The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. I rubbed my eyes, still feeling the tremors from the last encounter with the Watcher. Kristina was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her sketchbook open, eyes flicking between the paper and me.
"I… think I saw it move on its own," she whispered.
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
She lifted the sketchbook. Tiny figures, animals, and objects danced across the page, shadows stretching and shrinking like they were alive. I leaned closer, my pulse quickening. She wasn't imagining it—these creatures were moving on their own.
Grandma entered quietly, her presence grounding us. "It's happening faster than I expected," she said. "The Bouie Bloodline is awakening. But remember… raw power without control is dangerous. You can destroy what you love if you're not careful."
Kristopher's hands itched. I could feel the power inside me, thick and almost tangible. I raised my hand, imagining a small stone to test my control. The stone rose effortlessly but hovered too long, spinning violently in the air.
Kristina gasped. "Kris! Careful!"
I froze, and the stone dropped safely to the floor, cracking it slightly.
Grandma sighed. "Your imagination shapes the world. You can't hide from it. Every thought matters."
Kristina hesitated, then drew a tiny bird. The bird shimmered, flapped its wings, and then chirped. The sound filled the room, startling even me. "See?" she said softly. "I can… control it if I focus."
I nodded, feeling a mix of awe and fear. The familiar buzzing in my chest reminded me how dangerous this power could be. The shadows from Malachor were far away, but I could sense them probing, watching, waiting.
Grandma crouched beside us. "You'll train today. Kristopher, control. Kristina, focus. And remember—you are a family. Your bond is your greatest weapon, but also your anchor."
We spent the day practicing. Kristina perfected small constructs while I worked on controlling larger objects. Every time one of us lost focus, something wobbled or cracked, a reminder that imagination is not just fun—it's reality.
That night, lying in bed, Kristina whispered, "Do you think Malachor will come soon?"
I hugged her shoulder. "He's probably watching right now… but we'll be ready."
Somewhere far away, in a dark tower carved from broken worlds, Malachor smiled.
"The spark has lit," he murmured. "And the boy… the boy is a storm waiting to break."