Falling.

He fell and fell, into deeper and deeper darkness, illuminated from above by the ethereal light of a vast sky, tumbling head over heels into a blackness that stretched out below into infinity.

He could not remember who he was, or why he was falling in the first place. He reached out with his hands desperately, grasping for anything to slow his descent. From his fingertips the abyss bled orange like paint on a canvas, lines of light casting unstable shadows as some of the segments glowed brighter while others dimmed. The ribbon-like shapes rippled and twisted with a sense of impermanence.

The ethereal light from above cut suddenly, as if a giant hand had decided to cover the sun, no longer willing to share its warmth. It was cold, and dark. Dark, darker still below. The ribbons of orange trailing from his fingers flickered wildly, all the light left in the world.

He looked down into the void and a great fear unlike any other welled up from inside and took hold of his body. He stretched out a hand and clawed at the ceiling, impossibly far yet close enough to touch. He tore through the dark canvas and brought back the sun.

The ethereal light returned, then coalesced into two orbs like eyes, frost blue, fixated solely upon him. He screamed, and the abyss shattered into the most resplendent city in the world ablaze. He tore his face away from the sight and gazed below. Where there once lay a pit of darkness now stood a door opened wide. Through it they came on black boots. A booming laugh chased him, echoed around him.

He turned back, and he was one of them, dressed in the Bane’s garb and black boots. He raised the thunderflute and aimed it at a woman who was not there a moment before, tears in her emerald-green eyes. She smiled at him with all the warmth left in the world as he shot her.

Everything bled to black, and the cold dark swallowed him whole.

When Luke opened his eyes, he was in the afterlife. It looked exactly like a log cabin. That didn’t seem weird. Kind of fitting, actually.

He sat up. He was in a soft bed, swirlsheep’s wool pillow and all. By reflex, he grabbed his ribs and felt… nothing? The pain was gone. That was a plus. Nothing on his chest. No shirt, either. In fact, he was naked, covered only by a thick blanket that had fallen to his waist. Hopeful, he felt at his back.

Still there, he thought. I’ll always be like that, huh?

Sunlight streamed through a window, the treetops of pines bunched up outside like a crowd of people gawking at the cabin and trying to peek over the shoulder of one another. The interior of the one-room cabin was sparse, undecorated log walls with only a single desk, a mess of papers, pens, and an ink bottle precariously angled off a folder and a book. In another corner was a small stove close to another window that looked as if it were either cleaned regularly or saw little use and a few watergourds, some neatly lined up and others thrown about. Off to the side he could see a person completely covered from head to toe in white bandages sitting forward in a wing chair, staring at the floor with folded hands, elbows resting on their knees.

Well, that was an utterly unsettling sight. Luke yawned and stretched his arms out, not feeling particularly concerned. For some reason.

“Good. You’re already awake.” They stood, watching him with curious golden eyes poking through their bandages. Something was strange about their voice, as if it were being distorted by speaking through an electrical fan. “Take your time. You’ve been through a traumatic experience.”

“Who are you?” Luke asked. It seemed the natural question.

“Oh, a few things,” the bandaged person said. One of the bandages twitched at the corner of their mouth. “Someone to thank, for one. But that’s not what you’re asking, I know. You may call me Argent.”

Luke couldn’t tell if it were a masculine or feminine voice through the distortion. Argent’s height was not particularly tall for a man, perhaps above average for a woman. The figure betrayed nothing either, no obvious breasts or anything of the sort. Would it be rude to ask?

“Are you a man or a woman?”

“Argent.” They shook their head. “That’s all you’re getting. I don’t look like this for fun. Sorry.”

With no clues to tip the scale either way, Luke shrugged and decided on a whim that this bandaged person was a ‘he.’

“I’m Luke. What am I thanking you for?” Luke asked, scratching his head.

A bandage twitched above Argent’s eye. “I saved your life.”

Wait. What?

“I’m dead,” Luke argued, gesturing at his inexplicably-healed chest.

“You don’t… look dead to me?” He phrased it as a question. The man sounded as confused as Luke felt.

“Then how do you explain this?” He gestured at his chest again.

Argent slapped his forehead and rubbed the hand down his face.

“Do you know Yellow, Luke?”

“Pardon?”

“Yellow.” Argent made a flourish with his hands. “You know.”

Luke frowned, then blinked Yellow. And gasped.

His body was laced with countless wire-thin lines of Magenta light, so fine he could barely see them, let alone feel them. If he focused, he could sense the largest cluster of lines without sight, a cylindrical pattern running from the front of his chest all the way to the back, threaded together so finely, so beautifully as if it were the magnum opus of a master seamstress.

The threads were connected not to Luke’s chest, but instead a web-like structure outside of his body. From there, a single strand thicker than the others led across the cabin, through Argent’s bandages and into his chest. It was a work of art so magnificent that it made Luke feel like he’d been ‘painting’ by scribbling on a wall with crayons.

“What did you do to me?”

“Plugged up your hole, for one. There was an old wound in your ribs, so I fixed that up. Hope you don’t mind. I can’t do anything about your back, so don’t—”

“Not any of that,” Luke whispered. “Why can’t I feel anything?”

Argent said nothing.

“I saw him,” Luke said, breathing calmly. “I met him, and he may as well have killed me. The man I’ve been chasing after all my life. He killed my mother right in front of me. Now I do it to her myself in my dreams.” He looked up. “I wake up after that, like nothing happened. I see a person completely covered in bandages, and I’m not afraid. Not a twitch, not a jump. I barely react. That’s strange, isn’t it? Was it you?”

Argent glanced away, quite incriminatingly.

“What is this?” Luke demanded.

“Technically,” Argent said, sitting up, “I’m stopping you from hurting yourself.” He gestured at the Magenta threads. “Some of this is regulating your adrenal glands. Your stress. They’re right above your—” He cut himself off at Luke’s flat look and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll spare you the lengthy medical explanations. Bottom line is this: it’s for your own good. I don’t need you going into shock reliving your trauma while I’m trying to teach you. Also, believe me, your chest really hurts.”

“Let me feel my pain.”

“You get five seconds,” Argent said and snapped his fingers.

He clenched his teeth as the Magenta structure rearranged itself, but the scream ripped itself free despite his efforts to hold it back. He writhed and twisted, fingers taut, slamming back on the bed, one hand clutching his chest. It was like someone had taken a hammer to it a thousand times; an intense, bone-deep agony.

But that wasn’t the half of it. His mind and heart raced with a dozen different emotions, crashing into him all at once. He did feel fear. Who on Asundria was this Argent? A wielder of the colors who played with his insides and suppressed the thoughts in his head like a puppeteer.

He was confused and lost. James said he killed their father to become the Second Ace. And yet, who was it that fought like a whirlwind of death to protect him when his whole world was crumbling? Now, Luke killed their mother in a nightmare like it was nothing. He’d never, never had one like that before. The way she smiled at him like it wasn’t his fault, like everything would be all right shook him to the core. It would never be all right. Not ever again.

Above all else, it was the fury that threatened to overwhelm him. Red shot from his chest, bouncing like lightning into contorting fingers. He would kill Levian Vega with these hands. Not for his parents, not for the sick twisting of his brother’s mind, but for the feeling, the satisfaction, the exultation of pushing Red-surging thumbs into that man’s vile frost-colored eyes and out through the back of his shattered skull.

He shivered uncontrollably, shying back from his madness, and the cold dark was there. He was alive, he was himself, he was awake, but he swore it felt like it was there. It was there, it was real. That blackness was all around him. It was everything, and it would swallow him whole.

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And then it was gone. The pain in his chest vanished, but his emotions remained a while longer before fading, lingering like a bad smell in a room even after the source was dealt with. He breathed hard, every muscle in his body going slack. He just laid there, feeling his racing heart and trying to banish the smell of that frightening rage.

“You,” Argent said, “almost tore your own heart out. I didn’t mean you’d hurt yourself unregulated quite so literally. Please don’t do that.”

“It,” he said between gasps for air, “Was. An accident. Trauma.”

“Right.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine. Some good came of it. I learned something. You deeeeefinitely,” he said, spreading bandaged arms wide to match the word, “have an affinity for Red.”

“I have no idea. What you’re talking about. An affinity?”

Argent spoke like he was an expert on the colors. And he was, if the elaborate Magenta construction in Luke was any indication. What was it he said? He was trying to teach Luke something?

Breath finally caught, he sat up and met those curious golden eyes.

“What are they to you?” Argent asked. He leaned forward in his chair, hands pressed together just below those curious eyes. “The colors. Magic? Energy, power? A gift? Or a curse? What does it mean to you?”

Was that all it was? Just strength? A tool to be used? He shook his head. No. The colors protected him from sickness and injury and his own Flock-galed stupidity. Helped him when he needed to move, to see. They called out to him when he was in danger. Acted on their own…

He was surprised to realize he already knew the answer.

“They’re alive,” Luke whispered.

Argent leaned back in his chair and clapped.

“I knew I was right about you, Luke. Clever kid.”

“They are, then?”

He nodded.

Luke lifted his palm. He imagined a serene whirlpool, pulled Red from his chest— and winced in pain as a bolt of crimson lightning bounced down his arm into his fingers and vanished.

“Why did you do that?” Luke asked through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t do anything,” Argent said, surprised.

He tried again and the result was the same.

Argent’s golden eyes flashed a bright Yellow, only for an instant. “Your Yellow seems fine. Try other colors.”

Luke called Blue, Green, and Magenta in succession, all successful in doing as he wished. Only when he tried Red again did he encounter a problem. It coursed like river rapids into his fingertips and dissolved with a strong, painful tingling sensation all the way down his arms.

The bandaged man waved a casual hand, plucking a dozen spots of color from the air like droplets of condensed water from a window. The droplets stretched and knotted, and a ball of concentrated light settled against his upturned palm, wispy as if aflame, glowing like red-hot coal.

“There’s nothing wrong with the Red in this region. I wonder if— Oh, right, you’re new at this.”

Luke stared disbelievingly. If the Magenta structure was a masterpiece, this was an afternoon sketch, far less elaborate but awe-inspiring just the same. The way those bandages seemed to be illuminated by the too-red ball almost felt…

He blinked out his Yellow and felt a small thrill. The light was still there! Fainter, more translucent, but it colored the air in a pocket around Argent’s palm with a ghostly luminescence.

“I can still see it. It’s really there,” Luke said quietly. “How are you moving the light like that? Why doesn’t it go into your chest?”

“When it’s tightly packed like this, it can be seen by anyone,” Argent explained. “Those are tricky questions, but the first one comes down to practice. As for the second, I believe it may be tied to your Red predicament. You’re developing some bad habits.”

Luke cocked his head. “Bad habits?”

“Yes, like anything, there are right ways and wrong ways to go about utilizing this.” Argent dismissed the Red orb and brought his hand down. “But perhaps we should start at the beginning. That is, if you are willing to learn arcane secrets from a mysterious, masked person messing with your organs that may or may not be trustworthy.”

Maybe if he was stronger, things in Cherima would have ended differently. Maybe… He shook his head. No. That wasn’t the problem.

“I can’t control myself, let alone control the colors,” he admitted. He lowered his head. “The Red has turned on me for good reason. It’s me that can’t be trusted. Not you, Argent.”

The man was silent for a time, golden eyes distant.

“Those in power often found most worthy,” Argent said, as though quoting, “are those who deny its lure. A personal question, Luke. Why do you deny it?”

“Levian Vega.” The name dripped off his tongue like venom. “I’ve told you what he did to my mother. You know the Lumina Purge?”

“I’m familiar with it. Good men and women were lost that day.”

“Yes. He took my father and brother. They were forced to become assassins. My brother…” His face twisted with revulsion despite the emotional dampening. “My brother says he became Ace by killing my father. They turned him into a monster.”

“Levian always has been a sick one,” Argent said softly.

“I met my brother again in Cherima. Where you saved me,” Luke said. He clenched and unclenched a fist, wavering. “And him. When I saw that man, I couldn’t think straight. I wanted to use this power to crush him. Make sure he couldn’t make anyone else ever feel this way.”

“I’m truly sorry for you and your family’s pain.”

“Wasn’t your fault. It was his. That’s why you can’t trust me.”

“I see.” Argent steepled his fingers. “Rage directs your Red now?”

“Yes.”

“I understand. You fear losing yourself in anger. Losing others.”

“I’ve already lost my brother and friends in Cherima,” Luke said, finally acknowledging the truth with tears running down his face. His voice was unsteady. “I didn’t do it on purpose, but I dragged other people into my quest for revenge and got them killed. It was a mistake.”

“I can’t speak for your brother, but if you mean the ginger-haired boy and the spearman, they were both alive when I departed with you.”

“They’re alive?” Luke asked. “How?”

In response, Argent snapped his fingers. Something large and soft fell overtop Luke’s head and fanned out, obscuring his vision. He thrashed about in a panic for a split second before realizing it was a bundle of cloth. He pulled it off and unfolded it. To his surprise, it was a dark green spiralsilk cloak with a set of woolen undergarments wrapped inside.

“That’s been hanging right over your head for a while,” Argent said. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked why my voice is so clipping irritating to listen to. I suppose there are other things on your mind.”

Luke looked up. Nothing but the ceiling.

“Your affinity lies with the Red,” he said, sounding prideful through the fan-like distortion of his voice. “For me, it’s the Green. There are a handful of aspects to the colors, but I’ve always been found myself drawn toward the elements. The element of Green, as you might have guessed, is…”

“The wind,” Luke finished.

Argent nodded. He gave a thumbs up as a breeze ruffled Luke’s hair.

“I was too late in your case, but I made that awful weapon of Levian’s veer off course when he pointed it at your friends. Last I saw, they were riding away on horseback. I only stuck around long enough to see that they weren’t being pursued. You were the immediate concern. A wound as grievous as yours requires a lot of rest, fluids, and Magenta. And a bedpan. You’re welcome.”

Hopefully Deen and Cyrus were surviving the war, too.

“Sorry you had to take care of me for so long.”

“Well. It wasn’t that long.” He shrugged. “Only a day and a half.”

That made it… the morning of the twentieth?

“That can’t be right,” Luke protested. “Magenta doesn’t work that fast. My ribs took longer to heal. They weren’t even done. I’ve been healing myself for the last two weeks.”

“Maybe not the way you use it,” Argent scoffed.

“Two days.” Luke slumped. “That’s not enough time to get back to Ulciscor, no matter what transportation I use.”

“What’s the rush?”

“In case you’ve been living in a nest,” Luke snapped, “Terra Daeva is about to invade Mirastelle!”

“Right. But that’s not your problem, is it?” Argent cocked his head. “That’s for Maro Ren and Vander Wolf to deal with. Certainly not someone as young as you. The colors can be used for incredible feats, but they can’t stop a war. Trust me. You of all people should know having these powers doesn’t make you invincible.”

Go home, little Luke, James said. There is nothing you can do in this place.

He bit his lip. He knew Argent was right. In the end, James was right, too. Like always. His feelings about his brother were mixed. Maybe the reality of what kind of person he’d been warped into hadn’t fully sunk in yet. Still, deep down, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him the way he hated Levian, father-killer or not. He hoped James was alive.

There was nothing he could do. He clutched the cloak tightly, eyes downcast. There was never anything he could do. Every time he tried…

“What you would do?” Argent asked.

“Do what?”

“About Ulciscor.”

“I’d…” Fight? The notion sounded foolish now. Just one of those thunderflutes had done this to him. And Terra Daeva had crates upon crates of them. What was the point? He couldn’t answer. “I don’t know.”

“I know a just cause when I see one,” Argent said. “And believe me, Mirastelle’s cause is as just as they come. Amon will stomp on them, simply for not bowing to him. It’s sickening. This should have all ended when Lumina was sacked.”

He didn’t know what to do with himself. He was lost in the dark, dampened or not. Lost without a direction in the world.

“What would you do?” he whispered. “Would you fight?”

“Every day I live and breathe is a fight,” Argent said solemnly. “I’ve been moving against Amon for a very long time. But it isn’t only the fight that matters. They can do so much more. With Magenta, I can heal. With Yellow, I can see the beauty of the world. You wouldn’t believe half the things I can do with Green. Listen, though. What’s important isn’t the colors and what they can do, but how you use them. What’s important is protecting what’s precious to you, what’s close enough to reach out and touch.” He flicked a finger and a gust of wind brushed Luke’s shoulder. He winked. “The colors just let you cheat a little.”

He met Argent’s eyes. “What is it?”

Argent stood and paced around the cabin interior with bold strides. He stopped at the foot of the bed, bandaged back to Luke.

“Some people like Amon, well, they call it the Individual’s Kingdom. A power so strong and vast, so great and terrible, that it gives one person the combined might of an entire kingdom.” He turned to reveal an orb of threaded light cupped between his hands that cycled through six colors like a kaleidoscope. “I don’t agree with that description. I believe it is so much more. As for myself, I prefer to call it Weaving.”

“And you would teach someone like me how to use it?”

“Gladly.”