Chapter 2

  Wind wrapped around Xander’s layered tunic, small bits of dirt kicking up as he whipped around the Vale on his sunray. The board hummed beneath him, a glowing crystal embedded in its alloy frame, catching the sunlight and keeping him moving. It wasn’t the fanciest ride, but it did the job—at least during the day. At night, the crystal’s charge drained quickly, making it more of a hassle than it was worth.

  Solari was bustling as always. Musicians in different sections of the Vale Park, each with their own blend of musical genre which somehow never became too chaotic. Obviously where music thrived, dancers followed. Fire warped around a man’s limbs as he twisted and flipped around to a fast beat, cheers erupting from the passerby.

  Parents strolled with their children in tow, some kids riding on shoulders, others peeking out from the flower-shaped baskets of petalwalkers. Easel buses rolled by at a slow pace, their sides covered in paintings and sketches from emerging artists. People stopped to watch, pointing out their favorites or murmuring about who might make it big this year.

  Xander swerved around a group gathered near a stall, the dirt kicking up slightly as he leaned into the turn. He was out running errands—again. The shop had been slammed all week, which wasn’t unusual this time of year. It was a bit tiresome to have to gently tell people that they were in fact not going to make it into the competition—though he reassured them the cards were not infallible and that the weaves of fate were ever changing, whatever that meant. But Technically it wasn’t a lie, technically.

  Ahead, the scents of baking bread and burning incense mixed in the air. He slowed as he neared the marketplace, the usual buzz of activity already in full swing. It was hard not to feel a little excitement, even with all the errands. The festival was coming, and no matter how many times he’d seen it, the energy in Solari this time of year was contagious.

  Misty’s Mystics stood out even in the vibrant mess of the Vale. The mural covering the storefront was a blend of rich purples and blues, the painted letters dripping like melted wax into the dark brick walls. It was one of those places that never really changed, no matter how much the rest of the world shifted.

  Xander unclipped his sunray from his boots, folding the board and slinging it over his back. The bells on the shop door jingled as he stepped inside, the familiar chime pulling a small smile to his face. The air inside was warm and fragrant, heavy with the scent of lavender and a dozen other herbs. This place had a way of easing tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying.

  The woman behind the counter glanced up, her sharp green eyes brightening when she saw him. Misty, as always, was tending to her plants, her hands deftly trimming leaves while she hummed.

  “Oh, Xander! What a pleasant surprise.” She waved him over, holding up a potted plant with clear pride. “Look at this—it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He stepped closer, tilting his head as he inspected the plant. At first glance, it didn’t look like anything special. Just another green stem with broad leaves. “Uh… sure?”

  She chuckled knowingly and tapped the side of the pot. “You’re looking in the wrong spot, dear. Down here, at the base.”

  He quickly glanced at it, not sure how to burst her bubble. “Misty there’s nothing—” Wait. He leaned closer and his eyes widened. It was faint, but it was there—traces of golden light could be barely seen pulsing from the base.

  “Woah,” he breathed, “What is this?”

  Misty grinned, resting her hands on her hip—the glass bangles on her wrist shifting in response with a satisfying clink. “This, my boy, is Solvine.” She let the name hang in the air, clearly expecting some sort of dramatic reaction. When his blank stare lingered, she sighed. “It grows Solite!”

  Xander blinked, the words taking a second to sink in. “Wait—this thing can grow Solite?” He whistled, looking at the little plant with a new respect. “How the heck did you get your hands on this?”

  Her aged fingers moved to flip her dark purple hair, the smugness not lost on him. “Let’s just say Joline and Soloman are letting me test it out before the big announcement. They’re both participating in the festival this year, and they wanted to see how it performed in a controlled environment without being fed with her power.”

  The names hit him like a spark. The Empress and The Sun holders? Misty knew them? He stared at her, his mouth slightly open. If they were bringing things like this out to play, this year’s festival was definitely going to be interesting.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she scolded, quick to move on. She grabbed the plant holder and sat it on her windowsill. “So what did you need? The usual?” She asked as she watered the Solvine.

  Snapping out of his daze, Xander nodded. “Yeah, uh—Mom’s out of incense and herbs. Just the regular stuff.” He pulled out a cloth bag from his pocket and started towards the shelves, grabbing the items with practiced ease.

  “Just grab what you need kid, it's on me,” She called out from the front as he was deep in the aisles.

  “Wait what?” He peeked his head out from behind the herb rack, eyebrows raised. “Did I hear that correctly?”

  She snorted, “Business is going to be booming once I’m able to sell these suckers, consider it an early birthday gift.”

  His eyebrows shot up. She remembered his birthday?

  “Get that damn look off your face.” Her bangles jangled loudly as she flicked her wrist, as if offended he would even question her. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers, boy.”

  “Right…” Xander quickly fled back into the aisle, redness creeping into his face as he picked out the rest of the assortment he needed. The next few minutes of shopping passed by in a flash. He clutched the bag under his left arm as he stepped out of the aisle, giving Misty a quick wave, “Thanks Misty, I’ll tell mom you said hi.”

  “You’d better,” she lightly grumbled, disappearing behind the door as he stepped back out into the Vale.

  He reached back for his board, letting the energy of the Vale wash over him once more. The warmth of Misty’s shop still lingered, but the bustling streets ahead pulled him forward, his sunray humming to life as he set off again.

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  The ride back home was leisurely, his rush from earlier now completely gone. Xander didn’t really need to rush in the first place, but he couldn’t help himself sometimes. He'd get these tingly sensations, a feeling like if he’d gone any later the stock would’ve been out. He chalked it up to some sort of anxiety, not like being early was a crime.

  Tapping the front end of the sunray, he activated cruise mode. The board glided smoothly along the path, its hum blending in with the surroundings. The streets were even busier now, lunchtime drawing workers out into the open.

  His board skidded to a halt as he caught sight of a growing crowd near the park. Xander tilted his head, curiosity sparking, and steered closer to get a better look.

  At the center of the gathering stood a half-broken statue, its centerpiece a massive solar crystal glinting in the sunlight. Beside it was a figure that immediately caught his eye: striking blond hair that seemed to glow faintly in the light, paired with a rugged orange coat stained with grease.

  Stella Ray

  Even from a distance, there was no mistaking her. The Star Card holder had a reputation that preceded her—famed for her restoration abilities. She could bring anything back to its original state, or so people said. Xander had never seen it himself, but he wasn’t about to miss the chance now.

  Golden threads of light flickered to life in her hands, snaking outward and wrapping around the broken statue. A collective hush fell over the crowd as the light expanded, enveloping the entire structure. The glow grew brighter for a moment, then faded just as quickly, leaving the statue pristine, as though it had never been damaged.

  Gasps and murmurs of awe rippled through the onlookers.

  A chuckle from beside him broke the reverence. Xander turned his head slightly, catching snippets of conversation from two people standing nearby.

  “Heh, apparently it makes her hungry as hell to pull those moves,” one of them quipped. “Wish I had that goddamn metabolism though.”

  Xander smirked, shaking his head as Stella unwrapped some sort of bar and took a big bite out of it. He backed away from the crowd, still clutching the bag of incense and herbs, and resumed his ride.

  The shop was quieter than when he’d left, save for the low murmur of his father’s voice carrying through the lobby—talking to what he assumed was a customer. The wooden steps leading to the loft creaked under his weight as he climbed them. When he opened the door to their home, he was immediately met with a whirlwind of movement.

  His mother zipped past him, an earring in one hand and a heel in the other, looking uncharacteristically frazzled.

  “Sorry, honey!” she called over her shoulder as she darted through the apartment.

  Xander raised an eyebrow, watching as she hurriedly strapped on her shoes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her this rushed. Normally, she was the epitome of calm and organization—an early bird, just like him.

  “What's the occasion?” he asked, setting the bag down on the kitchen table.

  “Overslept,” she answered quickly, snatching up the second heel and sliding it on. “I got invited to a get-together with some of the other shop owners. Your father and I’ll be back late. Dinner’s in the threshold.”

  “Cool. Have fun.” He shrugged, heading toward his room. Over his shoulder, he added, “Oh, Misty says hi, by the way.”

  Xander had his own plans for tonight, he closed the door to his room behind him, exhaling as the quiet settled in. His eyes drifted to the blank canvas propped up against the wall, untouched since he’d brought it home last week.

  It had been calling his name for days now.

  With a small, determined smile, he walked over to his desk, rolled up his sleeves, and began pulling out his supplies. It was just him, his paints, and the kind of silence that let his thoughts flow freely.

  It was time to answer the call.

  He twirled the light pencil in his hands, biting his lip in thought—he had a couple ideas for what he wanted to paint, one being an environmental piece. Maybe the crop fields outside the walls? He’d only been there once, tagging along with his mom when she went to see Joline—the Empress holder work. That day had been... something. Watching Joline feed the fields with her power and seeing the crops explode into color was like watching a dream.

  “That’d honestly be a good place to start,” he muttered, but something inside him tugged back, like a quiet, persistent nope. His brows furrowed. That feeling didn’t show up often, but when it did, it was usually right.

  His shoulders slouched and he pushed back from his desk. Sighing, he glanced at the canvas leaning against the wall. Freehanding a piece could go either way—on one side of the coin some of his best work had been made freehanding, though others… not so much. Did he want to take that chance?

  He slouched onto the floor in front of the canvas, stretching his legs out as he leaned back onto his arms. The hardwood was cool under his palms, a contrast to the indecision burning in his mind. The fact that the canvas was so expensive didn’t help, and he only really had one shot at it—once it was ruined, it was ruined. He stared at it like it might answer all of his questions.

  A few beats passed, and of course, it hadn’t.

  “Damn it all,” he grumbled, pushing off the floor.

  Xander’s paints were scattered in a box by his desk. He grabbed a few tubes, fingers brushing over the colors he used most often. In the process, a half-empty bottle of green rolled out and hit the floor with a splat of dried paint. He sighed, tossing it back into the box. His tunic hit the bed as he reached for an older shirt—one that was already stained beyond saving. The fabric was soft, familiar. It felt like getting into a battle uniform, if battle uniforms were held together by paint stains.

  Brushes? Check. Palette? Check. Water—crap. He bolted out of his room and into the kitchen, filling up an old ceramic cup with water. As his mind wandered to the canvas, a splash hit his hand, snapping him back to the present.

  “Hells,” he muttered and snapped out of it, shaking his hand dry and pouring out the excess.

  The hallway closet was next, home to the miscellaneous items of the loft. Where were the damn towels? He squinted up at the shelf, seeing them tucked in the right side. He yanked two down, and headed back to his room. Flopping onto the floor, he threw one towel in front of him and draped the other over his lap.

  Guess the time is now.

  With a deep breath he closed his eyes, his unbidden thoughts rising like incense smoke. And this time, he let them. He needed this release now more than ever.

  The thoughts began to lead to subsequent emotions he’d also kept buried—uncertainty, frustration, longing. It all boiled to the surface. His hands moved instinctively, uncapping paints and squirting colors onto the palette in quick succession. The first swipe was a broad medium shade of blue, the large flat brush moving with a purpose.

  As the color spread, his thoughts swirled. Feelings of stagnation clawed at his mind, his place in the world, his place in his own life—unknown. What am I even doing with my life? The brush moved faster. What do I want? Faster. Am I just gonna do readings forever? His teeth clenched, and he swapped brushes, layering darker strokes over the lighter ones. But what else is there?

  The problem was that he didn’t know—how could he know? What has he seen, what has he really been through? He didn’t want to disappoint his parents, he wanted to continue the legacy—the lineage that’s been passing through their family for centuries. But it just… didn’t feel right, although it didn’t feel terrible either.

  The contradiction gnawed at him, and the strokes grew more frantic, his movements urgent. Paint smeared across his fingers, splattered on the towels, and flecked his tunic. Shapes emerged, colors collided, and emotions bled into the canvas.

  The room fell into a rhythm—the scrape of the brush, the slap of paint against canvas, the muted thud of his hand reaching for another tube. Paint was everywhere, even smudges were left on his cheek where he’d absently scratched an itch.

  Hours slipped by in a haze, the world outside his room fading into nothing. Every emotion, every restless thought, alchemized and swept into a tide of transmutation he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.