The water-lily faded, but its echo stuck around, a shimmer in the air and deep inside me. I stared at where it had been, hand still out. I hadn't shut things down, or made them dull. I had… shaped them. It wasn't like the awful drain of cleaning the Blight, or the jolt of my uncontrolled power. This was a soft pull, like plucking a tune from a guitar string.
Lyra's voice was hushed, like she got the moment. The first note always hits hardest.
I dropped my hand, fingers buzzing. I didn't… force it. I just… listened to the water, and imagined the shape.
Exactly, she said, nodding. You're not bossing the Chroma around. You're working with it. You gave it an idea, and the Cerulean Chroma, being all fluid, liked it. Always go with the flow of the color, not against it. Trying to make Umber flow like water would be like breaking a mountain. Trying to make Zephyr stand still would be like stopping the wind.
Big ideas, but after what I'd just done, they clicked. Like remembering a language I knew as a baby. The wild colors in the Heartstone Cavern weren't too much anymore. It was a library, and each color was a book full of old, basic info.
For three days, we didn't leave. Time got weird, not about the sun but about my training and getting my energy back. Lyra was tough but smart. She made me do easy things until my head hurt.
I sat for hours with my hand over the bright, green Viridian moss, not to change it, but to feel its vibe. I learned it was stubborn, strong, and happy, even growing on hard rock. Lyra said it was the color of bouncing back.
I stood by the entrance, feeling the Zephyr Chroma coming in from outside. It was random and always moving, the color of freedom and thought. Hanging onto its vibe was like catching smoke, so I learned to love it for what it was.
The Crimson in the crystal was wild and creative, like fire. The deep Cerulean of the pool was feeling and gut instinct. And the Umber was always the base, what everything else played on.
My world, once gray and trapped, was now full of color. I learned that my Stain was a shield, Lyra said. A kid thing, when I couldn't handle all the color and feeling. Here, I was slowly learning to drop that shield without getting lost.
On day three, Lyra had a new exercise. She put a gray river stone—from outside—on the floor. It was a dull spot in the colorful cavern, a reminder of my past.
Color it, she said.
I blinked. What? How?
You've felt the colors. You get them. Now, take one—Viridian, say—and ask it to bless the stone. Not to change it, but give it a taste of itself.
I looked at the stone, then at the moss. It felt… too much. Isn't that forcing it?
It's a request, a team effort. The stone is Umber: solid, patient. Viridian is life. What happens when life meets solid ground?
It… grows? I said.
Right. You're not asking the stone to be moss. You're asking the Viridian Chroma to see the stone as a good place to live. Now, try.
I focused on the stone, feeling its deep, quiet Umber vibe. It was happy being still. Then, I felt the Viridian moss. I felt its zing, its want to grow. I didn't grab for it. I opened myself up.
*Here*, I thought, at the stone. *This is a good spot. Safe.*
For a bit, nothing happened. I felt dumb. Then, a change. A tiny thread of Viridian left the moss and floated over. It was like green smoke, only I could see it. It touched the stone.
I gasped. A spot on the stone, tiny, shined and turned emerald green. It wasn't moss; the stone itself was green. It glowed with the Viridian vibe before fading back to gray.
It was small, quick. But it was the most real, creative thing I'd ever done.
I did it, I breathed, grinning. I was just happy.
Lyra smiled, a real one that lit her eyes up. You did. You're learning the language, not just shouting.
That night, eating dried fruit and bread by the pool, I asked something I'd been thinking about.
Lyra, I said, What happened to the other Scribes? You said you haven't trained one. Are there so few?
Her face fell, replaced by sadness. She was quiet for so long, I thought she wouldn't answer.
The Prime Chroma wasn't always bad, she said, eyes on the water. He was the Grand Scribe, the boss. He was Alaric. He was the best, could make Chroma beautiful enough to make you cry. But he got… impatient. He saw the world's mess—the pain, the fighting, the feelings—as broken. He thought peace meant everyone being the same. One single color. He called it 'The Clarifying.' She spat the word.
He started small. Why feel Crimson rage when you could be calm? Why feel Cerulean sadness when you could be happy? He got Scribes on his side, one by one. They thought he was doing good, ending pain. They became the Ash-Singers, his guard, doing his 'Clarifying.' They started draining the strong, 'bad' feelings from places. A battlefield here, a thief den there.
She looked at me, eyes haunted. But you can't drain one color without hurting the others. Draining Crimson rage drains Crimson courage. Draining Cerulean sorrow drains Cerulean love. The places they 'clarified' didn't become peaceful: they became… empty, dull. The people just went through the motions without any life.
I felt sick. She was talking about Oakhaven. The acceptance. No dreams. The color of a shawl being the big thing of the day. Had the Ash-Singers been there? Had my village already been touched by this Clarifying?
The rest of us, the Aurelians, saw the truth, Lyra said. We fought him. A civil war. Not with armies, but with our very being. A war for what's real. We were outnumbered. Alaric's world without pain was tempting. Many Scribes died. Others… were captured and 'convinced' to join him. Their minds were broken and made into one screaming scream of obedience. A few, like you, were hidden. Born in quiet places, your powers asleep, waiting for the right time.
Her story hit me hard. I wasn't just a boy with weird powers. I was a refugee from a war my whole life. I was what was left of something broken. A hope.
So I'm… one of the last?
One of the last free Scribes, Lyra said. That's why you're so important. To both sides.
The cavern, once safe and amazing, now felt like a spotlight. The colors around us felt fragile.
What do we do? I asked.
Now, Lyra said, getting tough, we keep training. You've learned to listen and connect. Soon, you'll learn to fight. That Ash-Singer was a scout. We're moving into war zones. They'll come for you after what you did on the mountain.
I was scared, but excited. My fight with myself was over. I was a Scribe. Now, there was a bigger war to fight. The gray prince was gone. Here, I had my cause.
I looked at the pool, at the blue light. I felt its Cerulean vibe, the color of feeling. I felt the fear, the sadness, Lyra's story. But I also felt the guts, the purpose, and the hope.
This time, I didn't shape the water. I just let the feelings go through me, letting them be. I wasn't scared of the noise.
I was learning to own it.