“Ma!"

Morgan smiled as the little golden blonde bundle of joy in front of her finally materialized. A miracle in the making, no doubt.

"Good, now you don’t need to rely on magic to make noise. Try using your vocal cords and mouth movements instead," Morgan instructed.

"O-o-o…" The little girl gave it a go. "Okay!"

"Magnificent! How did you do that so quickly?!" Morgan gasped. Yes, she had seen the future through Nemo's recording, but seeing this magic construct speak was like watching an AI gaining consciousness.

"Mama! Speak mouth. Nemo saw! Nemo watched!"

Morgan hummed in approval. So she already knew how to make sound with a mouth by watching? That was some next-level learning for a construct. Someone skipped their tutorial.

"Nemo good? Praise!"

"Good girl," Morgan replied, unsure if she should be impressed or alarmed.

Just as they wrapped up the body-function experiment, Yvain wandered in.

"Huh, Master? Nemo’s humanoid vessel is finished?" Yvain marveled. "So cool!"

The three of them tried out a few more experiments, teaching Nemo how to move and not look like a wobbly puppet. That’s when they realized someone was still missing.

"Come to think of it, Master, where’s Master Burn?" Yvain asked.

Morgan blinked, almost as if she'd forgotten about him. "Oh, Caliburn?"

"He’s painting."

***

The solarium was simple—nothing extravagant, nothing grandiose. Just a quiet space where Burn sat, but instead of enjoying the scenic view through the windows like any normal person would, he had positioned his easel facing the center of the room, back to the windows, as if sunlight itself was beneath his notice. Well, he just wanted the light, after all.

It had been a while since he'd taken any real time for himself. Not even his last painting session counted as self-indulgence. Alright, yes, technically he told himself that everything he did was for himself—but self-awareness was a fickle thing, and he was starting to suspect he might have been lying.

After all, how could the world possibly keep spinning if he wasn’t personally keeping it in motion?

As he slowly traced a swirl onto the pitch-black canvas with his finest, most delicate brush, he paused, studying the stroke. A brief moment of contemplation. Perhaps a moment of doubt.

Or maybe just the fleeting realization that even in something as personal as painting, the weight of the world still sat on his shoulders like an overly attached ghost.

“Pa!”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

A chaotic blur of blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an optimistic misunderstanding of physics came hurtling toward him—tripping, rolling, sliding, and ultimately using his leg as an impromptu crash pad.

Burn didn’t flinch. He barely even blinked.

“Nemo, mind your movements,” came a voice from the doorway, effortlessly carrying a large bowl of grapes as if this was just another Tuesday. “You can bruise now. You’re not an indestructible hourglass anymore.”

Trailing behind her, a young boy half-laughed, half-sighed as he attempted to wrangle the little blonde tornado currently bouncing around the room.

“Evan Bro! Evan Bro!” Nemo chirped, enthusiasm unchecked.

Burn parted his lips slightly—just enough to accept a grape, delicately placed between them by fingers as pale and porcelain-thin as fine china.

Throughout all this, his eyes never wavered from the pitch-black abyss of his canvas. Not even when warm lips pressed against his temple. Not even when a gentle hand moved along his back, grounding him in the moment.

“Is this what you think your Vision is?”

A pause.

Burn nodded.

In the pitch-black canvas sat a fist-sized white swirl. Well, not quite a swirl—more like a bend in the canvas’s plane. An optical illusion?

From a distance, it appeared as if the canvas had a hole folding in on itself, simultaneously expanding and collapsing, exploding and imploding, like a fragment of missing space.

The fabric of the canvas stretched and warped, giving the eerie impression of a transparent glass sphere, but not quite, embedded within the darkness—both there and not, solid yet intangible, endlessly pulling everything into its quiet abyss.

“It looks rather optimistic,” she mused.

“Nothingness is optimistic?” Burn asked, raising a brow.

“Mm.” She nodded. “How dare everything never exist? Such audacity. Such hope.”

A chuckle rumbled low in his throat, his lips curling into a rare smile. “How dare indeed.”

Despite the subtlest ripples and barely-there gradients interrupting the abyss of black, the canvas remained an indistinct blur. She traced a finger toward one of the faint distortions before turning to him expectantly.

“Objects,” Burn answered simply.

Morgan chuckled. “Which one is us?”

He hummed, frowned in thought, then finally pointed toward an empty patch of black.

“Oh, that far?” She narrowed her eyes. “Not even a blur?”

“Shall I mix the darkest gray I can possibly create and add the tiniest stroke?”

“For me?”

“For you.”

“Aww…”

“There. That’s my wife. And everything I know. Right there.”

“Aww… I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The obligatory smooch sound followed, prompting Yvain to lean in and squint at the canvas—before immediately recoiling. His face twisted in something between horror and disbelief. This… this was supposed to be Burn’s Vision?

He narrowed his eyes, as if looking any harder would make it less terrifying. “Master Burn, please don’t use your Vision…” he muttered, visibly unsettled.

Burn only laughed.

Then—

“Pa!”

“Grape incoming!”

“Pa! Nom!”

“Nom.”

“Master, I want one too! Aaaaah—mm nom…”

Just when Burn thought the room couldn't get any more crowded, Finn strolled in, flanked by Vlad and Isaiah—the veiled vampire draped in his usual black robes and the towering, majestic dragon beside him.

Finn gestured grandly. “Ah! There they are.”

Before anyone could react, a delighted squeal pierced the air, and a small, golden-haired blur launched itself toward them at full speed.

“Pop-pops! Unc!”

Burn turned to Morgan, one eyebrow arching in silent judgment.

She merely smiled, leaning comfortably against him. “Didn’t we agree to play D&D together?”

Burn exhaled. “And who, exactly, is going to guard the first Demon Lord’s corpse on the moon?”

Isaiah, ever composed, replied smoothly, “We hath woven a discreet barrier, hiding all snug and sound,” Isaiah intoned, his voice as composed as ever. Then, after a meaningful pause, he added, “But thee, verily, art in need of aid hither.”

Meanwhile, Vlad was having an entirely different crisis. His eyes sparkled with unholy delight as he swooped in and scooped Nemo up with practiced ease.

“Oho, ohohoho, ohoho,” he cackled, spinning her around. “Say Pop-pops again. Pops?”

“Pops!”

“Good girl. Yes, my name is Pops. Gran Gran Pops.”

“Oh, fantastic. Gran Gran Vlad has evolved.” Burn rubbed his temples. “That’s not your name. Your name is Vlad.”

Vlad tilted his head dramatically. “Who’s Vlad? Who’s son is that?”

“This senile old vamp—”