Chapter 17: Thor’s day

Did you know that the name Thursday comes from the Norse god Thor? It literally means “Thor’s Day.” Fitting, really—because today, October 2nd, mine began with a thunderclap loud enough to rattle the windows and a crack of lightning slicing the morning sky. It was still raining, harder now, and the clouds were tearing themselves apart under the weight of the storm.

I reached for my phone.

A text from Thomas—he got home safely.

A message from Mr. Penrose—Monday evening meeting confirmed.

Jason wanted to know if I was up for a “friendly” volleyball match (those are never just friendly with him).

And Zoe asked if I was feeling any better.

Was I?

I lifted my pajama shirt and checked my ribs. Still bruised. Still purple. Hurts like hell—maybe a bit less than yesterday. Still not ideal.

I texted everyone back:

Thanked Thomas again for everything.

Told Jason I was in, despite the soreness. Playing with friends is always worth it, and I could give myself a little magical boost if needed.

Invited Zoe too—but she’d already heard about it and replied immediately that she, Peter, and a few others would be there.

And I just thanked Mr. Penrose for the confirmation. No need for more words with him.

My plan for the day was packed. Between classes—Performance Art, Text in Art, and Contemporary Art Critique—I’d find time to check in on both the overlook and the camper. I also now had volleyball in the afternoon, and after that, some sewing practice to keep progressing on my suit.

Thor’s Day, indeed—a day of thunder, battles, and stubborn persistence.

It was wild to think I’d only awakened my powers five days ago. Just five. I hadn’t passed the test for my second soulmark at the start, but I’d been offered another—and this one fit me better anyway. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder sometimes: what was the original soulmark meant to be? What did I turn away from without even knowing it?

Now, though, my soulmarks felt like they’d always been part of me, like they had always been waiting—patient, quiet—until I was ready. I could already do so much with them, but something told me this was only the beginning. I could feel it in my bones. These powers weren’t static. They would grow, change—like I would. I was curious, maybe even a little hungry, to see how far they’d take me.

--

When I stepped out of the bathroom—refreshed, dressed, and ready to face the day—Sophie was already perched at the kitchen table, sipping her latte like a queen holding court. Peter sat across from her, scrolling through something on his phone, but I knew the moment I walked in that Sophie wasn’t about to let last night slide.

“So, honey,” she began, eyes gleaming over the rim of her mug, “you gonna tell your girl what really went down here yesterday?”

Last night, I’d just laughed her off and locked myself in my room without a word. But today? That wasn’t an option. A thunderclap cracked outside, rattling the windows. The sound rolled through my chest, and a chill snaked across my skin.

“He’s a work colleague,” I said evenly. “We had a nice evening. That’s all I’m going to say.”

I could explain more—but not without dragging Sophie into the magical mess of my world. And denying that anything happened at all would just make it weirder. So I let her believe what she wanted to believe. Unfortunately, that only lit the fire under Peter.

“Oh, come on,” Sophie said, leaning forward. “You could spill a few more beans, Alexa. The guy was pretty big, wasn’t he?” She arched her brow—this wasn’t about his height.

“Who are you talking about?” Peter finally looked up from his phone, unable to help himself.

“Thomas was here with me last night,” I said casually, knowing it would land like a dropped match on dry leaves.

Peter blinked. “Thomas Torque?”

His voice tightened. He knew Thomas, of course. Just like he knew Phillip. Back when they’d picked me up from the orphanage. They helped Peter too from time to time, mostly as a favor to me. He’d never liked Thomas—called him a bully with a hero complex more than once. I didn’t see it the same way. To me, Thomas was a good person who acted like a bully when he had to. But Peter never saw the side of him I did, so I didn’t blame him for the impression.

“The very same,” I confirmed.

His face darkened. “You slept with him?”

The words were sharp, not judgmental exactly—but full of something close. Worry, maybe. Anger? I don’t know.

I lied.

“Yes.”

It didn’t feel right. Not the lie itself—I’d told plenty of those before to smooth things over—but saying this lie to him? It felt like a betrayal. Like desecrating something I hadn't even realized was sacred.

But it was done.

“You know this guy?” Sophie asked Peter, her voice cautious now.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I know him. He was already an adult when he and his employer started visiting the orphanage.” He looked at her, not me. “So yeah—you might understand now why it feels wrong to me.”

Ouch.

“So… you think he groomed her?” Sophie asked, softer now but still poking around in the dark.

“Hello?” I snapped. “Still in the room. And no, he did not groom me. I’m an adult too, in case anyone forgot.”

That shut them both up.

Sophie went quiet, her shoulders stiff with embarrassment. Peter, though… Peter just looked down. He didn’t lie, but he knew how to stay silent when truth would cut too deep. His face said it all—tight with restraint, eyes flickering with something that looked like grief.

“I can’t,” he said at last. “Sorry, Lex.”

He stood, grabbed his coat and bag, and left the apartment without looking back.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie said after a beat. “I didn’t know it’d blow up like that. You know I didn’t.”

“Yeah, Soph, I know.” I gave her a tired smile. She’d only been teasing—doing exactly what I would’ve done in her place. “Peter’s got his own baggage. Don’t put it on yourself.”

“It seemed fine yesterday. It was fine, right?” Her tone shifted, more serious now.

“It was.” I winked. “Don’t worry, girl. But you were out the night before, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. Nothing exciting, though. Just clubbing with the girls. We wanted to bring you, but you weren’t around.”

Right. While she was out dancing under neon lights, I was being clubbed—literally—by a wench-wielding giant in the castle..

“I see,” I said, and let it drop.

“You’re coming to volleyball later?”

“Of course. It’s gonna be fun.” She grinned. “Girls vs. boys? We’re gonna smash them.”

Jason had a way of turning every event into something worth showing up for—and yeah, she wasn’t wrong. We were going to crush them.

“Yeah, we will,” I said, smirking. I’d need to layer on some magical reinforcement before the game—my ribs still weren’t thrilled about movement. “When do you leave for Uni?”

“In about an hour.”

“Damn. I leave in five.” I grabbed the sandwiches I’d prepped, slung my bag over my shoulder, and made sure both Ella and my Travel Grimoire were tucked inside.

As soon as I closed the apartment door behind me, I touched the anchor for campus—and in the next breath, I was standing under the shadow of three tall trees, right beside the university wall.

--

Performance Art always begins with silence. Our professor, Marla Dresden, has this rule: no one speaks until she does. We all file into the studio—bare floor, high windows, and the smell of charcoal, glue, and sweat from rehearsals past—and settle into whatever pose feels most honest. Or at least, most tolerable.

Some sit with closed eyes like monks, others fidget on yoga mats. Me? I lean against the far wall, arms crossed, ribs aching under my sweatshirt. I don’t need movement to perform right now. Existing is a kind of resistance today. I don’t feel like forcing my body to do anything at all right now. The pain has dulled into something manageable, but it’s still there—bruised, pulsing under each breath. It grounds me.

Marla enters without fanfare, hair tied up. She is wearing the same ink-stained overalls she always does. She stands in the middle of the room and looks at each of us like she’s scanning for cracks in our skin.

“Your body is the first truth,” she says, finally. “Let’s start there.”

And so we do. Warmups. Breathing. Tension and release. We roll across the floor like creatures molting out of human shape. I move slower than usual—part pain, part caution, part focus. There’s also something about being in a room full of people intentionally breaking themselves open that makes it stir beneath my ribs.

Today’s prompt is “internal geography.” Marla wants us to translate something invisible into movement—a map of grief, or joy, or memory. A few weeks ago, I would’ve scoffed. But now?

Now I know my soul has a terrain.

I carve out a corner of the room, make it mine. I start moving, slow and deliberate. My hand sketches invisible sigils in the air, my body folding inward, curling around pain that feels layered—mine, and not mine. It’s hard to explain. Like I’m carrying echoes of something older than me.

I feel it stir again—that flicker of authority. My magic. My domain. Not rising to the surface like it usually does when I call on it to shift my face or cross the threshold between places. This time, it stays within. Like light winding through the veins of something deeper.

Does a soul have veins?

[Authority flows through the soul.]

I pause, mid-motion. Look around. No one’s near me. Everyone else is lost in their own small storms of motion and memory. Only Marla watches me, her head tilted slightly, like she sees something the others can’t.

Did she hear it too?

Did I?

I press on, using the rest of the session to experiment—not just with my body, but with my magic. I move with purpose, but no destination. I want to feel how it responds. Up to this point, I thought of the light that flows from me during invocations as just that—light. Pretty. Functional. A byproduct of what I do. But maybe it’s more than an aesthetic artifact.

Sometimes it leaves me like mist—soft and slow.

Other times, it streaks like static—white-hot and alive, running down my arms or between my fingers like molten wire.

And then, occasionally, it cracks. Electric. Aggressive. Something primal.

It even changes color.

I’d assumed that was just artistic interpretation—my own flair, given the nature of my domain. But what if it means something? What if the color, the form, the texture… what if all of it speaks to different aspects of the magic itself?

Could I produce the light without aiming it at something? Without transformation or teleportation or concealment?

Could I just let it rise, undefined? Would it affect the world in some way if it had no command attached?

I wish I had a teacher. Or a guidebook.

But no.

For now, I learn through breath. Through pain. Through instinct. Through art.

Marla walks past me once before the session ends. She says nothing—but I feel the pause in her step. I wonder, again, what she sees.

When class is over, the others chatter quietly or shuffle toward the doors. I stay a moment longer, still kneeling on the floor, palm pressed flat against the boards as if the space might whisper back.

Nothing does.

--

I was on the overlook now. I used a moment after my first class to slip into a restroom, and once I was finished, I portaled straight to this place. I held my umbrella up above my head to shield myself from the pouring rain as I looked down at the mansion.

The number of guards hadn’t changed since yesterday—they still patrolled in the same predictable patterns. But now I noticed something I missed before: a small section of the compound turned into a parking area. The cars were all black, and last night they’d kept the lights off, so I hadn’t seen them clearly. But now, in the rain and grey daylight, I counted four black pickup trucks—the same kind, maybe even the same ones, as the one that followed me and Thomas. And to my quiet delight, there was a fifth vehicle: a white car that looked exactly like the one we used.

They took the bait. My Trojan Horse had made it through the gates.

I watched for at least ten minutes. No one entered or exited the camper. The doors were still shut, and the windows showed nothing new. I doubted they’d installed cameras inside—probably not their style—but still, it didn’t hurt to be careful. I took one of my scarves and tied it around my face like a bandana, covering as much as I could.

Then I reached for my travel grimoire and touched it—not opening it this time, just letting my fingers rest on the cover as I focused on the camper. The leather was worn and familiar, and in my mind, the whole book felt like a living piece of art. My soul filled in the blanks. It was harder this way—less precise than using the painted anchors—but it still worked. A strain passed through me, sharper than usual, but the jump happened.

And I was inside.

The living space of the camper was empty. Rummaged through. Each drawer, every cabinet, opened and picked clean. They had clearly gone through everything. But the good news? No one was inside, and I didn’t see any cameras either.

I stepped carefully toward the window and peered out. From this angle, I could see the side entrance of the mansion clearly—probably around a hundred feet away. Just a few people moved around: what looked like staff. Some cleaning. One woman, maybe a cook, giving quiet orders. No obvious guards. No one armed.

I’d need binoculars or something enchanted to get a better view inside the house. If I could see enough, I could paint it. And once I had an anchor, I’d be able to get in easily. I needed to do it soon—I couldn’t count on them keeping the car here for long.

But for now, it was almost time for my next class.

I opened the grimoire again, this time flipping to the page with the campus painting. I focused on it, and a moment later, I was gone—portaled straight to the shadowed spot beneath the three trees just outside the university wall.

--

I texted Mr. Penrose to ask if he had a decent pair of binoculars I could borrow in about an hour and a half, and then rushed off—Performance Art was starting soon. He replied before I even reached the proper building, letting me know that he’d ask Miriam to leave them in his office for me since he was otherwise occupied.

If Performance Art is instinct and impulse, then Text in Art is precision—razor-thin edges of language stitched into canvas, walls, or books. This class takes place in a seminar room that feels like it’s on the verge of collapse under the weight of too many books. Shelves stacked to bursting, corners filled with half-unpacked boxes of journals, the whole space vibrating with dry, intellectual chaos.

Our professor, Emilio Harnett, speaks like every sentence is a question wrapped in sarcasm. Despite chain-drinking espresso he somehow always manages to look both exhausted and electrified at the same time.

I take my usual seat by the window—where I can see both the class and the trees outside. I like that. It reminds me that there’s a world beyond all this, and not everything can be caged inside words, no matter what Emilio believes.

Today’s topic: text as object—when words aren’t just message, but material. A Basquiat piece is projected on the wall, all chaotic scrawls and fragments—like a manifesto that exploded mid-sentence.

“This,” Emilio says, tapping the screen, “is not about poetry. It’s about power. Why do you think artists use text when they could just use image?”

Hands shoot up around the room.

“Language is direct.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Language is disruptive.”

“Language carries history.”

I think about my grimoire.

Would it still work if I wrote down where I wanted to go instead of painting it? If I described the place in flowery, metaphor-heavy language, would the spell still take root? Would an address hidden behind artistic intent be enough for the soul to follow, or would it just... refuse? Shut down? Reject it as not artistic enough?

When my turn comes, I speak without raising my hand.

“Because images suggest. But text? Text declares.”

Emilio grins. “Very militant, Alexa. I like it.”

It’s not hard to win his approval. He acts like a complicated thinker, but in truth, Emilio’s a creature of simple devotion—he worships language. Precision excites him. Clarity turns him on. But for me, that same precision cuts off something essential. It strips away the spirit I need to make my magic work. Words, as tools, are too rigid for what I can do now. Too literal. And maybe too bound to reality.

We spend the rest of the class unraveling artworks that use text to reclaim identity. Slurs inverted into declarations. Testimonies scrawled in lipstick across cracked bathroom mirrors. Messages stitched in red thread across soft, flesh-colored fabric. Words made physical, made intimate.

And all the while, I can’t stop thinking about my grimoire—and whether there’s a way to write a door instead of painting one.

I find it kind of funny though—how I struggle to believe that words could ever function as portals, but a perfectly round, black-filled circle? That’s art enough for my soul to register as a hole in space. Maybe it’s the Looney Tunes effect. Maybe I’ve watched Bugs Bunny slip through too many painted tunnels on brick walls to question it anymore.

I guess I trust absurdity more than precision. Or maybe I just like the kind of magic that doesn’t take itself too seriously.

--

I visited the toilet again—if I keep doing that, someone’s bound to think I’ve got digestive issues or some weird fixation. Could be fun, honestly.

I portaled to Mr. Penrose’s office, grabbed the binoculars from his desk, and then jumped straight back to the overlook—umbrella already open. It wasn’t raining here anymore, not like in the city, where it poured like it was the clouds' only purpose in life.

I scanned the camper for a few seconds to make sure no one was inside. All clear. Another blink, and I was in. Three jumps in under a minute. Not bad.

I set up by the window again, pressing close to the edge, peeking out toward the house. From this angle, I had a clean line of sight into what looked like a hall-turned-dining-room—spacious, formal, a little too clean. The long table stretched through the center, surrounded by chairs like chess pieces waiting to be moved. A massive glass chandelier hung dead-center above it, flanked by two smaller ones farther out. Cabinets lined the back wall, holding god-knows-what. I counted three doors—maybe storage, maybe exits. Hard to tell from here.

The table was dressed with a long, draped cloth—good, I could dive under it if I landed there and needed cover. The windows had curtains too, though they were tied aside for now. Useful details. I sketched everything quickly onto a spare piece of paper—rough lines, messy shadows, enough for reference. I’d transfer it into the travel grimoire later, give it the care and color it needed to become an anchor.

When I was done, I portaled back to Penrose’s office, returned the binoculars, and left a quick thank-you note next to them. Then, one more portal—back to campus, umbrella still open.

Can’t believe I lived most of my life actually walking everywhere. What a waste of perfectly good time.

I still had at least forty minutes before my next lesson, so I made my way toward the Dining Hall with purpose. As I entered alongside a trickle of other students, I glanced at Ella—my fantastic umbrella. The paint held perfectly, not a drop lost to the city’s relentless downpour. I could enhance her at any second if needed. She’d hold my authority like a perfect vessel.

I grabbed a plate of delicious-looking Asian food and scanned the hall for any familiar, friendly faces. I spotted Hannah and Elena at a corner table—no sign of Sophie. Tyler and Jason were eating by the window. And then I saw Peaches, sitting alone.

That wouldn’t do. Peaches was too much of a sweetheart to waste her fantastic personality in silence. I headed her way.

“May I join you?” I asked, out of courtesy.

“Hi, Alexa. Sure, take a seat.”

“What are you up to?” I asked as I settled in.

“Eating,” she replied, then laughed. “I’m working on an AI that generates images for ads. Yeah, save me the ‘evil tech overlords’ speech. It’s interesting.”

“I wasn’t going to critique. I’ll get my fill of that in the next lesson anyway,” I said. “It actually does sound interesting. When your AI generates these images—do you see them as art?”

“Can any advertisement be art?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Of course it can. If there’s creative expression or cultural commentary involved—why not? A good ad can evoke emotion, right? You’ve never felt anything from one?”

She gave me a look like I was reciting a conspiracy theory.

“I might’ve,” she admitted. “Can’t remember the last time I actually watched an ad. I skip them the second I can.”

“So when you look at your own AI-generated images—do they make you feel anything?”

“Sometimes?” she answered, uncertain. “One image yesterday showed a condo on this perfectly trimmed lawn, a white house in a row of identical white houses. Caption said ‘Would you live here?’ I felt like... no. Like it was too clean. Too copy-paste. I’d need something more personal.”

“So was it art?” I kept probing. “If it made you feel something and had commentary baked in?”

“I’m not the one studying art, Alexa. You are. You tell me.”

Just then, Peter and Zoe slid into our booth. Zoe sat beside me and gave me a quick side-hug. Peter, across from her, next to Peaches. His eyes were sharp—colder than usual. What’s his deal today?

“I don’t know, Peaches,” I said, still holding the thread of our talk. “That’s the question: can a computer create art? Does the author matter, if a piece moves you or says something true? People once argued whether ads could be art. Now we’re wondering if art has to be made by a human. Maybe it doesn’t.”

Peaches nodded slowly.

“You guys have philosophical convos over lunch. I love it,” Zoe said, smiling. Peaches smiled back.

“I think it doesn’t matter,” Zoe continued. “Like you said, Lex—nature can make art, sometimes better than humans can. Right?”

“You mean landscapes?” Peaches asked.

“Sure, but also people, animals, flowers. Isn’t a beautiful person a work of art?”

“She has a point,” I said. “But beauty and art aren’t the same. Beauty is a quality—something pleasing, harmonious, emotionally striking. It can be natural or crafted. Art, though—it’s an intentional act. A decision.”

Zoe nodded thoughtfully. Peaches gasped, then said:

“So, if Zoe here makes babies with Peter—are the babies art? If they had sex with the intention of creating something beautiful?”

She said it completely straight-faced. Zoe turned crimson. Peter looked like someone had hit him with a chair—but still, no smile, no warmth. Just that icy expression.

“Well, I’d call those babies a work of art, for sure,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Speaking of making babies,” Peter said.

Oh no. Don’t do this.

“Sorry, Lex, but I can’t get it out of my head—why would you sleep with that guy?”

Zoe whipped around to glare at him. Peaches just looked stunned.

“Peter, brother,” I said calmly, though my pulse was a slow thunder under my ribs. “First of all—this? Not the time or place. Don’t you think?”

I wanted to tell him it was a lie, just a cover story for Sophie. But not now. Not like this.

“Second—” I went on before he could open that mouth again, “—it’s none of your business who I spend my nights with.”

“Yeah, Peter, what’s wrong with you?” Zoe snapped.

“Sorry, Zoe, but you don’t know this guy. He’s bad news.”

“I don’t know who you’re even talking about,” Zoe said, voice sharper now, “and that makes me uncomfortable. Peaches too, judging by her face—” Peaches nodded, still wide-eyed. “—and Lex? She’s clearly the most uncomfortable of us all. You disappointed me, Pete.”

She said it with steel—equal parts anger and heartbreak. I liked her more every second.

“More than that,” she continued as Peter sat stunned, “I’ve gotten to know Alexa. If she decides someone’s worth her time, she deserves trust.”

“Oh no, Zoe, I love you—but you’re wrong. Lex makes a lot of stupid decisions. All the time.”

God, I wanted to smack that smug face. But he wasn’t wrong.

“Everyone makes bad decisions, Peter,” I said, still cool. “You starting this conversation right now is one.”

“Not on the level of your decisions,” he shot back.

I gritted my teeth. I kept my voice steady.

But he was getting close to that line.

Really close.

“Do you have something particular in mind?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.

“You know I can’t talk about that,” Peter replied.

“Oh, so you do have lines you don’t cross in public?” I shot back, thick with sarcasm.

He noticed, of course—but didn’t respond with bile. Instead, he said:

“He might be your biggest mistake.”

My blood boiled.

“Wonderful, Pete. Just what I needed—someone to point at my life and declare what my biggest mistake is. Lucky for me, it’s my choice in men. Let’s hope I survive it.”

I stood up, plate in hand.

“I’m sorry you had to be part of this,” I said to the girls. Then I turned and looked Peter dead in the eyes. “Not my best choice either.”

Before he could get another word out, I turned and walked away.

Zoe followed a few moments later, catching up to me outside the hall.

“I’m sorry, Alexa. I’ll talk to him.”

“No need, Zoe,” I said, forcing a smile that probably didn’t fool her. “Let him stew in the emotions he tried to feed me. When he learns the truth, it’ll teach him something.”

I regretted those last words the second they left my mouth.

“What truth?” she asked, keeping pace with me.

She already knew about my magic—there was no point in lying now.

“The whole sex thing?” I said, dropping my voice. “It didn’t happen. I portaled into my room with the guy because some bad people were tailing us. It was a cover story. For Sophie—she’s a sleeper.” Zoe’s eyes went wide.

“I was going to tell Peter, privately. But after today? He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Should I keep it to myself too?” she asked gently.

I shrugged as I put my tray on the conveyor.

“Do what you want, Zoe. I won’t mind either way. Also… thanks. For standing up for me. It meant a lot.”

I hugged her, and then turned toward Critique.

I'd already had a pretty good warm-up.

--

Critique is a battlefield.

We met in the main gallery space—raw concrete walls, unforgiving lights, and paintings lined up like soldiers awaiting judgment. Each week, a handful of us offer something new—unfinished, fragile—and let the room tear it apart.

It’s brutal. But usually honest.

Of course, when it rains, it pours. Today, it’s my turn.

Thanks again Peter, for ruining my mood.

I brought a piece I prepared last week, before I even faced Shiroi.

It’s a painting I titled The Silence Between Stars.

A wide, cinematic dusk drapes the scene—an empty gas station sits just off-center, flickering weakly under buzzing fluorescents. The building isn’t abandoned, but it feels untouched, forgotten. The cracked pavement reflects broken neon in shallow puddles, like memories trapped in fading glass. No figures are present, but their absence echoes louder than presence—an overturned chair, a still-lit cigarette, a dangling phone receiver swaying in the unseen wind.

The road curves off into the darkness, wet and gleaming, leading nowhere you can name. Behind it, a forest stands tall like a row of silent spectators—symmetrical, expectant. Above, a satellite glides through a starless sky, the only motion in a world too still.

Everything is paused. Not empty—waiting. The perspective feels like a car has stopped just out of frame, engine idling, headlights off, watching. The light doesn’t warm—it exposes.

And the silence doesn’t soothe—it aches.

This painting isn’t about space. It’s about the weight of absence. A moment stretched too long. A breath held for no one. Loneliness, not as a feeling, but as a landscape. You don’t just see it—you inhabit it.

And it never looks away.

That was the intention, anyway.

The room circled like vultures. Observations flied.

“It feels cinematic.”

“Is it about loneliness?”

“Why no figures?”

I nodded. I answered. I deflected. I lied—just enough to keep them interested.

Mark wasn’t here today. He usually is. Always cuts through the theory and abstraction with something blunt and too real. I wondered what he would’ve said. Something that stuck in your ribs.

Someone asked about the forest in the background.

“Is it threatening or nostalgic?”

“Both,” I said.

That answer landed. One girl wrote it down like it meant something. Maybe it did.

By the end, I was wrung out but steady. They liked it. They didn’t understand it, but they felt it. And maybe that’s what matters. The professor gave me a single, short nod. That’s as close as he ever gets to praise.

I lingered behind after the discussion, my fingers brushing the edge of the frame. This painting was the last thing I made just because I felt it. Not because I needed a door, or a weapon, or a tool.

Just art, for the sake of art.

I needed to do more of that.

[Yes.]

What?

That again. Not a voice, exactly—but not my thought either. I scanned the room, but no one seemed to notice anything. I didn’t speak aloud.

Are you my Domain?

[I am an anima. I am what remains of your shadow’s intellect.]

So… a part of the Domain? Or the soulcore?

[Yes.]

You’re the one I spoke with inside the Domain, right? The one who helped me make sense of it?

[Yes.]

You responded to what I thought—about needing to make more art. Why?

[Soulcore power grows as you use your authority—not just the power of it, but its essence. That’s how it grew enough to become a soulcore in the first place.]

That… makes sense.

Can I control the authority itself? I mean, the light. Can I shape it into something more than just infusing art?

[I have no knowledge in relation to that question.]

So that’s not a no.

I’ll keep experimenting.

Can you tell me how close you are to “growing,” or whatever it is soulcores do? Is there a name for that? What would it change?

[Would you like to be presented with percentages until growth occurs?]

Yes.

[You are at 4%. You need 96% more essence of authority to initiate growth.]

Essence?

[A byproduct of using your authority. It fills the soulcore gradually—when full, the core grows. Growth enables the advancement of one of your soulmarks.]

Advance? How?

[You will be presented with choices when growth happens. I do not possess those parameters yet.]

Got it.

Do you have a name?

[I do not.]

Wait—were you the one who acted as the trial spirit in the Domain?

[Yes.]

Then I’ll name you Anansi—like the spider god of artists, and cheaters.

You’ll respond to that, okay?

[Yes.]

So what else can you do for me, Anansi? I’ve never had a spirit in my head before.

[That is not true. I am not a spirit—I am an intelligence remnant, and I have been in your mind since the moment you first touched the soulcore. I can answer questions related to your Domain of power.]

You sound like a computer program. I don’t like that.

Do you have emotions?

[No.]

Can you develop them?

[I have no knowledge in relation to that question.]

I packed up my piece and walked out of the class.

Why did you start talking to me today, if you’ve been here from the start?

[You never addressed me directly before, until yesterday.]

But I didn’t really do it directly now either, did I?

[It seemed directed enough.]

Huh. So you do have some kind of feeling, then. Good. I’d hate for you to stay that bland forever. Maybe you'll grow some personality with time.

Okay then—answer me this. Is a text enough to create a portal anchor?

[If there is art in it.]

Yeah, I kind of figured that out already.

Alright, Anansi, from now on—only speak when you have something useful to say, or when I call you by name. Got it?

[Understood.]

It still felt weird—talking to some... what? Intelligence? Residue? Not quite a spirit, not a person, and definitely not a voice I invited. But it was in there. Part of me now. Part of this.

I wonder—does every growth only let me advance my soulmark?

[No. Some growths will unlock additional slots for new soulmarks as well.]

Now that was genuinely useful, Anansi.

Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.

--

I was back in my room the moment people looked away. I touched the grimoire inside my bag and wished to go home. The portal pulled at my soul—more than it did when I used a painted anchor—just like it had when I jumped to the camper. But it was quicker. Quieter. Stealthier.

I stepped into the hall, hung my wet clothes on the rack, and headed into the kitchen for a snack before retreating to my room. The interior of the de Marcos dining hall still lingered fresh in my mind, and with my sketch as a guide, I started painting it into my Travel Grimoire. Before long, I had a new anchor etched onto the page—an exact memory made real through art.

There was still nearly two hours before the match started at the frat’s private sports hall. Jason had texted me the address earlier—it wasn’t far from campus. I’d portal over when the time came. No need to waste time walking.

It struck me then how strange it was: Shiroi, with his obsession for threads and materials, ended up with destructive power. While I, with my passion for paint and image, was gifted creation. He tore the world apart. I stitched it back together.

That wasn’t an accident. Our Domains weren’t handed down—they were shaped. Influenced. Built from the things we loved and the choices we made with them. I had helped form my Domain by being who I was, and now, it would shape me in turn. Like a feedback loop between the soul and its art.

That train of thought pulled me toward an old question, one I had no answer for—until now, maybe.

Anansi, can a soulmark be removed from a soulcore once it’s placed?

[Yes. When a soulcore is shattered and must be regrown, soulmarks are sometimes lost beyond recovery. Only then can a new soulmark take their place.]

Soulcores can be destroyed? How?

[I have no knowledge in relation to that question.]

If it was a crystal, maybe it only took enough force—physical, magical, emotional—to fracture it. Not something I intended to test. And I definitely didn’t want to find out whether it hurt, to have part of your soul annihilated.

Besides, I didn’t want to change my soulmarks. I couldn’t imagine any that fit me better than the ones I had now.

I turned back to the work that still lay ahead, my thoughts still tumbling and focused on my armor-making.

The storm outside was a perfect soundtrack. I could hear the rain tapping on the windows like a soft metronome, steady and syncopated, guiding the rhythm of my thoughts. Thunder growled now and then, a reminder of the kind of power I wanted to mirror in fabric and form—contained, intimidating, and above all, controlled. The silver base suit was already laid out on my workspace, a sleek second skin of high-compression athletic material that shimmered with a faint metallic sheen.

I didn’t want to build armor that protected the body from outside threats—I wanted to give the impression of armor that suggested invincibility, strength, and sleekness. A look, not a function. Something futuristic, almost alien. But not rigid. My suit needed to move like skin, stretch with my limbs, and still look like a sci-fi combat shell. That was the real challenge.

So I began with segmentation. I pulled out a thick sketchbook and drew rough thumbnails, blocking out where plating would be if this were real power armor. Chest plates curving beneath the collarbones, segmented obliques to echo abdominal armor, layered “ribs” made of fabric mimicking overlapping titanium. I broke the legs into thigh, knee, and shin sections, leaving the joints untouched so flexibility wouldn't be compromised. I envisioned articulated sections wrapping around my arms like the exoskeleton of some advanced pilot suit.

To trick the eye into seeing plates instead of fabric, I had to simulate volume and boundary—mimic the hard edges of molded armor using soft materials. Every false "plate" would be defined not by bulk but by seam, shape, and light. Raised edges stitched into the suit. Lines like ridges. Angular symmetry to make it look mechanical, almost printed onto the body.

I cut paper stencils based on my drawings, refining the angles and curvature to follow my body’s movement. I tried some out directly on the mirror, taping them to my base suit to make sure the proportions were right. It couldn’t just be cool—it had to flow with how I moved, where the muscles stretched, how the fabric behaved when I bent or twisted.

Each section was labeled, measured, and marked with chalk onto the silver material I'd chosen for plating—fabric that had a subtle reflective quality, like brushed aluminum. A soft vinyl-backed knit that wouldn’t fray, easy to topstitch, sturdy enough to hold shape but still yield under pressure.

This first step took longer than I thought it would, because it wasn't just about looks. The illusion of plating depended entirely on how well I mapped movement and anatomy to the visual language of armor. There was a balance between intimidation and grace that I didn’t want to lose.

By the time I pinned the first mock panels onto the suit, the thunder had faded and only the soft hum of my desk lamp remained. The armor didn’t exist yet—but its ghost was already here, hovering on the edge of fabric and form.

As I moved away from the desk, a dull ache pulsed through my shoulder and curled tight into my side. My body protested each motion, every step a quiet rebellion. Noxy’s shot had left more than just a memory—bruised muscle AND deep impact. I breathed through it. I'd felt worse. I’d been worse. But the match tonight wouldn't wait for recovery.

I slipped out of my clothes with a careful grace, avoiding pulling at the shoulder too sharply. In the mirror, the bruises greeted me like a twisted bouquet of color—swollen violets and sickly greens across my ribs and upper arm. My right side looked like I had been struck by lightning.

The swelling had gone down some, at least. I could lift my arm now without cursing under my breath. Progress. Not enough, but progress. The pain was manageable—but visible.

Too visible.

I opened the drawer where I kept my makeup kit and set it on the bathroom counter. I didn’t reach for the foundation first. Instead, I stared at my reflection a moment longer. I looked like a fighter, but not the kind I wanted to be today. Today wasn’t about surviving.

Today was about winning.

It took time to get the tones right. The bruises weren't just one color—they were layered, shifting. A little yellow here. Some lavender to balance the deeper shadows. A peach-toned concealer over the red. I blended with care, brush strokes steady, expression blank. Layer by layer, the damage vanished beneath pigments and powder until the only thing left was skin—smooth, clean, unbothered.

Then, quietly, I reached inward.

“Be healed,” I whispered, barely audible..

The authority flowed at once—like a spark. Warmth swept through my frame, sinking into joints and muscle fibers, knitting things into place. The tightness in my ribs eased, the stiffness in my shoulder softened. I rolled my arm, tested the range.

Back to full.

I exhaled, flexed my fingers, and let the illusion of fragility go. Good as new. Almost.

But I wasn’t done. Not tonight.

Tonight I needed something more—an edge, a symbol, a weapon that whispered without words: don’t underestimate me.

I opened the smaller box next to the makeup case and took out my body paints—waterproof, metallic, precise. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled one leg up, rolling my pant leg past the ankle. With a practiced hand, I painted fine silver lines along the curve of my ankle and Achilles, mimicking the delicate joints of a cybernetic brace. Tiny circuits, false tension coils, the suggestion of servos hiding just beneath the skin. I did the same to the other ankle, then moved to my right wrist—my strike arm. I imagined it wrapped in a mechanical cuff, power concentrated at the joint like a spring waiting to uncoil.

They weren’t just for looks.

When I finished painting, I leaned back slightly, feeling the stretch in my ribs as I raised my arm. Then, once more, I tapped into my core—not just for healing, but for function.

“Be my powered braces,” I murmured, focusing on the painted lines. “Give me strength.”

A faint shimmer sparked across the painted areas. Not glowing, not loud—just a quiet confirmation. Authority accepted. The enhancements settled into place, ready to be called on in the heat of a jump, a kick, a sprint that needed to leave someone like Peter two steps behind.

I slid long socks over the painted ankles and tugged a black sweatband over the wrist. Hidden. Tucked away. Waiting. I dressed with quick efficiency: sports bra, athletic shorts, cropped tee. Everything functional. Everything meant for speed, grip, movement. I tossed the rest into my duffel—extra shirt, spare water bottle, sneakers—and zipped it shut. I covered myself with a long coat and grabbed Ella.

I was ready.

Let the boys try to match me. Let Peter stew in whatever half-baked drama he’d cooked up. I didn’t need to argue anymore.

I would prove everything on the court.