Days had passed since the Celestial Weave.
Those who glowed were quickly swept into the orientation program by GRID, Upper Iris' elite defense division.
GRID was always scouting for new Arkan-bearers, and anyone glowing was a potential recruit.
Some students now wore their GRID-issued badges like trophies, little silver plates pinned to their uniforms—proof that they'd been chosen.
Yinoh was gone for three days.
He stayed at GRID's local headquarters, a monolithic complex perched just beyond the northern edge of town.
It was all training halls, high fences, and satellite dishes—like a place built to watch the sky and keep the rest of us out.
Meanwhile...
I barely left the house.
Weekends felt heavier than weekdays.
At least at school, the noise drowned out the quiet parts of my mind. But here, at home, silence pressed down like a weighted blanket I couldn't kick off.
I hadn't spoken to anyone all day.
CREAK.
The heavy groan of the front door echoed through the hallway. Then came the sound of it clicking shut—final and firm. I stayed frozen as the footsteps began, rhythmic and steady, growing louder as they approached my room.
Knock. Knock.
"Can I come in?" It was Yinoh's voice.
I got up lazily and unlocked the door.
He stood there, smiling like we hadn't skipped a single beat.
"Hey, Hashy. Missed me?"
"Nope," I replied jokingly.
"Oh, come on," he grinned. "I know you missed me. That's why I brought snacks."
He raised two bulging convenience store bags—chips, curls, chocolate bread, fizzy juice. It looked like he'd bought everything loud, crunchy, and bad for you.
"You raided a store," I said, flatly.
"I liberated it," he countered, a look of pure triumph on his face.
He marched in like he owned the place and dumped the bags onto my desk, already tearing into a curl pack.
"You wanna watch something? Or maybe play games?" I offered.
Yinoh shook his head. "Nah. I'm here for you."
He popped a curl into his mouth and flopped onto the edge of my bed like always.
Then he started talking.
About the orientation.
The GRID instructors have too many medals. The arena-sized training halls. And at the heart of it all, a mana crystal so massive it pulsed like a second sun.
"I even got to know my Arkan," he said between bites. "Turns out—wind."
I blinked. "Wind?"
"Yup," he said, sounding almost disappointed as he crunched on a handful of curls. He momentarily stopped munching, and we stared at each other for a beat. Then, we both cracked up.
"The Moon gave you wind just to spite your skewer stall," I laughed.
"I know, right? How am I supposed to grill anything when the sky is trying to blow my permit away?"
"Forget the permit," I teased. "You'll scatter the coals every time you sneeze."
He groaned, shaking his head. "Great. Someone's going to bite into raw chicken just because I accidentally summoned a tornado."
We laughed again. And for a moment...
I forgot about not glowing.
I forgot about the silence.
This was real.
Yinoh leaned back on his elbows, still chewing.
"I missed this," he said. "GRID's too loud. Everyone's trying to prove something. No one really... listens. Just mana bursts and ego."
"Sounds exhausting," I said, my eyes wandering toward the window.
"It is."
Then, quieter—
"You doing okay?" he asked, his gaze searching mine as he tried to read my expression.
I hesitated. "Hmmm…still figuring it out."
He nodded. Like that was enough.
We didn't need more words. Just the sound of curls crunching and a dusty speaker humming old songs.
But under the laughter... something still itched inside me.
A thought I hadn't said out loud.
Something darker.
----------
Hours passed.
As the music faded to a low hum, my eyelids grew heavy. The streetlamp outside washed the room in a pale, dim glow, and beside me, Yinoh's breathing settled into the steady rhythm of someone finally at peace. For the first time in days, the silence didn't feel like it was swallowing me.
Then, the shadows in the corners stretched.
I rubbed my eyes, blaming the exhaustion even though I hadn't done much today, but when I closed them, something whispered at the edge of my hearing. It wasn't words—it was a pull. Warmth crept across the back of my neck, the phantom sensation of someone standing right behind me.
I let my eyes close fully. The bed dipped. A scent drifted in—not wind or food, but something older. Something familiar.
Laundry soap. Warm rice. Early mornings.
Mom.
I sank, falling into a layer of sleep I didn't choose. A voice brushed my mind, then—darkness.
"Son, wake up. You'll be late."
I surfaced like I was coming up for air. She stood by the door, brushing dust from her apron just like she did every school morning.
"Mom?" I whispered.
She smiled. "Aren't you going? You still haven't figured out your Arkan."
But... I don't have one, I tried to say, but she was already turning into the hallway.
"Wait—Mom!"
I jolted upright, gasping. The room was dark. My room. Heart racing and skin cold with sweat, I realized I was clutching the sheets.
"Hashy?"
Yinoh's voice was close, worried. He leaned in, his eyes searching mine in the gloom. "You okay? You were shaking, man. I'll get you some water—"
"No, it's okay." I grabbed his wrist; my grip was tighter than I intended.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Calm down. Now."
He raised an eyebrow, the tension breaking slightly. "Say that to yourself."
A short breath escaped both of us—not a laugh, but the shadow of one. Yinoh sat back down, closer this time. No more words, just a quiet that didn't feel crushing anymore. It was the kind of silence that meant someone stayed.
But the dream lingered. It didn't feel like a memory. It felt like a message.
The dream—or nightmare—lingered like a cold draft, but Yinoh didn't ask. He just watched me for a second, then stood up and started twirling his hand in the air. A sloppy, lopsided spiral of wind began to whistle between his fingers, looking more like a dying ceiling fan than a magical feat. He was clearly trying to distract me from whatever had just played out behind my eyes.
"Look at this," he whispered, his tongue poking out in concentration. "Pure, raw, unbridled talent."
I was trying not to laugh at how ridiculous he looked—concentrating so hard on a tiny breeze—when a sharp knock hit the wood of the door.
The door creaked open, and Dad peeked in, his silhouette framed by the warm yellow light of the hallway. "You two hungry? I cooked."
Yinoh's "spiral" instantly collapsed as he lit up. "Well, actually, Sir Thiago, I'm starving."
Dad grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "Well, come down before it gets cold. I made your favorite."
We both said it at the same time: "Braised pork?"
Dad just nodded, a knowing smirk on his face, before disappearing back toward the kitchen.
Yinoh shot up like a spring. "You cool with just sauce, Hashy? I'm eating everything else. The meat, the fat, the garnish—it's all mine."
"You glutton!" I groaned, shoving him back onto the mattress. I used the momentum to dash for the door, but I stopped midair.
Literally.
A breeze wrapped around my waist like an invisible ribbon, holding me an inch above the floor. I kicked my legs, but I was pinned in place.
"Hey! No fair!"
Yinoh strolled past me, his hand reaching out to tousle my hair into a mess as he went. He didn't even look back, his stride full of a new, annoying kind of confidence.
"I call that one the Hashy Hold," he declared. "It's a bit of a placeholder name, but it fits. I'll keep it until I think of something more 'elite,' but honestly? It's growing on me."
"You're abusing your power!" I yelled at his back. By the time I wriggled free and my feet hit the carpet, he was already halfway down the stairs.
When I finally reached the table, Yinoh was seated like royalty, napkin tucked into his collar. "I think Hashy's lost his appetite, Sir Thiago," he said with a look of mock sadness. "Tragic, really."
"That so?" Dad chuckled, setting down the heavy ceramic pot.
"He used his power against me," I protested, dropping into my seat and grabbing my chopsticks. "It's a sanctioned kidnapping."
"Your fault for being slow," Yinoh replied, already reaching for the serving spoon.
The steam rose from the pot—savory, sweet, and rich. "Braised pork belly," Dad announced. "Just like you two like it."
Yinoh took a massive bite and froze, his eyes widening. "Sir Thiago... THIS IS AWESOME!"
Dad laughed, the sound filling the room as we all dug in. As the initial frenzy of eating slowed, the conversation drifted. Dad leaned forward, looking at Yinoh with genuine curiosity.
"So, wind magic, huh? How did the ceremony handle the manifestation?"
Yinoh swallowed his mouthful before replying. "They had this device—we put our hands on it, and it determines our affinity. Then it projected a visual of the wind for me."
"Oh, that must've been the CORE—the Channeling Oscillation Resonator Emitter," Dad said, leaning back, a spark of professional pride in his eyes.
"Yeah, that's exactly what they called it."
Dad chuckled. "I invented that."
Yinoh slammed both hands on the table and shot to his feet, nearly tipping his water. "Really?! That's so cool!"
They kept talking then—about orientation, training drills, and the mechanics of the CORE. I mostly listened, the rhythm of their voices blending with the clink of silverware. They weren't trying to leave me out; they were just speaking a language I didn't have the vocabulary for yet.
The table felt a few inches farther away than it had a minute ago. Maybe it was the draft from Yinoh's wind. Or maybe I was finally realizing that my path wouldn't be as simple as a glow beneath the moon.