"Noah, my sweet boy, what is it that you're drawing?"
My mother's gentle voice reached me, pulling me from my little world of pencil sketches. I perked up, instantly recognizing her tone. She was crouching beside me, her gaze soft but hesitant as she looked at the sprawling buildings I'd drawn—so tall, they seemed to scrape the sky.
"It's the other sky I told you about, Mom!"
I beamed at her, my excitement practically overflowing. I was 11 years old, and the world still felt like an endless canvas of possibilities. Seeing her was always a rare joy, especially now. She had become so busy with the company my parents built up from nothing, and her visits felt few and far between.
For a moment, she was silent, her lips pressing together in that way they always did when she was unsure. She gently reached out to touch the paper, her fingers hovering over the drawing without quite making contact. "I, I see, sweetheart. It's.. it's a beautiful idea," she said, her voice soft, though it lacked conviction. "But, do you think buildings like that could really exist?"
I could see the doubt in her eyes, even if she was trying to hide it. I didn't understand why it mattered. She was my mother, and everything she said felt like the truth to me, even when it didn't make sense. So why couldn't she believe me?
"...I see them in my dreams, so im not sure. Sometimes they are smaller sometimes taller, there are also such beautiful colors, some i never saw before"
Sighing quietly mothers gaze lifted to meet my eyes "Look noah, how about we take a walk to your brothers school to pick him up and on the way pick up some cinnamon rolls?"
I nodded eagerly, not noticing the small sadness in her voice as she stood. To me, everything she said was enough. She was my mother, and in my mind, everything she said was the truth. The sky, the buildings, the colors—maybe they were all real, just waiting to be discovered.
I was so naive back then.
———————————
The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon wrapped around me the second we stepped inside the bakery. It was warm, almost too warm compared to the cool air outside and the golden light spilling in through the windows made everything feel soft, like a memory that hadn't yet faded.
I barely held back my excitement, my gaze darting to the display case filled with pastries, each one more inviting than the last. My mother chuckled beside me, the sound light and familiar.
"You act like I don't feed you," she teased, nudging me gently. I grinned up at her. "You said the cinnamon rolls here are amazing, right?"
She hummed in agreement, leading me toward the counter where a kind-looking woman stood, her hands dusted with flour. While my mother placed our order, I let my gaze wander, taking in the cozy space.
The hum of conversation, the clinking of ceramic cups, the steady rhythm of the kneading from behind the counter—it all felt so.. alive. Like a little world tucked away from everything else.
But then, my mother's voice pulled me back. Not the playful, teasing one from before, this one was softer, thoughtful.
"Ivan's been doing well at Arcadia," she said, her fingers absently tracing the wooden counter. "He started learning redirection techniques this year."
I perked up at my brother's name, tilting my head. "Redirection?"
She nodded. "It's part of his training. You know how his ability works, don't you?"
Of course, I did. Ivan was different from me, where I dreamed of places I couldn't reach, he was learning how to wield something real, something tangible.
Kinetic absorption and redirection. He could take an impact, store that energy, and send it right back, stronger. He could take a punch that should knock him down and instead use that force against his opponent. It was the kind of power that required patience, control. But all abilities had a drawback and in ivan's case its that he feels excruciating pain for a split second, thrice as much as the actual pain. that means if he were to get slapped and he absorbed it, it would feel like bone breaking agony.
"Ivan's always been good at that stuff," I muttered, suddenly feeling a little smaller.
My mother's lips curled into a small smile, but there was something unreadable in her gaze. "Yes. He has."
Before I could say anything else, the woman behind the counter slid a box in front of me, a cinnamon roll still warm from the oven resting at its center. My momentary doubts faded as the smell hit me, and I wasted no time opening the package, tearing off a piece and sighing at the taste.
My mother laughed again, shaking her head. "Alright, let's finish up. We don't want to keep Ivan waiting." I nodded, but even as we left the bakery, a thought lingered in the back of my mind.
Ivan was already learning to master his power. Meanwhile, I was still chasing dreams of a sky that didn't exist, according to my mother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
As we approached the academy, a loud boom echoed across the courtyard. My gaze immediately drifted to the training field, where a group of students stood in a rough circle.
In the center, Ivan was bracing himself, arms raised. A larger opponent lunged at him, aiming a powerful strike at his torso. But just before impact, something strange happened. Ivan's body tensed, absorbing the force like a sponge. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then, in one fluid motion, he twisted, releasing the stored energy in a devastating back kick directly hitting his opponents head. the boy, being a head taller than ivan, immediately lost his footing, the winner clearer than ever.
I watched as Ivan brushed dust off his uniform, unfazed by the fight. The other students around him murmured, some impressed, others clearly irritated.
"You're lucky you're even here, Solice," one of the older students scoffed. "They should've made you wait two more years like the rest of us."
Ivan didn't react, not with words, at least. He just tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
I frowned, stepping closer. "He's here because he's better than you," I muttered quietly to myself.
Arcadia Academy wasn't just any school, it was the best. The place where only the most gifted got to train, and learn how to defend themselves against the horrors of Veydris, our world. And where Status meant nothing, even a homeless person could attend, as long as the Talent existed. But Normally, students weren't admitted before fourteen. Ivan was twelve. The youngest in his class. No. The youngest in the academy's history even.
And still, he won.
Elara sighed beside him. "He's getting better, but he still hesitates before redirecting it. That small delay could be dangerous in a real fight."
I nodded, even though I didn't completely understand. Ivan had always been this stoic figure in my life, someone who'd been everything I wasn't. Where I was carefree and curious, he was measured and cautious. The bond between us was unspoken, yet strong in its own way.
"Hey, Ivan!" I called out, waving energetically. He looked over at me, raising an eyebrow, and then slowly walked toward us, his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
"I thought astrid was picking me up today mom, how come you're here" he said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but his tone remained neutral. As he reached us, Elara handed him a cinnamon roll, and Ivan took it without comment, a small sigh escaping him.
"He called in sick, he wont be able to come to work for about a week. i hadnt seen you guys in a while so i thought it was a good idea to come pick you up myself" Elara said, her tone soft.
We began walking back, the air filled with laughter and stories about Ivans days in school, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Something felt wrong.
When we finally arrived home, the house was eerily quiet. There was a chill to the air, and the silence settled around us like a thick fog. My father was sitting in the study, as usual. His presence was a quiet storm in the background of our lives, always looming, always watching.
Alaric Solice, my father, was a man who commanded respect, but never offered warmth. I could feel his eyes on me the moment I stepped inside, his gaze as piercing and calculated as ever.
"Elara. Ivan. Noah," his deep voice rumbled from the doorway of the study, sharp and composed. He didn't move, only watched us with that same dispassionate gaze.
My mother gave a small, tired smile and nodded toward him, but I could feel the tension in the air. It was always like this with my father. There was no place for softness in his world.
"Father," I said quietly, my voice betraying none of the turmoil I felt. His eyes shifted to me, but his face remained unreadable.
"Elara," he began again, turning his attention back to my mother. "The reports are in. We need to discuss them." It wasn't an invitation; it was a command. My mother nodded, and with a quick glance toward us, she gestured for us to go to our rooms. It was clear that this was not a conversation for us. I felt the pull of his gaze, even as I turned away.
He wasn't bad. No, not exactly. But it was a suffocating kind of love, the kind that made you question if you could ever meet his standards.
As I walked up the stairs, I found myself wondering again about the things I didn't understand, about my family, about my place in this strange world. But for now, all I could do was follow the same routine. Of filling this void in me with false laughter and naivety.