They say that all Fendriaks worthy of power have a soul, an invisible force filled with memories and gifts that travel from one vessel to the next—but my soul has a twisted sense of humor, Indigo Sarte thinks, for it has made its home inside the wrong body.

In the comfort of his secret hideout, he listens to the pitter-patter of rain beating rhythms into the old wood. The dried violet herbs he plunges into the cauldron before him causes the boiling water to stir. Indigo wipes away beads of sweat that trail down his forehead. He makes sure not to hit an array of handmade candles, which burn for him, with his elbow.

Clear solutions turn to deep purples until they become translucent again. A proud smirk is etched across his features. Finally, he thinks, while dipping in a modest vial, then two, and more until the pot’s contents have been emptied dry.

Indigo eyes the remainder of his ingredients. Some are still crawling, trying to escape, while others lay on their backs with their crooked legs pointed toward an invisible sky. He licks his lips, wonders what he could possibly make next—however, the shouts of his sister are quick to interrupt his handiwork.

“Indigo? Indigo? Where are you?”

Indigo gasps. His hands fumble around shelves, books stacked atop one another and, for the brief instance of a second, he regrets not having chosen a bigger tree trunk. He curses under his breath, damns his sister. She’s always interrupting when it gets good.

With a few short huffs, Indigo regains his composure and steps forward, back into reality and out of a place filled with long-forgotten dreams. He spares one glance at the barrier of rustling leaves which soak up dew, newly peppered across its brilliant greens. He ignores the other entities, the ones protecting the entrance to his domain who, Indigo knows, should not be named.

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Around the roots of his lair, Indigo sprinkles powders and potions onto the ground. He waits, watches, until the soil absorbs it all. A raven caws and speeds past his figure. The wind rises, and a nearby patch of grass perishes and fades to an ugly tint of brown.

He takes in the scent of the storm with his eyes shut tight. When he blinks again—the oak-made door has disappeared.

Lydia’s footsteps crunch against the autumn leaves scattered around the forest. “There you are!” she huffs, bent over as she catches her breath with both her palms pressed to her knees. “Mommy’s been looking everywhere for you!”

Indigo tilts his head. “Has she?” He cleans his shoulder of dust with a wipe from the back of his hand.

Lydia waves her arms around. “Yeah!”

It occurs to Indigo that she’s still wearing the ivory dress he made for her three years ago. He tries to think nothing of it, tries to forget he’d had to lie about how exactly the item of clothing was brought to life.

As he walks in the direction of his village and passes his younger sister with no bout of hesitation, Lydia skips to his side, her fluffy chestnut hair bobbing up and down against her frail shoulders. “Where do you even go every day? It’s like you appear out of nowhere each time I come to get you!” She snickers, brings a palm to her thin lips, and coos. “You’re not seeing a boy, are you?”

Indigo cannot help but roll his eyes, partly because of her remark, yet mostly because he’s unsettled and wants an excuse to look away; for staring at Lydia is like looking at the past, at a younger version of himself. “No,” he tells her. “I’m not seeing a boy.” Words left unsaid—I don’t have time for that—float in his mind.

Lydia pauses. She clasps her hands together behind her back and squints. The gesture hides the pure emeralds of her eyes. The roars of the storm begin to settle as the clouds above move away from the island of Ilragorn. “All right, well,” she hums, “it’s not like it matters anyway. Mommy’s got lots and lots to tell you, so hurry back home, okay?” And then Lydia is off, leaving a pool of dread to swim inside Indigo’s belly.

As his sister’s little feet run toward their modest home, he wonders if it is finally time.