  The pang became heat and it grew and grew hotter.

  I lifted the collar of my pale tunic. Lines drew themselves on my chest, burning, tracing patterns I felt but didn't see, interweaving and overlapping. It felt like someone was tracing my skin with a burning brand from the inside.

  It hurts, it hurts. Stop! It hurts!

  I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

  Then a golden pattern emerged on my skin, lines weaving over lines, brilliant with the same golden light that had poured from Cora's fingertips, and the world blurred at the edges as I walked, pushed by Dad's hands.

  Then it vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.

  "Arek!"

  His voice. Distant. The pain disappeared.

  "You okay?"

  "Y-yes, Dad." I answered automatically.

  Tarin lifted me with his strong arms, squeezing me against his sides. He set me on the back bench of the cart and Mom sat beside me.

  What's happening inside me?

  The pain I'd felt was gone, but my hands were still shaking.

  Eteria. Eteria. Eteria.

  The name kept echoing in my head, whispered by something deep inside, something that wasn't my voice but felt older than me.

  I didn't know what it meant. Didn't know why it scared me so much. But my body did. It kept trembling, and the heat under my skin pulsed in time with the name.

  Eteria. Eteria. Eteria.

  Like a heartbeat, but not mine.

  Whose, then?