Day in the story: 16th December (Tuesday)

I didn't tell Peter what had happened, and he didn't mention feeling anything unusual. I decided to keep it that way. Telling him would have stolen something from him. That rush of elation, that sense of being welcomed back into a family that had once abandoned him… if he knew the Domain had chosen me too, it might have dulled the shine of that moment. And besides, I already had a Domain of my own.

Instead, without that conversation, I took us both into Lebens' training hall. From there, we climbed up into the actual house.

I knew the code by heart now, thanks to Dam insisting I learn it and use it instead of "painting a hole" through his favorite door. The scent hit us the moment the door opened. It was savory, sweet, and warm.

Inside, the air was thick with it, the smell of soup—Ariana was bent over the pot, adding soy sauce and garlic in smooth, practiced motions. Dam was by the stove, searing meat, the hiss and crackle punctuating the air. Nick stood at the counter, knife flashing in a steady rhythm as he chopped vegetables.

It was cozy, almost domestic, but I could see the preparation beneath the surface. Everywhere I looked, shadowlight flickered. Nick's danced between his fingers as he sliced. Dam's moved along the meat tongs, tracing every turn of the sizzling cuts. Ariana's entire frame was wrapped in orange and green light, pulsing gently with each stir of her ladle.

It was Malik and his grandmother, sitting on the couch in quiet conversation, who noticed us first.

"Hello," I said, just as Malik jumped to his feet, which made everyone turn to see what had caused the sudden movement.

"Good to see you both again," Ariana said, leaving the kitchen to meet us. She embraced me first, then Peter. It was remarkable how quickly they welcomed people into their lives—as if the possibility of getting hurt didn't matter. I supposed there was a kind of freedom in seeing everyone as a potential friend instead of a threat.

"Hello," Malik finally echoed, almost sheepishly. He helped his grandmother to her feet, guiding her toward us with quiet care. "Alexa, this is Bonnie, my grams. Grams, this is Alexandra, the girl who saved you and me."

"The one you told me about?" she asked. Her voice was rough, like coarse paper, the sound of someone who had smoked all her life. Yet there was uncertainty in her tone.

"Yes. The same," he confirmed, glancing back at me. That seemed to draw everyone's attention; even Dam and Nick paused their work in the kitchen to watch. "Folks told me a proper hello should happen, so I made it happen. Ain't that right, grams?"

"You bet," she said, turning to me. "Thank you for being my angel."

"Oh, I'm no angel, lady. I just chose to help because your grandson dragged my friend into trouble and because I might have mentioned in passing that he could call me for help if he needed it."

"You're downplaying it. I understand," she said. "I've seen many people like you in my life."

"Like me? I doubt it."

"Obviously not the same, but close enough. Bad people who think helping others makes them look weak if there's nothing to gain from it. It doesn't. So accept my thanks, girl."

"I don't think it makes me look weak. I know helping others out of the goodness of the heart is a fantastic trait but it's not me, Bonnie. I help those close to me, or when I have something to gain from it. That's the truth." I didn't like when someone thought they knew me better than I knew myself. How dare they?

"It might've been the truth once," Nick said, "but it's not the whole truth anymore, Alexa."

"What?" I snapped. He had something to say about me too?

"When we were after Bonnie," he continued, wiping his hands on his apron, "you told me and Malik she was as good as dead—sorry, Bonnie—yet you nearly sacrificed yourself first to save her, then to save me and Malik."

Did he want me to admit I'd done it for him? Not here. Not like this.

"Then," he went on, "you launched yourself like a rocket into Ideworld and ran through one of the most dangerous places in New York to rescue someone you supposedly only 'slightly care about.'"

"Yeah," Malik chimed in, "I saw you jump off a skyscraper toward the woman who took Jason like gravity was your bitch, not the other way around." Then he glanced at Bonnie, hand flying to his mouth. "Sorry for cussing, Grams."

"Well, whatever. Think what you want." I cut the conversation short. "If anything, the heroes here were you guys. You didn't have to follow me—but you did. So shut up about it already. I don't deserve it, I don't like it, and I don't want to hear it again. Is that clear?"

Dam chuckled.

"What's so funny, big man?" I asked.

"You sound exactly like the man I called to help you," he said.

"You called someone?"

"Yes. Marek Podolski. He's a Spellguard for the Hexblades in New York's Guild branch. I worked with him back when I was one."

"You called the Guild on me?" My voice sharpened with anger.

"He's a friend, Alexa—and he's coming as such, not as a Guild enforcer," Dam said, calm but firm. "Nick doesn't want to sit this one out again, and I respect that. I'm not forcing him to stay behind to protect Ariana and Bonnie so I can go with you instead. But I've had more time to prepare now, and you need someone who knows Ideworld if you want to help your friend."

His tone sharpened. "So accept it, and don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"Fine," I said, curt. "But if he does anything suspicious, I'm leaving him in there. Also my identity stays with you guys. I will come as Jess Hare."

"An alias? That's fair," Dam replied. "He'll be here soon."

"We've also prepared food that will help you," Ariana chimed in. "A jar of healing soup, energy crackers, enhanced-senses stew… and drake's meat steak for Nicky."

"When are you going in again?"

"In about four hours. I still need to prep, restock weapons, and paint myself a body armor, as my suit is in shreds, and my tailor's off doing… Reality knows what."

I pulled one of my eye-cards from my pocket, infusing it with both sight and hearing as I handed it to her. "It's active, but it's muted most of the time. If you need to tell me something important, pick it up and speak. Think of it as a one-way phone between worlds."

"I'll keep it with me," Ariana said.

"But not all the time," Dam warned.

"No, not all the time, honey," she replied sweetly. Those two—horny like rabbits. Nick just rolled his eyes.

"I'll be here around 4 p.m. so we can move out. That work for everyone?"

They all agreed, so I grabbed Peter and we teleported to my room.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"Meeting with Zoe?" I asked him.

"Yes, but I'll be back before the deadline."

"Good. Give her one of these, too." I handed him another infused card.

"It can't be good for you to have so many eyes and ears running at once," Peter said, concern threading through his voice.

"It's fine. I'm used to it, Pete. Anansi works overtime filtering the noise, keeping both sight and sound manageable, and directing my attention only where it matters."

He didn't look convinced.

"Think of it like a game," I continued. "You get the close-up for the best plays, the most important moments. Most of the time I've got one or two key feeds active, with the rest muted in the background. If something happens, they shift into focus—not literally—just pull my attention."

Peter's gaze stayed uneasy. "I'm starting to worry that one day, the whole city will bear your eye symbol on every wall… and nothing will escape you."

"Why would that scare you? Got something to hide?" I teased.

"I fear it for your sake," he said quietly. "Your sanity. Would you still be human by then?"

"Said by the man that just regrown his own eye in seconds."

"Fair point. We aren't human anymore, are we?"

"No, Pete. At least part crystal by now," I joked, and he smiled.

"Take care, Lex. See you later."

When he was gone, I bent the world around me until I was back in my Domain. The pace slowed instantly. I stood still, taking stock.

How did I feel after this frantic morning? Better—surprisingly. Not a complete failure anymore. Even if I didn't want to hear I'd acted heroically, it helped. That was one win. My deal with Phillip was another, shifting him from imminent threat to manageable problem. And Sophie… her issues ran deep, but she still called me a friend. Somehow, that mattered most.

So, did my Domain reflect that?

I walked the walls, inspecting them inch by inch. The blackness creeping upward from the obsidian floor… had receded. Barely, but enough to notice. The ceiling crack, though, was wider.

Why? Wasn't I better now? The guilt was still there, sure—but under control. My Domain thought otherwise.

"Screw you!" I shouted into the air. "I am better, even if my soul doesn't get it!"

I stalked to my make-up station, stripped down, and got to work with my paints. With my shoes the only thing left intact, I had to go old-school, which made me laugh. Three months ago was "old-school" now.

**********

When I finished, I faced the mirror wearing Jess Hare's old face—clean, pale, freckles gone, strong lipstick, green lenses and a red wig. My silver, metallic power-armor stared back at me: paint layered from neck down, a messy patch on my back where I couldn't reach, but convincing enough at a glance.

This time, I'd made upgrades.

A painted eye in the center of my forehead for extra vision if my real eyes were compromised. Another at the back of my neck, hair in a ponytail so it stayed clear. Two more on the sides of my neck, and one on each pointing finger for peeking around corners without exposing myself. Painted rabbit ears behind my real ones replaced the mask I'd lost.

The weapons were the most fun. Both of my palms contained wind rotors, cables running up my arms to two chunky, nuclear-reactor-style nodes on my forearms—because if something's powerful, it should look powerful. Extra wires snaked toward my knuckles, feeding into lamps that would burst blinding light whenever I clenched a fist.

This would be a test run for the suit. Maybe I'd fold these upgrades into the final rebuild, or maybe I'd throw the whole design out and start fresh.

For now, I layered a long black T-shirt over it all, then a simple grey hoodie to match my grey joggers. My leather belt, with all its containers and the Travel Grimoire, went on next. Rabbit shoes on, I was ready to run again—but I wanted more.

The ideas were already burning inside my head, demanding shape. My cards were good tools in a fight, but too many of them were limited in scope. Fire cards, for instance—yes, they could ignite something flammable, but the flame stayed very contained. Fire only lived when it could spread, when it could swallow. Trapped in a small rectangle, its fury was reduced to an ember.

But there were other things. Other surfaces that could carry fire the way it longed to be carried. I just needed to give it a broader canvas.

After a quick teleport to my room and back, I stood in the Domain with three white bed sheets in hand. Light, wide, easy to throw. They could smother, they could cover—and if painted right, they could burn.

I spread the first sheet across the black floor of my Domain, its surface stark against the void. A spray bottle in hand, I misted it lightly, letting the fabric drink the water so the colors would bleed and merge. Then I began.

With a sponge, I laid down the heart of the fire: a whitened blue, as pale and hot as I could make it. Not a clean circle—flame never is—but a living shape, tongues of heat stretching outward. Around it, I blended deeper blues, darker strokes licking into the pale center, jagged tongues of energy breaking the smoothness. Finally, I sank the edges into shadow, rich and dark, until the flames seemed to leap out of the void itself.

As the paint dried, I returned with brush and sponge, carving light and shadow, teasing depth into the fire. Highlights kissed the ridges of imagined heat, shadows burrowed between tongues of flame. Slowly, carefully, I coaxed the illusion into truth.

Verisimilitude. That was the key. The fire had to look real, feel real, for my art to answer. For my authority to make it burn.

When I finished with the fire sheet—the hottest, brightest canvas I had ever coaxed into being—I moved on to my next project. This one wasn't about destruction. It was about control.

A chainmail sheet. Heavy, binding, meant to catch and hold.

The base coat was black this time, swallowing the white fabric whole. Unlike with fire, I didn't need absolute perfection here. With flame, every bare patch was a weakness, a spark waiting to devour the whole. One slip, and the magic would betray itself, the entire sheet consumed by its own hunger. The chainmail demanded less. Still, I painted carefully, each stroke deliberate, because I couldn't bring myself to treat any canvas with negligence.

Once the base was ready, I switched tools. A round sponge dipped in metallic silver. I stamped, lifted, stamped again, building rows of overlapping circles. Scale upon scale, ring upon ring. Slowly the fabric transformed, its surface rippling with the suggestion of iron links. Where edges met, I blurred and darkened them, layering depth until the illusion took weight.

Then came the glaze. A thin wash of black, brushed across the silver to mute its shine. Dulling, aging, making it look less like fabric painted to shine and more like something forged in a furnace.

By the end, it didn't look like a sheet at all. It looked like armor waiting to collapse on whatever it touched.

The third sheet was trickier. Less obvious.

I stared at it blankly for a long time, paintbrush idle in my hand. What could it be?

A gravitational trap crossed my mind. A painted black hole. The idea was tempting, but dangerous. My fire didn't breathe, didn't consume oxygen—it only looked like flame until Authority carried the lie into truth and only Authority was its fuel.

But then again… physical properties could leave the bounds. The chainmail wasn't real metal, yet it carried weight. A trick of perception, made real through Authority. If I could make something feel heavy, perhaps I could make something pull through its sheer mass.

Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn't. I wasn't sure, and uncertainty had no place on a battlefield. Testing would be required—here where I could afford failure.

I took a blank page and painted a cosmic black hole onto it, the way I remembered from that movie I watched with the guys. The image had stuck with me—the way light bent unnaturally, haloed around the edge of a dead star like reality itself was warped. I tried to capture that memory, that impossible geometry, letting my brush bend colors into arcs of white and gold against the abyssal black.

When it was ready, I placed the painting carefully on the ground of my Domain. My chest rose slow. My fingers tingled as I reached toward it, voice low, command certain.

"Become the Black Hole."

A faint shiver ran through me. My Authority stirred, flowing from the furnace in my chest, into my arm, into my hand… but it stopped there. The page remained flat. Lifeless.

Anansi's voice filled the silence.

[It seems you aimed too high with your power. Creating an actual star is far above your level.]

I exhaled through a crooked smile. "Fair enough. Guess I was getting greedy. Kind of nice to know I do have limits, though." I rubbed at my wrist, still buzzing faintly. "Maybe I should try those miniature reactors painted on my arms after all. What do you think?"

[That seems like a wise idea. Good job.]

That remark actually made me laugh.

"Alright then," I muttered, raising both hands.

A wall rose in front of me, conjured with a single thought, solid and white.

I spread my stance and leveled both palms at the wall.

"Let's see what happens."

Become nuclear-powered rotors, I thought—and instantly the wall disintegrated, blown apart in a roar of unleashed force. The recoil hurled me backward, slamming me against another wall. Instinct took over; I cut the Authority from the painted rotors before the backlash could rip me apart.

My chest burned. My limbs trembled. I could feel it—like a piece of my soul had been carved out in that one strike.

[It's true. Roughly a quarter… perhaps a little more.]

"Figures," I muttered. My breathing steadied, but the hollowness lingered. This wasn't something I could use often. Too costly. But for a single, decisive blow? It had potential. A weapon worth keeping in reserve.

I went back to the last bedsheet once I'd gathered myself. Kneeling above the blank fabric, I stared down at it, mind turning over possibilities. The black hole was out of reach, far beyond me.

There were other options—many, if I wanted to get clever. Springs, for instance. Painted in coils of steel, each one with different tension. They could launch enemies off their feet, scatter them like dice, even propel me higher into the air. Practical, yes. But it felt… cartoonish. Too much like a bad joke, and I couldn't stand the thought of becoming a parody.

Acid fields? Tempting. They could eat away at ground, armor, flesh. But fire already served that niche, and better.

No, I needed something more. Something with weight. Multi-purpose. A tool that could deny ground, carve space, control the field. Something that would last longer than a flash of heat.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.