Pecola 's POV:
The sun didn't rise the next day. It leaked.
A slow gold seeped through the silk curtains like honey bleeding from a wound. I didn't stretch. I didn't yawn. I got up like I always did—on the first breath after waking.
Quiet. No reason to make noise.
Dolly snored with the volume and elegance of a dying brass band two beds over. Antic mumbled something about "kissing a mango" and turned in his sheets like a bird falling out of a tree.
I dressed. The cold stone floor kissed the soles of my feet—welcoming, familiar. I liked it better than silk rugs or cloud-soft beds.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of scorched air and something bitter—like paper burned too quickly to read.
The Soul Keeper was waiting.
Same place as yesterday. Courtyard ringed with stone mouths and shadows. I stepped into the chalk circle again.
"Your dreams?" he asked, voice like carved obsidian.
I paused. "There was a woman again. And a boy. But... I think they were both me."
He didn't blink. "Not all dreams are memories. Not all memories belong to you."
"I don't care." My hands lifted without being told. "If they're hurting, I want to know."
That was the only truth I had.
He nodded once. "Today—projection."
I waited.
No more instructions came.
Typical.
I lowered into stance. Breathing shallow. One hand to my heart. One forward. I waited until the ache in my spine aligned with the echo in my ribs.
Something shimmered.
A line of white. A glimmer in the air.
Then it collapsed.
No surge. No pain. Just dust.
The Keeper didn't move. But I felt his disapproval like frost on skin.
"You want the truth," he said, slow, even. "But you fear the cost."
I shook my head. "I don't fear it. I just don't know it."
He circled me. Like a wind that walked.
"You say you want names. But names are roots. Roots rot. Snap. Names chain you."
I raised my chin. "Chains hold things together."
He stopped. A pause too long to be casual.
"Try again."
I did.
I dug. I scraped.
I burned.
The projection rose. Faint, but real this time. A child. Holding a doll. Spinning in a circle.
The image shimmered like heat off pavement.
Then—cracked.
The girl screamed. The doll shattered.
I stumbled.
"Good," he said. "You're remembering."
I bit the inside of my cheek. Blood flooded my mouth. It grounded me.
"What happens when I remember too much?" I asked.
He turned his back. "Then you begin to forget who you became.''
_____________
Antics Pov:
I'd seen a lotta weird things in my life.
Screaming mushrooms. Blood-thirsty violets. A bear with a monocle who only spoke in riddles about soup.
But none of that—not one damn thing—compared to watching her.
Her.
No Eyes. Or... whatever her name really was.
She stood in that chalk ring like a statue somebody forgot to put in a museum. Feet planted. Back straight. Arms out like she could catch the world if it fell hard enough.
And I—idiot that I am—was up in a tree. Cupping a bruised mango and bleeding from the nose. Again.
"Don't get attached," I muttered to myself, voice barely more than breath. "You're already sleepin' in the same castle. Next thing you know you're writin' poetry and learnin' how to knit."
Below, her body shuddered. Just once.
Something in the circle moved.
A projection. Faint. Real.
A little girl—eyes wide. A laugh. A scream. A doll falling in slow motion, cracks forming before it hit the floor.
She didn't flinch.
I did.
She stayed standing, even when her hands trembled. She held her breath like it owed her money.
The Soul Keeper—stoic bastard—just stood there like someone dropped him outta a painting called "Moody & Mysterious Vol. IV."
I rubbed at my nose. Still bleeding. Always bleeding.
Was it her power? Her soul?
Or just the fact that she could break in front of him and not hide it?
Something about her—about that stillness—made me feel like screaming and also folding laundry.
My fingers tightened on the mango.
"You ever fall in love with someone who doesn't know what love is?" I whispered to no one.
The mango said nothing. Coward.
Down below, she dropped to one knee, gasping.
He didn't reach for her.
I did.
From the tree. Just slightly. A reflex.
She got up anyway.
Of course she did.
No Eyes didn't break. She just rearranged.
The Keeper nodded. Cold approval.
I leaned back into the leaves, heart thudding.
If she ever asks why I followed her outta my realm... I won't say it's because of her.
I'll say I was bored. Curious. Lonely. Horny. Anything but the truth.
Because the truth?
She makes me believe in shit I never asked to believe in.
Like fate.
Or kindness.
Or goddamn hope.
___________
Pecola's Pov:
The pot shattered before I even touched it.
Not loudly. Not like the fiction books I read. No dramatic bang, no musical sting. Just a soft *tk-*like a heart giving up.
I blinked down at the shards at my feet, my fingertips still trembling from the last lesson. My breath stung my throat. Everything ached—arms, legs, memory. I didn't know you could bruise places inside your mind.
"You were supposed to feel the cracks," the Soul Keeper said. His voice was slow, sharp, like cold ink dripping onto parchment. "Not cause them."
My voice came out rough. "I did feel them. That's why I dropped it."
He didn't reply right away. Just walked to the broken clay and crouched like some tall, terrible stork. He picked up a shard and turned it between his fingers.
"You panicked."
"I don't panic." My fists tightened. "I just respond quickly."
A pause. "You fear breaking what you don't understand."
His riddles always sounded like accusations.
"I didn't mean to drop it."
He looked up. "Intent is irrelevant when the damage is done."
I hated him a little. I also wanted him to keep talking. Every word hurt—but it made sense. That was worse.
He handed me a new pot. Smaller. Lighter.
"Again."
I sat cross-legged on the stone floor, sweat dampening the back of my neck. The pot was warm. It hummed. Alive somehow. Everything in this place breathed differently.
I closed my eyes.
And I saw—
A woman. Arms. A scent. Warm bread, wood polish, lavender soap.
Then a scream.
A red room. A cracked mirror. Blood.
I dropped the pot again. Caught it. It thudded against my chest, safe but shaking.
The Soul Keeper didn't move. "Now you're learning."
I exhaled sharply.
Across the training yard, Antic was pretending not to watch me. He had his head tilted, chewing on something that sounded crunchy and disrespectful. Maybe bark.
I turned back to the pot. Focused. The pain wanted to get out. That sharp, wet grief hiding under my ribs. I held it in my lap like a baby I wasn't sure how to hold.
The pot pulsed.
I whispered to it.
"I don't know who I am. But I know I've been hurt."
A crack appeared.
Just one.
And the pot didn't break.
It glowed.
The Soul Keeper's shadow stretched long across the floor. I could feel his approval, though he never said the word.
I wasn't ready. Not yet.
_______________
Night crept in slowly, like it had something to say but didn't want to start the conversation.
My arms were still sore. The glowing pot from this morning sat on a small wooden pedestal beside the cot they'd assigned me. The rim was uneven. A hairline crack shimmered faintly, soft gold along the fracture. I kept staring at it like it owed me an explanation.
In the corner, Antic snored into his pillow. Upside down. Legs kicked up the wall like he didn't believe in gravity. A faint smear of dried blood lingered on his upper lip. His nose had bled again during dinner when I—accidentally—called his laugh "peculiar."
I didn't mean it as an insult. I liked his laugh. It made the room sound rounder.
I turned away.
Couldn't sleep.
I slipped out of the room barefoot, letting the cold floor wake me up. The halls in the Queen's stronghold were always just slightly too wide, the kind that made you feel small on purpose. I drifted through them like a thought trying not to wake the body.
Past the library. Past the broken statue of a woman with five mouths and no eyes. Down the spiral corridor that smelled like frost and candle wax.
Outside, the forest had grown quieter since the arrival. No cries. No voices. Just air. Thicker than it should be. I stepped onto the stone overlook near the old tree they called the Watching Tree.
It wasn't a name that needed explanation. The thing had eyes. Dozens. Wooden, unmoving, milky-eyed and buried in the bark. Watching.
I stared back.
"...Hi," I said quietly. I wasn't sure why.
A minute passed.
Then something rustled beside me. Not leaves. Footsteps.
"You always talk to furniture?" Antic's voice. Low. Teasing. Closer than I expected.
I didn't turn. "It's not furniture. It's a tree."
"You said 'hi' to it."
"So?"
"So…" he walked to stand beside me, arms crossed, shoulder brushing mine, "…you're getting weirder. That's all."
I didn't answer. I just watched the tree.
Antic waited. Then sighed.
"I followed you because I thought you might be planning to jump into a portal or touch some glowing haunted thing again."
"I didn't."
"I noticed."
We stood in silence.
Then I said, "Why do you keep following me?"
There was a long pause.
Then he muttered, "Because I don't want to leave."
That surprised me. I turned my head.
"You mean the castle?"
He looked at me. His eyes were greener in moonlight. "No. I mean you."
I blinked. Not out of emotion. Out of confusion.
"I don't understand."
He laughed under his breath, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked anywhere but me. "Yeah. I figured."
Another silence.
He took a breath like he wanted to say something brave, then chickened out and said, "Want to go steal a pastry from the kitchens and judge the royal muffins together?"
I nodded. "Okay."
We didn't move right away.
The Watching Tree didn't blink.
The kitchen was cathedral-quiet. Silver racks towered like organ pipes. Baskets of fruit slept under linen veils. Something smelled like toasted sugar and grief. Antic crept ahead of me like a raccoon in a crime drama—dramatic crouch, tiptoes, unnecessary rolls across the tiled floor.
I stood at the doorway.
He waved me forward, whispering, "Come on, No Eyes. The muffins don't bite unless you bite first."
"Do they actually bite?"
He paused mid-crawl. "No. I meant—never mind. Just come here."
I padded over. The stone was cold under my feet, but I liked it. It made me feel real.
Antic reached up to the counter, grabbed a tray, and pulled down two pastries with golden-baked tops. One was heavy with blueberries. The other looked like it had tried to be a cinnamon roll and failed into something messier and better.
He passed me the second one.
"I didn't ask for this."
"You didn't not ask for it either."
We sat on the floor, backs against the cupboards. I bit into the roll. It tasted like burnt sugar and something that had once been warm hands.
"It's good," I said.
Antic grinned. "The Queen's chef is part troll. Knows how to wield butter like a warlock."
"I don't know what any of that means."
He blinked. "That… was fair."
A beat passed.
He leaned back on his elbows, eyes on the arched ceiling. "You ever think about what you'd be if you weren't… this?"
"This what?"
"You know… the Chosen Orb Girl. Destiny's blind date. Magical trauma sponge."
I chewed slowly. "No. I don't think about what isn't real."
"Damn," he muttered. "You're literal even when you're philosophical."
Another pause. We finished the pastries in silence.
Then I said, "What would you be?"
He blinked. "Huh?"
"If you weren't this."
"Oh." He blinked again. "I dunno. Maybe… a traveling music guy? A street performer? Some flirt who plays the flute badly and gets run out of villages for seducing too many old women."
I nodded. "You'd be good at that."
He looked personally attacked. "Old women?"
"They have low standards and you talk a lot."
He coughed. "Wow. Okay. Someone's feeling bold."
I tilted my head. "Was that rude?"
He covered his face, laughing softly. "No, No Eyes. It was… devastatingly honest. Which I've learned is your version of flirting."
"I'm not flirting. I don't understand what flirting is."
He turned pink. "Exactly."
He rubbed his nose, checking for blood. Nothing this time. Progress?
We sat there a while longer. The muffins were gone. The silence felt full, not empty.
Then Antic whispered, "You know you make me feel like I'm not pretending, right?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
He didn't answer. He stood up instead, brushed crumbs from his shorts, and offered me a hand.
"I mean, you just do. Come on. Let's go before Grin or Dolly finds out and gives us a speech about soul etiquette or moral pastry theft."
I took his hand. His fingers were warm. My hand fit there. Easily.
We crept back through the hallway, leaving behind the crumbs and the quiet.