The night was too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet.
Accusing quiet.
The kind of quiet that suggested the world was leaning forward, tapping its finger impatiently, waiting to see what happens next.
Aiden lay beneath the fading glow of a lazy star sky, cloak draped over him like a poor man's attempt at dignity. He hadn't slept yet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw rabbits. Not as nightmares. As consequences. Not horrifying… just persistently, absurdly real.
"Stop thinking," he muttered to himself.
That never worked when people said it in movies. It wasn't working now either.
A small flicker of light danced above his face.
"You are awake," came the familiar voice, velvet smooth, faintly amused, eternally dignified.
Aiden didn't bother opening his eyes.
"I'm trying not to be."
The fae instructor drifted downward, reclining mid-air with infuriating elegance.
"You did well today," he said gently.
"I caused a rabbit disaster."
"You resolved a rabbit disaster," the fae corrected. "Resolving disasters is significantly more respectable than never encountering them."
"That's not comforting," Aiden sighed.
"It was not meant to be."
For a moment, silence again.
But this time, it didn't press.
It sat beside him.
"I met an investigator today," Aiden said quietly. "She looked at me like I was dangerous."
"You are," the fae replied almost pleasantly.
Aiden cracked an eye open and glared weakly.
"Say something reassuring."
"You are also… not malicious."
"That's it? That's the best reassurance you've got?"
"For now."
The fae's eyes softened ever so slightly.
"You carry a power most people do not understand. They will fear what they cannot define. They will excuse what they misunderstand. They will blame what they cannot explain. That is how the world breathes."
"So," Aiden whispered, "what does that make me?"
The fae tilted his head.
"An anomaly. A storm in polite clothing. A kindness waiting for definition. A disaster with a sense of conscience. Reality's… experiment, perhaps."
"That sounds awful."
"It sounds… interesting."
Aiden sighed dramatically.
There was another pause, quieter, deeper, heavier in a way Aiden didn't recognize—but the fae did.
"Are there… always consequences?" Aiden asked.
"Yes."
"Even for accidents?"
"Yes."
"Even when you're trying to help?"
"Yes."
"Even when it's not my fault?"
The fae turned slightly, gazing at the night as though it had said something uncomfortably poetic.
"Especially then."
Aiden swallowed.
"Does someone always pay?"
"Yes."
His chest tightened.
He didn't know why that hurt as much as it did.
He forced a laugh.
"So I just… do my best and hope I don't ruin anyone's life? Great system."
The fae chuckled softly.
"Oh, it is far worse than that. You must do your best, knowing that sometimes doing your best will still hurt someone. You will help people who never thank you. You will be hated by those you save. There will be triumphs that feel wrong, and failures that echo for far too long."
Aiden stared at him.
"Again. You are really bad at encouragement."
"Ah," the fae murmured, "but you are still listening."
Aiden blinked.
He hadn't realized that mattered.
The fae drifted lower, sitting at the grass beside him now instead of floating like something above existence.
"That investigator," he said mildly, as if commenting on weather, "was not entirely wrong to watch you. Those who do not understand wish granting will label it as magic. Those who believe in magic will fail to understand that it is more than that. They will assume it is a problem. They will attempt to solve it."
"And if they try to… stop me?" Aiden asked.
The fae smiled faintly.
"Then you will learn how to survive. Or how to negotiate. Or how to run rather attractively."
"...that's your advice?"
"For tonight."
Aiden laughed quietly. Not because anything was funny. Simply because laughter prevented him from realizing how heavy the air felt now.
A faint breeze rolled across the field.
Grass bowed.
The world exhaled.
Aiden shifted, eyes drifting up to the sky again.
"Do wishes ever… help without hurting?"
The fae didn't answer immediately.
He closed his eyes.
"Yes," he finally said. "But even kindness leaves footprints."
Aiden didn't have an answer to that.
So he finally stopped trying to find one.
He simply lay there, breathing softly, feeling the weight of something he couldn't name and didn't yet understand sitting quietly in his chest.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Responsibility.
The kind that wasn't asked for.
The kind that didn't go away.
The stars above flickered thoughtfully, as though whispering to one another about someone new who'd joined the conversation of existence.
Somewhere far away,
a child would soon want something desperately.
Somewhere closer,
someone with power would start to wonder who had caused the ripple.
Somewhere unseen,
Reality itself shifted,
waiting,
considering,
watching him with an interest it didn't give to many living things.
Aiden finally slept.
And the world did not feel finished with him at all.