Lucian's hand trembled as he reached for the candle flame. Such a simple thing—to coat his fingers in Ruby Chroma and touch fire without burning. He'd done it a thousand times in secret, the power flowing as easily as breath.
Now, nothing.
His fingers met honest flame and jerked back with a hiss. The blister formed immediately, pink and accusing.
"Again," Keeren said from his chair by the window.
"It's not working." Lucian cradled his hand, frustrated tears threatening. "The reservoir's empty."
"The reservoir refills. Your confidence, apparently, does not." The old soldier didn't look up from the sword he was cleaning—a real blade, not ceremonial. "You're trying to force what should flow. Like pissing with someone watching."
"Charming metaphor."
"Accurate one." Keeren held the blade to the light, checking for nicks. "Your body knows how to restore Aetheria. Your mind keeps getting in the way. So we remove the mind from the equation."
Before Lucian could ask what that meant, Keeren moved. The sword whistled through the air in a perfect arc that would have opened Lucian's throat if it hadn't stopped a finger's breadth from skin.
Colour exploded outward—a panicked burst of Azure that formed a crude barrier. The sword rang against it like a bell, and Keeren smiled.
"See? Body knows. Mind follows." He sheathed the blade casually. "Your power isn't gone, boy. Just hiding. We've got twenty hours to coax it back out."
"By trying to kill me?"
"By reminding your instincts they exist." Keeren stood with only minor protest from his bad knee. "Up. We're going to run the morning forms, and every time you lag, I'm going to test those reflexes."
"The forms are for centring. I need—"
"You need to stop thinking about what you need and start feeling what you are." Keeren's expression softened slightly. "Lucian, I've trained soldiers for forty years. You know what separates the ones who survive from the ones who don't?"
"Superior firepower?"
"Trust. In their training, their comrades, themselves." He gestured to the courtyard. "Right now, you don't trust your power because it revealed itself without your permission. But that power saved lives. Trust it. Trust yourself. The rest will follow."
They moved through the forms as the morning sun climbed. Flowing River into Mountain Stands Firm. Crane Spreads Wings into Tiger Stalks Prey. Ancient movements designed to harmonise body and spirit. Every time Lucian's concentration wavered, Keeren struck—sometimes with the sheathed sword, sometimes with thrown pebbles, once with a bucket of cold water.
Each attack triggered a response. Sparks of colour, fragments of constructs, instinctive defences that dissolved moments after forming. But they came faster each time, stronger.
"Better," Keeren grunted as Lucian deflected three strikes in succession with a flickering Topaz barrier. "Your recovery rate is impressive. Most Shapers take days to restore after full depletion."
"Most Shapers have proper training." Lucian paused to catch his breath. Sweat soaked his shirt despite the cool morning. "I'm making this up as I go."
"No. You're discovering what was always there." Keeren pulled something from his pocket—a silver medallion on a broken chain. The Vigil's symbol gleamed in the sunlight. "Twenty-seven years I wore this. Vigilant Keeren Ironwood, pride of the Third Regiment."
Lucian stared. He'd suspected, but seeing proof...
"Why did you leave?"
"Because the Vigil taught me to suppress everything that made me human. Grief, joy, love—all considered weaknesses. They wanted weapons, not people." He tucked the medallion away. "I was good at it. Too good. Came home on leave to find my wife had left, my children didn't recognise me, and I felt... nothing. The Vigil had carved me hollow."
"But you still trained me."
"Because someone needed to. And because I hoped..." Keeren shrugged. "I hoped to teach you what took me decades to learn. That power without humanity isn't strength. It's just destruction waiting to happen."
"Breakfast!"
Mira's voice interrupted the moment. She emerged from the house carrying a tray laden with more food than three people could reasonably eat. "Mrs. Henderson sent eggs. The Clearwater twins brought fresh bread. Oh, and Emma's organising the children to paint protection stones for you."
"The whole village is sending food?" Lucian accepted a plate gratefully. His appetite had returned with his recovering power.
"The whole village is arguing about you," Mira corrected, settling beside them. "But yes, even the ones who think you're dangerous apparently don't want you facing assessment on an empty stomach."
She produced a handful of coloured pebbles from her pocket. "The children finished these. They wanted you to have them before..." She didn't finish the sentence.
Lucian examined the stones. Each was painted with childish enthusiasm—swirls of colour, stick figures, crude symbols of protection. One depicted him standing between a monster and a group of children. Another showed rainbow wings spreading from a smiling figure.
"Tell them thank you," he said around the lump in his throat.
"Tell them yourself. After you pass assessment and come home." Mira's tone brooked no argument. "Now eat. Father wants to see you in the workshop after."
The eggs were perfect, the bread still warm. Lucian ate mechanically, trying not to think about how this might be his last meal in this courtyard, with these people. Keeren and Mira talked around him—village gossip, weather predictions, anything but tomorrow's possibilities.
When the plates were empty, Keeren stood. "Two hours, then we work on combat applications. Your father needs you now."
The workshop smelled of cedar and possibilities. Julian stood at his bench, hands moving over a piece of pale wood Lucian didn't recognise.
"Heartwood," his father said without looking up. "From the tree your mother planted when you were born. I've been saving it."
"For what?"
"For when you needed it most." Julian's hands never paused in their careful carving. "Come here. Let me show you something."
Lucian joined him at the bench. Up close, he could see what his father was making—a pendant, about the size of his palm. The design was complex, abstract, but somehow familiar.
"Your mother saw this in a dream once," Julian said. "Drew it for me on our anniversary. Said it was important but didn't know why." His knife moved in precise strokes. "I think she saw today. Saw you needing protection I couldn't give."
"Father—"
"Watch the grain." Julian guided Lucian's hand to the wood. "Feel how it wants to be shaped. Wood's like power that way—force it, and it splits. Work with its nature, and it becomes something beautiful."
They worked in silence for a time, Julian's sure hands guiding Lucian's less certain ones. The pendant took shape between them—a spiral that seemed to pull the eye inward, surrounded by delicate lattice work.
"I was angry," Julian said suddenly. "When your mother died. Angry at her for leaving, at the world for taking her, at you for reminding me of her." His voice was steady, but tears tracked down his cheeks. "Anger's easier than grief. Easier than fear."
"I know."
"Do you?" Julian set down his tools, meeting Lucian's eyes. "I've let fear rule me for two years. Fear of losing you like I lost her. Like I lost my father. But fear's just another kind of prison, and I've kept us both locked up long enough."
He pressed the pendant into Lucian's hands. The wood was warm, smooth, alive with possibility.
"Whatever happens tomorrow, you face it as yourself. Not hiding, not pretending. Just... you." Julian pulled him into a fierce embrace. "That's all your mother would want. All I want."
Lucian returned the hug, breathing in sawdust and home. "I'll come back."
"I know." Julian pulled back, wiping his eyes with dusty hands. "Now go. Keeren's waiting, and that man has no patience for sentiment."
The afternoon passed in a blur of combat drills. Keeren pushed harder now, forcing Lucian to manifest Chroma under pressure. Ruby strikes, Azure shields, Topaz speed bursts. The power came easier with each attempt, his reservoir refilling like a spring after drought.
"Good!" Keeren deflected a crimson-edged strike with his sword. "But predictable. The Vigil will have seen every standard application. Show them innovation."
"How?"
"By stopping thinking like a soldier and starting thinking like yourself." Keeren sheathed his blade. "What made your display during the breach remarkable wasn't power—it was instinct. You created exactly what was needed without planning. Do that."
"I can't just—"
"Close your eyes."
Lucian obeyed, though it went against every combat instinct.
"Listen," Keeren commanded. "Feel. The Aetheric currents around you, the earth beneath your feet, the air in your lungs. Don't think about what Chroma to use. Feel what wants to exist."
Sound sharpened. The whisper of wind through leaves, distant voices from the village, his own heartbeat. And beneath it all, the subtle flow of power through all things. Not just in him—everywhere. Waiting.
"Now," Keeren's voice was soft, "protect."
Lucian moved without thought. Colour flowed from him not as weapon or shield but as... connection. Emerald tendrils that touched the earth and drew strength upward. Azure mist that calmed the very air. Ruby warmth that would comfort as easily as burn.
When he opened his eyes, he stood at the centre of a garden made of light. Chroma constructs had taken forms he'd never consciously designed—flowers that chimed with each breeze, butterflies of pure Topaz joy, spiralling patterns that hurt to look at directly.
"Beautiful," Mira breathed. She stood at the courtyard entrance with half the village children behind her. "Lucian, that's beautiful."
The constructs dissolved as his concentration broke, but slowly, gently, like morning mist. Several children applauded.
"Now that," Keeren said with satisfaction, "the Vigil hasn't seen."
The afternoon brought a stream of visitors. Mrs. Henderson with enough food to feed an army. Jonas with a flask of "liquid courage" that turned out to be his grandmother's apple cider. The Fairweather family with formal thanks. Even Garrett came, awkwardly offering a whetstone "for whatever blades you might need to sharpen."
"I misjudged," Garrett said stiffly. "Maybe. Possibly. My boy lives because of you, and that... that matters more than old fears."
Elder Molnar arrived as the sun began its descent. "Walk with me," he said.
They strolled through the village, past familiar houses and shops. People nodded as they passed—some wary, some supportive, all watchful.
"Oakhaven has seen its share of troubles," the Elder mused. "Plague, drought, the occasional bandit raid. But we endure because we're more than just neighbours. We're a community."
"Some of that community wants me gone," Lucian pointed out.
"Some of that community is afraid. Fear makes people stupid." Molnar paused at the memorial stone. "Your mother understood something many forget—strength isn't about standing alone. It's about knowing when to lean on others."
He placed a hand on Lucian's shoulder. "Tomorrow, you face assessment as an individual. But you carry our hopes with you. Win or lose, pass or fail, you've already shown us something important."
"What's that?"
"That the extraordinary can exist alongside the ordinary. That power doesn't have to mean isolation." The old man smiled. "Though do try to avoid destroying any more fountains. The mason's guild is already complaining about the repair costs."
Evening came too quickly. Lucian found himself at his family's table, surrounded by those who mattered most. Keeren, gruff and watchful. Elder Molnar, serene and wise. Jonas and several childhood friends. Mira buzzing between kitchen and table. His father, quiet but present.
The meal was simple—stew and bread and preserves—but it tasted like memory and hope combined. Stories flowed with the ale. The time Lucian had convinced the entire youth group to "relocate" the mayor's prized rooster as a prank. Mira's first successful healing, mending a bird's broken wing. Julian's courtship of their mother, complete with spectacular failures at romantic gestures.
"She loved the disasters more than the successes," Julian said, smiling at the memory. "Said they showed I was trying."
"Sing for us, Mira," Elder Molnar requested. "Your mother's song."
Mira flushed but stood, clearing her throat. Her voice, clear and true, filled the room:
"When storm winds blow and darkness falls, When fear would claim the day, Remember light lives in us all, To chase the night away."
More verses followed, telling of courage found in community, strength drawn from connection. Their mother had sung it as a lullaby, but tonight it sounded like a battle hymn.
"Right," Keeren said when the last note faded. "Time for one more lesson."
He led them outside where the stars were just appearing. The old soldier stood military-straight, addressing them all but looking at Lucian.
"Forty years ago, I stood at the Veil itself. Place where reality ends and dreams begin. Horrible things came through—nightmares that killed half my unit before we could respond." He paused. "But I survived. Want to know how?"
Silence stretched before he continued.
"I remembered why I was fighting. Not for the Vigil, not for abstract concepts of order. For the families sleeping safe because we stood watch. For the children who'd never know the horrors we faced." His eyes found Lucian's. "Power's just a tool. Purpose is what matters. Remember your purpose, and no assessment can break you."
They sat in meditation as full dark fell. Lucian felt the others around him—their breathing, their warmth, their unspoken support. His power responded, not with explosive force but with quiet certainty. It pooled in his chest like liquid starlight, ready to be shaped by need and will.
"It's time," Mira said softly.
Time for final preparations. Time for last words. Time to face whatever tomorrow brought.
But not yet time for goodbye. That would come with dawn.
Morning arrived with militant precision.
Lucian stood in the square where two nights ago his life had shattered and reformed. He wore simple clothes—nothing to suggest presumption, nothing to impede movement. His mother's meditation beads wrapped his left wrist. His father's pendant rested against his chest. Emma's painted stone sat in his pocket alongside a dozen others from the village children.
The Vigil contingent appeared exactly as the sun cleared the eastern buildings. This time, they brought more than soldiers. The Resonance Calibrator dominated a wheeled platform—a crystal structure taller than a man, faceted like a jewel and humming with restrained power.
Lyra Stonehand dismounted with the same controlled grace as before. Her armour caught the morning light, and Lucian noticed details he'd missed in his exhaustion—scars on the metal that spoke of real combat, modifications that suggested personal preference over regulation standard.
"Lucian Ashford," she said formally. "You stand accused of violating the Shaper Registration Act. You have admitted guilt. Today's assessment will determine your fitness for Vigil service as alternative to criminal punishment. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Do you submit to assessment willingly, knowing that resistance or deception will result in immediate binding?"
"I submit willingly."
Marcus Cole recorded every word, grey eyes missing nothing. Other Vigilants formed a perimeter, keeping back the crowd that had gathered despite official discouragement. Lucian saw familiar faces—some here in support, others drawn by morbid curiosity.
"Establish the testing circle," Lyra commanded.
Vigilants moved with practiced efficiency, placing crystal markers at precise intervals. The space between them shimmered, creating a boundary that would contain any manifestations while allowing observation. The Resonance Calibrator was positioned at the circle's edge, its facets beginning to glow.
"Initial readings," Marcus announced, studying gauges on the device's base. "Subject shows Aetheric capacity in the... ninety-third percentile."
Murmurs from the crowd. That was higher than most trained Shapers.
"Resonance affinity?" Lyra asked.
Marcus frowned at the readings. "Unclear. The spectrum shows... all frequencies registering. That should be impossible."
"Should be and is are different things." Lyra entered the circle. "We begin with basic manifestation. Show me your primary Chroma."
Lucian hesitated. Primary suggested one above others, but his power had never worked that way. Still, red had come first that night. He reached for the familiar anger-courage-passion blend and pulled.
Ruby light bloomed between his palms, forming a simple sphere. Textbook manifestation, exactly what any Initiate learned first.
"Stable," Marcus noted. "Duration?"
Lucian held it for thirty seconds before letting it dissolve. Child's play after Keeren's gruelling sessions.
"Secondary manifestation," Lyra ordered.
Azure this time. Then Topaz. Emerald. Violet. Each perfectly formed, each held with minimal effort. The watching crowd grew quiet as he cycled through colours most Shapers spent years mastering individually.
"Fascinating." Lyra circled him slowly. "Your control has improved dramatically in forty-eight hours. Show me a construct. Your choice."
Lucian considered. Safe would be a blade or shield. Expected. But Keeren's words echoed: show them innovation.
He pulled on Emerald growth and Ruby passion, weaving them together. The construct that formed was neither weapon nor armour but a tree—miniature but perfect, with crystalline leaves that chimed in the morning breeze. As watchers leaned forward, flowers bloomed along its branches. Each blossom was a different colour, a different emotion given form.
"Impressive artistry," Lyra said. "But we're not the College of Hues. Can you fight?"
The tree dissolved. In its place, Lucian manifested a spear of pure Topaz—crackling with barely restrained energy. He moved through basic forms, the weapon leaving trails of light. Then, without warning, he shifted. The spear became a whip of Azure that snapped out to wrap around a testing post. Before anyone could react, he'd pulled himself across the circle, the whip becoming Ruby claws that scored deep grooves in the reinforced wood.
"Adaptability in combat," Marcus recorded. "Speed of transition between constructs exceeds Vigilant standards."
"Because he's not thinking," Lyra observed. "He's feeling. Show me defence."
She gestured, and two Vigilants entered the circle. They attacked without warning—practice blades moving in trained patterns. Lucian responded on instinct. An Azure wall blocked the first strike. Topaz speed carried him past the second. When they pressed harder, he did something that made Marcus drop his pencil.
Instead of maintaining separate constructs, Lucian let them flow together. A prismatic bubble formed around him—not one colour but all, shifting and adapting to each attack. A blade met Ruby hardness. A feint passed through Violet intangibility. The construct was impossible by Vigil doctrine, which held that mixed Resonances created unstable results.
"Enough," Lyra called.
The Vigilants stepped back, breathing hard. Lucian's prismatic defence faded, leaving him standing calmly in the circle's centre.
"Explain what you just did," Lyra demanded.
"I... I didn't think about it. The attacks had different intents—one to disable, one to test. I matched the defence to the need."
"By creating a compound Chroma matrix that shouldn't exist." She turned to Marcus. "Calibrator readings?"
The younger Vigilant looked troubled. "Aetheric flow is... adaptive. He's not forcing multiple Resonances together. He's finding where they naturally overlap."
"Prismatic Resonance," someone whispered in the crowd. "Like the old stories."
Lyra's expression gave nothing away. "One final test. Combat demonstration. Full expression of your capabilities." She drew her own blade—not practice steel but true Vigilant silver. "Defend yourself as if your life depended on it."
"Aegis," Marcus protested. "Protocol states—"
"Protocol assumes standard Shapers." She saluted Lucian formally. "Begin."