Savior looked across the emptiness, and they saw that standing at the other end, preventing them from seeing the painting directly, was a young woman with medium-length hair of cerulean. She was facing the painting herself, and seemingly staring at it. Savior looked across, and felt that they had arrived late, not soon enough to look at the work itself before a real critic.

Savior saw that others, real human beings, were looking at their own paintings, and what Alauda had clarified to them as ‘visionices,’ and had elaborated, but Savior had soon forgotten the meaning beyond the name. They were amongst persons who were not members of the Paradisiacs; and so Savior knew that, for now, they had to walk past them.

Cerise turned to face them then, tucking her hair behind her pin, which was of a cherry shade.

“Hello, Triptych,” she greeted them, smiling at a joke they did not know. Another term of art they had to learn.

“We are Savior,” Savior merely replied.

“But from three, correct? Hence ‘triptych.’” It’s just my epithet for you, Savior. Call it how you want, my friendly nickname for the new member, my abiding adoration for premodern art. I’ll call you Savior if you want.”

Savior nodded. “Can we see the painting?”

“Of course, didn’t mean to block your view. I’ve been—Claude’s a much better art critic than I am, but she doesn’t come out unless the work’s really good. So not this one,” she said, and Savior, for the first time, looked at the piece of art.

“We don’t understand,” they said.

“Neither do I,” Cerise said, and as Savior looked at her, she was touching her hairpin, which was changing colors rapidly. “But we can interpret. That is the freedom of art, for the beholder, after the freedom of the artist, in creating it, and setting up that interpretation,” she said.

Savior understood none of that, but they continued looking at the painting.

“Who is Claude?” they asked. Savior remembered, but not well, a card with twelve names, which had had both ‘Claude’ and ‘Cerise’.

“You could say, ha ha, my better half, but we have our differences,” Cerise said. “If I am one shade, she is another, and we both are, how you could—not really; I’m just interpreting!—look at this painting, and see two different shades, but it’s still one painting, see?”

They did not see; but they did not continue querying. They merely thought that if the work was here, it was good.

“What are we doing next, Cerise?” they asked. “Alauda brought us here, and said that we were to decide our path.”

“Each of us is bringing you in, in our own way. Alauda had you give a Scion freedom. Their trait is a part of them, as much as art is a part of the artist,” Cerise replied. “I’m working with VENICE on mine—in my classes at v-Art, we’re working on how we can bring difference to the world of art, so recently shocked by visionices. Of course, few of us can actually do that, ha ha. I’d like to think that, in my capacity as a Paradisiac, I am bringing change. But little of that is really seen, at least by those who are not Scions—you’re not following any of this, are you?”

Savior shook their head.

Cerise laughed. Touching her hand to her hair, she turned it a bright blue. “You’re not the only one I’ve made confused about these things. There is so much of the world that we do not know! VENICE is helping me with bringing you in. I think that in talking to you today, I may have given you some insight into the purpose of art. Or maybe you didn’t get any of it, but, you’re new still, and VENICE will help you find your own art piece here, to set you going. He/they will be arriving soon.”

“What is his/their role?” Savior asked.

“VENICE is our stager.” As she said this, the colors of the world changed around Savior. But as they thought this, they realized that it was not the colors of the world that were changing, but shapes of the world. They looked again at the painting in front of them, and realized that it had a shape. And the shape formed a person, and VENICE walked out.

“COLOR MY DAY!” he/they exclaimed, and Savior for the first time in the museum, smiled and laughed. “You know my name, our resident v-Art student has informed you, but call me ‘Dante A.’ If you say my real name too often, the shapes and colors of your world go wandering,” he/they said.

Savior knew then, without knowing, that Cerise truly was only a student; and that VENICE was the artist who changed others’ worlds.

“You made this museum,” they said, knowing it to be true.

Dante A. raised an eyebrow. “Cher, you told me he was a novice,” he/they said to Cerise, whose hair was now both shades of pink and yellow. She was showing some surprise.

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“I LIKE THAT!” Dante A. said. They/he touched Savior’s arm, and it shimmered in a flurry of rainbows before vanishing back into their default orange. “You’re joining us on our next performance.”

Cerise frowned. “The performance? That’s not in this Sector. We also weren’t going to do it until I finished v-Art.”

Savior’s arm quivered. It was still orange, but its shape was a mess.

Dante A. shook his/their head. The motion suddenly reminded Savior of a running place, a long line, where a group of cars contested. They couldn’t say why. But they saw the cars on the racetrack, within the lightning and queenlike silk of his/their hair.

“You don’t have to come to this one. It’s just a rehearsal—a place in Plent.”

Cerise seemed to pout. “What? Any Scions in attendance?”

“To be a Scion or not, that is the answer. Just two. One of them is a talent—a real color.”

Savior’s mind whirled.

“We are not ready. But we will suffer and try to be noble,” they said, without really understanding what they were saying, at all, but the words sounded true.

“Spirit! I LIKE THAT!” came the response, and Savior looked once again.

The two other Paradisiacs were smiling back. One a scintillating of place, a reformation of thought; the other a brightening of pink, a changing of purple. Both were real.

Jaceus opened his eyes, and saw that Agate was there by the portal to greet him. He left the portal and walked towards his home. She followed at his pace, which was not endowed, but swift; she followed not because of her own Scion trait, which only endowed her mind; but because he was walking ahead.

“I was just about to Thought message you, Jaceus,” Agate said. “An Agent’s entered the house, and Luke and Skylark are about to face him.”

“He’s a Porter, and his name is Perry,” he replied.

She looked somewhat surprised, but did not query further. As he entered the house, he thought that Agate had not mentioned a fourth party, that being the Magy’cal Perry had brought; a faint tremor shook his heart at the thought. They were few and ostracized in H‘trae, and one here, on Earth where it all began, was not something he wanted to see.

As he crossed the hallway leading into the room he’d set aside for keeping, as best he could, physical incantations of the shapes of his family, and Puræ, he mentally prepared himself for once again using his own shape against one, it seemed, trained to combat it. And in front of Agate, and Sterne he saw as he entered the room, Lucas, and Skylark, none of whom had passed through the Bearing. He saw that the Porter, Perry, was not standing facing Skylark, whose magic he had sensed immediately upon stepping foot in his home—he was instead adhered to the ceiling, back to it, and trying to reach for the plates on his head. Lucas and Sterne were alongside the opposite wall, staring in shock. And Skylark was below him, arms raised, and Jaceus was brought back to the Bearing for the Myodor house, where he had seen for the first time Ila ce’s capacity for magic.

“Jaceus!” exclaimed Lucas when he saw him, and again Jaceus saw the light of hope appear on their faces. Agate had retreated—just a few steps. He saw that Perry, still stuck to the ceiling of his home like a nixus reaching for the sun, was staring down at Skylark in shock, and Skylark was looking back at him, without noticing Jaceus, or not meeting his eyes. Her eyes were focused, and hard.

It truly did feel like back then.

“Jaceus, she can’t do this forever,” came Agate’s voice from behind him.

Well, he didn’t know—he would have preferred to watch Skylark’s magic for as long as he could. Jaceus raised his eyes, and imagined seeing Triomphe there, where Sterne was standing, and clapping his hands; he imagined seeing Puræ there, where Lucas was standing; rubbing his arms, and preparing for his own turn. He imagined seeing his two elder siblings there to judge.

He imagined, in Skylark’s place, Ila ce Myodor, crown pride of their family, Sunbird of the Nötr, completing the Bearing with a capacity not seen, they said, since Ramona, she who had founded both the Nötr and Màha kingdoms, she who was called Firebird.

Skylark looked back at him, anxiety showing; and he saw the face of a young Scion who didn’t know her full potential.

It was hard! It was really hard! But she kept her arms raised, and it felt as if an enormous pressure was being applied to her shoulders, making her stand, as she looked back up at the mysterious hat-man, all in white, who stared back at her with an annoyed expression. Annoyed? Well, he was just stuck to the ceiling. He was reaching towards his hat.

She chanced a quick glance towards Lucas, who was still just looking in shock at her. Mr. T was also just standing there, although his trait was just looking at the stars or something. Lucas knew how to fight! And she was keeping the enemy trapped on the ceiling! With her left hand, she strained, she focused, and held the man’s hands that were still reaching for his hat.

Her eyes itched.

“Jaceus!” came Luke’s voice, and she looked at him again. She wasn’t Jaceus. If Jaceus were here, this would’ve been over already. Her arms were getting tired. If Cerise were here, we could bodiesify.

“Jaceus, she can’t do this forever.” Agate’s voice, mellow as always, and Skylark started glaring at the Man with the Hat. But then she felt the twang, which she hadn’t really felt in a while, used to being around the Furies—no, the Powers—and she turned her head, and saw. It was Jaceus, and a glow was around his face.

It had a certain shape to it, and his face wasn’t distorted, but—but it was different. She couldn’t explain—and she dropped her hands.

“Thank you, descendant!” came a voice from behind her, the Hat-man’s voice, and Jaceus walked forward, and she and Lucas and Sterne all hurriedly left the room, to give the two beings space.

“You again. Jason, right?” the Porter Perry asked.

“Jaceus," he replied. “Jaceus, of the Myodor family. We meet again, Porter Perry. Kwomolo told me of your coming. Where is the Magy'cal?"

Perry shook his head, his large hat staying on like a flangent gripping its two mates while in courtship. The plates were dangerous. Jaceus saw that Skylark was just past the entryway to the room, watching. She might be able to keep Perry on the ceiling, but likely could not stop his plates.

“Qumulo, show some respect." The Porter began swaying from side to side. “She had her bind with her. Be glad she didn't use it."

Jaceus did not recognize the term, but Perry was likely pointing to the long, sheathed weapon that had been held on Qumulo's back. It had the look of an object she knew well, one that was hers and given, or earned. He remembered again his magpotis, born of light and name and magic. He remembered swinging, then moving, then embracing it through the space they called air and watching his shape interact with it. Puræ holding it in wonder. Puræ enacting his secret plan, and creating his own against tradition but with the greatest skill and art and Jaceus so missed the sight. Missed Puræ. Missed matching shape and manifesting their wills in the natural caves.

He looked upon the face of a human, Perry, wearing an ugly hat, and he smiled. He laughed outright. Perry was no easy opponent. And he himself lacked his magpotis. But this was no trial. This was not the Bearing where he had to form a shape from his shape, and thereby receive his own. While he was not the master of the technology that made Perry’s plates, and thence his technique, he was an arted member of House Myodor and knew his shape. He knew the way his body moved.

And so he did. Moving through the room, he took the plates thrown his way and tossed them back. He took in the walls and the ceiling above and around him. He took in the faces of Skylark and Sterne and Agate. He smiled and caught, he smiled and threw. Plates flew back and forth as he smiled and threw. The walls and ceiling soon reflected light and color and strange and wondrous shapes he threw, and the Porter evaded his every reflection. On time and time again Jaceus would watch and throw, catch and throw as plates flew towards Skylark, watching closest. He caught and released, tossed and threw. The colors and shapes spinning and refracting off the walls grew to blur, casting angles and shadows of great diamonds and triangles from corner to ceiling, corner to ceiling. He felt a spinning in his heart. Plates and plate danced and soared through the room. This was a dance he could master. This was his house, and these were his people.

This was his duty.

…

Jaceus soon came to understand the diagram of his space, and the plates came flying in one two three and four into Perry’s chest, back, right arm, and left leg. As he jerked, Jaceus asked again. “Where is the Magy’cal?” and as the Porter fell, he husked, “Couldn’t use magic. Left her there” and Jaceus finally released his shape. He felt the staid grey of his shapeless heart refill it. He turned to look upon the faces of his followers. Agate, who had been with the Furies longer than Lucas, was open-mouthed, eyes wide and bent on him. Sterne was grinning so widely that he had to place his body against the side of the entryway, clinging to it, both his hands touched to the sides of his head. Skylark was sitting back on the floor, hands behind her. She was awestruck.