Deep inhale.
Then a slow exhale.
With his eyes closed, Edward took long, steady breaths while lounging on the backyard chair.
The air was fresh—minty and calming.
A cool evening breeze brushed gently against his skin, carrying with it the soft hush of approaching night.
Opening his eyes, Edward gazed up at the magnificent tapering orange hue that melted into the horizon beyond the forest trees.
The branches swayed gently in the wind, and the leaves rustled with a soothing, melodic whisper.
As dusk crept in, Edward wished he could just stay there—quiet, untouched, and far from the noise inside his head.
Just... breathe.
Forget everything for a while.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself flying off—chasing the golden horizon, leaving all his troubles behind.
But he knew better.
Fantasies wouldn't solve anything.
He let the thought drift away, like smoke in the wind, and sank slowly back into the somber weight of reality.
He tried again to reclaim the peace of the moment—but it was futile.
The thoughts clung to him, like thorns tangled in his soul.
Why was all of this happening to him?
He didn't ask to be different.
He just wanted a normal, happy life. To focus on school, perform well, and move away to university to pursue his dream—medicine.
He wanted to get away from his father, who annoyed him more often than not these days.
So how had he ended up in the middle of a supernatural storm?
Why the confusing mysteries?
Why the painful secrets?
Edward shuddered at the thought of being a warlock—not because he hated it, but because it made him question everything.
He didn't know himself anymore.
And worse... he didn't know his parents either.
What if neither of them had powers?
What if he was adopted?
He dreaded that thought more than any other. More than finding out his parents were simply hiding their true identities. That at least would mean they were still his.
His face contorted with discomfort.
He was confused. Overwhelmed.
He didn't fear the supernatural. In truth, it fascinated him. Always had—ever since he was a kid.
And now that he knew he had powers—wondrous, incredible powers—he felt that fascination even more.
But...
The fear was stronger.
It clouded the wonder.
More often, it drowned it completely.
Leaving him wishing, if only briefly, for a quiet, ordinary life.
Mid-thought, Edward heard the backdoor swing open. A footstep. Then a pause.
"…Edward?" his mother called, confused.
Edward turned.
There she was—Miridald. One foot still inside the kitchen, the other on the porch. Hand gripping the door knob. Her face painted in shock and mild alarm.
The wind brushed strands of her black hair across her face. She tucked them behind her ear, her eyes never leaving Edward's, clearly waiting for an explanation.
Edward smiled faintly. He didn't know what to say.
Earlier, when he arrived, he had lost all interest in stepping inside once he realized his father was home.
At first, he hadn't noticed.
Looking weary and drained, he'd walked to the front door, slipped his bag off his shoulders, and reached for the knob—
—when he heard it.
His mother's laughter inside. Warm, joyful.
And then… that voice.
Deep. Familiar.
Jarold.
He was home.
A surge of anger shot through Edward like a sudden flame.
He withdrew his hand from the knob.
Stepping back, he turned his head—
—and there it was. His father's black Mazda CX-5 parked in the driveway.
He'd missed it before.
Groaning quietly, Edward slung his bag over one shoulder and snuck around the house, slipping through the narrow space between the fence and the wall, heading straight for the backyard.
He'd been on the lounge chair ever since.
His bag now sat quietly beside him.
Miridald's voice pulled him back to the present.
"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at Anita's."
Edward looked at her.
Still unsure of what to say.
He had called her earlier—just like she told him to—and informed her that he was at Anita's place minutes before he left.
"Uh…" he searched for words. "Um… I… I was just chilling, Mom."
He smiled, but it was forced.
Miridald saw straight through the lie.
Tucking away a few stubborn strands of hair again, she stepped further onto the porch and asked with a firm, worried tone,
"Are you sure you're okay, Edward?"
Taken aback, Edward replied quickly, trying to sound confident. "I'm duper, Mom."
Then, grabbing his bag—which now felt heavier than ever, the grimoire inside pressing down on his shoulder—he walked toward her.
Meeting her skeptical gaze, he placed a hand gently on her cheek, brushing it with his thumb.
"I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry," he said softly.
And then, without another word, he stepped inside, leaving her behind on the porch.
He didn't want her asking more questions.
Miridald, still standing in place, watched her son disappear into the house.
Her eyes narrowed.
She knew him too well.
He was lying.
She didn't know what was wrong, but she knew something was.
She and Renee had both sensed it last night.
Ever since he came down to eat, something had shifted in him.
Setting the worry aside for a minute, she turned slowly and looked at the lounge chair again, trying to remember what had brought her outside in the first place.
Nothing came to mind.
Groaning, she stepped back inside and quietly shut the door.
----
Reaching the staircase, Edward paused at the first step, one hand gripping the banister, the other clutching the strap of his bag as it hung lazily from his shoulder.
His focus remained fixed on Jarold, visible through the study's open door.
Jarold, unaware of Edward's presence, was hunched over his desk, fingers tapping busily on his keyboard.
Edward's face was unreadable.
He didn't know how to feel toward the man anymore.
Did he hate him?
Was he disappointed?
Jaded?
Or… was it envy?
Why had he laughed so freely with Mom earlier? Why was he strict with him most of the time, never laughing like that with him anymore?
All Jarold ever seemed to do these days was give commands—how to do things, when to do them, and if Edward dared to do them differently… trouble.
Sometimes it even came with smacks.
That had never happened before. Ever.
His thoughts scattered when he heard the front door open.
In stepped Renee—elegant as always—her black Padra Galleria bag dangling from the crook of her arm.
Edward turned to ascend the stairs, but then, his eyes locked suddenly with Jarold's, who had just looked up from his computer.
For a second, they stared at each other.
Edward's expression remained blank.
Then—he turned and bolted up the stairs, ignoring both Jarold and Renee.
From her quiet spot by the kitchen counter where she had been watching him quietly, Miridald watched him go, concern heavy in her eyes.
Renee stood in awe, sensing something was wrong—deeply wrong.
Jarold, on the other hand, just narrowed his eyes and shook his head in disappointment.
To him, Edward's behavior was nothing short of disrespectful.
No greeting. No courtesy. Just… storming off.
And yet, deep down, Jarold felt it too.
Pain.
Grief.
Ever since Edward turned into a teenager, they'd clashed. Constant tantrums, constant rebellion. Nothing he did seemed to help. The more he tried to correct him, the worse it got.
He'd taken drastic measures out of fear—fear that Edward would lose his way.
But it only drove them further apart.
Sighing heavily, Jarold turned back to his screen, determined not to let his son's attitude ruin what had otherwise been a great day after a long night at work.
---
Upstairs, Edward slammed his door shut behind him.
He flung his bag to the floor, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto his soft, bouncy bed—arms and legs spread wide, belly down.
For a moment, he just lay there, burying his face in the duvet, inhaling its familiar fragrance.
Then, he rolled over, staring up at the ceiling, arms and legs still sprawled.
His eyes wandered to the window.
The stars shimmered across the now ink-black sky, twinkling peacefully.
Something clicked.
A thought. A realisation.
Edward's face twitched.
Sitting up slowly, he dropped his gaze to the black carpet beneath his feet.
"Why am I even feeling sorry for myself?" he muttered aloud.
"I should be composed. I should man up. Whatever happens will happen anyway."
His lower lip curled in determination.
"I need to stop fearing the future. Stop obsessing over what my parents may or may not be hiding. I'll cross that bridge when I get there."
Fueled by sudden conviction, Edward looked around the room, searching.
There. His bag.
"It's time to start honing my abilities," he declared.
He then grabbed the bag and returned to the bed, sitting on its edge.
Unzipping it, he retrieved the grimoire.
The moment his eyes met the ancient leather cover, that same sensation returned.
Magic.
Pure, undiluted wonder.
He flipped it open to a random page and rested it across his lap, taking long, steady breaths. His hands hovered above the tome.
He chanted.
This time, his eyes remained open—fixed on the book.
As he finished the incantation, soft glimmers of royal blue light began dancing around his hands and the grimoire.
Then, slowly, the tome began to levitate.
Gracefully. Beautifully.
Edward's breath caught.
His eyes widened in awe.
His heart thumped.
His lips parted in pure astonishment.
He still wasn't used to this power.
But unlike before, he didn't panic.
He embraced it.
He owned it.
Rising slowly from the bed, hands raised, he moved them gently to the left.
The book followed.
Right.
The book mirrored him.
Then he froze.
A wild thought sparked in his mind.
A grin sipped into his lips.
Closing his eyes, he focused harder.
When he opened them again—his room glowed.
He stared in astonishment.
Objects floated mid-air, enveloped in the same glowing blue aura.
The soft light bathed the walls and ceiling in a mystical hue.
But then, a weight pulled on his hands.
The floating objects felt heavy, like they were tethered to invisible anchors.
It hadn't felt like this when he levitated the fork… or even the grimoire alone.
His gaze drifted down.
His hands… they too were glowing.
Fully.
Blue.
Alive.
He glanced at the book again.
It shimmered more vibrantly than ever before.
And now, the weight intensified.
His arms trembled.
He clawed at the air, face contorted with resolve.
With a grunt, he strained—lifting his arms higher.
The objects rose with them.
Edward smiled.
Exhilarated.
Proud.
But then—footsteps.
Someone was approaching.
Panic crashed over him.
He dropped focus.
The glow vanished.
Every floating object fell back to earth.
Some landed softly.
Others clattered.
The grimoire thudded loudly onto the carpet in front of him.
Edward dropped onto the bed, shoving the tome under it with his foot.
He sat still, back straight, heart pounding.
His breath hitched in his throat.
His wide, fearful eyes locked on the door.
Waiting.
Waiting to see who would walk in.