I learned something important that day.
Power doesn't feel like strength.
It feels like pressure.
After the training ground faded and the basement returned, I couldn't stop shaking. My hands looked normal—small, kid hands—but they didn't feel like mine anymore. They felt dangerous.
Kristina noticed first.
She always did.
"Kris," she said softly, tugging my sleeve. "You okay?"
I nodded too fast. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Grandma didn't buy it.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the old chair in the corner.
I sat.
Mom handed me a glass of water, her hands trembling more than mine.
"You scared us," she said. Not angry. Not yelling. Just… scared.
"I didn't mean to," I whispered.
"I know," she said. "That's what scares me."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the shadow creature freezing in mid-air. I felt that pull again—that invisible grip snapping shut around reality itself. It obeyed me without question.
What if one day I didn't say stop?
What if I thought something wrong?
I heard a whisper beside my bed.
"Still awake?"
Kristina stood there in her oversized hoodie, holding her sketchbook like a shield.
"Yeah," I admitted. "You too?"
She climbed onto the bed like she'd done a thousand times before. "I feel weird."
"Weird how?"
She hesitated. "Like… something's humming inside me. Like a song I almost remember."
My chest tightened.
"You don't feel sick or anything, right?"
She shook her head. "No. Just… full."
We sat in silence.
Then she grinned suddenly. "Wanna see something?"
Before I could answer, she opened her sketchbook and started drawing. Fast. Confident. Like her hand already knew where to go.
The air shimmered.
A small creature popped into existence at the foot of the bed—round, glowing, with stubby wings and way-too-big eyes.
It squeaked.
I yelped and fell backward. "WHAT IS THAT?!"
Kristina burst out laughing. "I don't know! But it's cute!"
The creature flapped awkwardly and faceplanted into my pillow.
Grandma appeared in the doorway instantly.
She took one look and sighed. "You made a Familiar."
Kristina blinked. "A what?"
"A living construct bound to imagination," Grandma said. "Congratulations. You just skipped three years of training."
Mom rubbed her face. "Of course she did."
The Familiar squeaked again and curled up like it owned the place.
I stared at Kristina. "You just… made life."
She shrugged, suddenly shy. "I was thinking about something that wouldn't hurt anyone."
Grandma's expression softened—but only for a second.
"Intent matters," she said. "But control matters more."
She turned to me.
"And you, Kristopher—you don't make things by accident."
I swallowed.
"What do I do, then?"
Grandma knelt so we were eye level. "You learn restraint. You learn silence. You learn to let the world breathe without your command."
She placed her palm over my chest.
"Because Malachor will sense every time you lose control."
Far away, in a throne room carved from broken worlds, Malachor tilted his head.
A ripple had reached him.
Clear.
Sharp.
"Ah," he said, amused. "So the boy learns fear."
He waved a hand, and shadows knelt before him—soldiers marked with sigils and ranks burned into their armor.
"Prepare the Watchers," Malachor ordered. "Send a Tier-Three scout."
A pause.
"And keep the girl alive."
His smile faded.
"For now."
Back in my room, Kristina leaned against my shoulder, already half asleep.
I stayed awake.
Listening.
Learning how to not imagine.
Because somehow, I knew—
The next time something came for us, stopping it wouldn't be enough.
And deep down, that terrified me more than anything.
Morning came too quietly.
No birds. No cars. No distant voices drifting through the walls.
Just silence.
That was how I knew something was wrong.
I opened my eyes slowly. The ceiling looked the same, but the air felt… tight. Like the room was holding its breath.
Kristina was still asleep beside me, hugging her sketchbook like it might run away if she let go. Her face was peaceful, but there was a faint crease between her eyebrows, like she was dreaming of something heavy.
I sat up carefully.
The silence cracked.
A low hum spread through the room, vibrating in my bones. The Familiar Kristina had made—still curled up on my pillow—lifted its head and squeaked nervously.
Grandma's voice echoed from downstairs."Don't move."
Too late.
The walls rippled, like someone had dropped a stone into reality itself. Shadows bled out of the corners, stretching unnaturally long, twisting into shapes that didn't belong in a house.
Kristina woke up instantly.
"Kris," she whispered. "I don't like this."
"I know," I said, my voice barely steady.
The Familiar flapped and hid behind her.
Then the shadows stepped forward.
One figure separated from the darkness—taller than the others, lean, wrapped in armor etched with glowing runes. Its face was hidden behind a mask shaped like a broken crown.
Grandma appeared at the doorway, staff in hand, eyes sharp.
"A Tier-Three Watcher," she said calmly. "Malachor's testing you."
The Watcher spoke, its voice echoing like it came from a deep well.
"Kristopher Bouie. Kristina Bouie. By decree of Malachor, your world is under observation."
Kristina scooted closer to me. "Observation sounds bad."
"It is," Mom said, appearing behind Grandma. Her voice shook, but she didn't step back.
The Watcher turned its head toward Kristina.
"You are not the priority."
Something in the way it said that made my stomach drop.
I stood up before I realized I was moving.
"Leave," I said.
The Watcher laughed.
"You command poorly for a child."
The shadows lunged.
I didn't think.
I imagined space folding.
The floor bent upward like a wave, throwing the shadow soldiers back. One slammed into the wall and dissolved into smoke.
Kristina gasped. "Kris—your eyes!"
I didn't need a mirror to know.
The pressure was back.
Heavier.
The Watcher staggered, clearly surprised.
"Impossible," it muttered. "Untrained reality override—"
Kristina grabbed my arm.
"Stop," she said firmly. "You're going too far."
Her touch grounded me.
The pressure eased—just enough.
She stepped forward, heart pounding, and flipped open her sketchbook.
"I don't know what you are," she said, voice shaking but strong, "but you're not welcome here."
She drew a circle.
Light burst outward—not destructive, but commanding. The shadows froze mid-motion, like they'd hit an invisible wall.
Grandma's eyes widened. "Barrier-class manifestation…"
The Watcher took a step back.
"For a child," it said slowly, "you are… problematic."
It raised its hand.
Pain shot through Kristina's body.
She cried out and collapsed to her knees.
"Kris!" I screamed.
I felt it then.
A wrongness.
A thread being tied somewhere deep inside her—thin, dark, and alive.
Grandma slammed her staff into the floor. "NO."
The house shook.
The Watcher dissolved into shadow, retreating into the walls.
Its final words echoed through the room.
"The seed is planted. Malachor will be pleased."
Silence crashed back in.
Kristina lay still.
I dropped beside her, shaking. "Kristina—look at me. Please."
Her eyes fluttered open.
She smiled weakly. "Hey… don't cry. You're being dramatic."
I laughed and sobbed at the same time.
Mom pulled us both into her arms.
Grandma turned away, her shoulders heavy.
She whispered words I wasn't meant to hear.
"The curse has begun."
I didn't understand what that meant.
Not fully.
But as Kristina squeezed my hand, I felt something cold brush against my mind—like a promise waiting patiently in the dark.
And far away, Malachor smiled.
Because the game had finally started.