Chapter 3

  He panted, leaning back against the base of his bed as he stared at his painting in full. The room once bathed in light from the outside world now much darker, save for the solite crystal powering the hanging light in his room.

  Paint was everywhere, his towels? Soaked. His tunic? Drenched. But by the arcana was it worth it. The painting that was sitting across from him had his full attention. It was, without a doubt, his best work yet.

  It was haunting—like a memory caught mid-breath. Deep, swirling blues bled through the background, a mirror of his melancholy. In the forefront, a painted figure of himself sat at the familiar wooden table, its surface scattered with cards. Chains snaked around his arms and legs, binding him to the chair, to the table, to his fate.

  The painting was shown in mid-action—with the painted figure of Xander in the process of flipping a card. It wasn’t just about what the card signified; it was about the weight of the moment, the frustration, the uncertainty. The painting was meant to make the viewer feel the teasing grip of the unknown, the frustration of wanting answers but never quite reaching them.

  Xander exhaled slowly, feeling a lightness that hadn’t been there before. The weight that had settled on his soul in recent days felt a little less heavy. The questions still lingered, but their edges didn’t cut as deep, It… was nice.

  With a groan, he pushed himself upright, his muscles aching in protest. Most of the cleanup was handled by the towels, though his tunic? A lost cause. He peeled the damp, paint-streaked shirt off with a grimace, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sweat and pigment.

  “To the bin you go,” he muttered, throwing the cloth in the trash with a sigh.

  The towels were spared, for now. They weren’t beyond saving—yet. He nudged them into the corner of the room with his foot, intending to let the paint dry first. A glance at the mirror on his wall made him stop short, though.

  A huff of laughter escaped him. He looked like a toddler who’d been let loose in an art supply store. Paint smudged his cheeks, streaked his neck, and caked his fingers.

  “Mom would’ve had a field day with this,” he snorted, padding to his door.

  Shaking his head he lumbered out into the hallway, movements heavy with exhaustion—spare clothes sagging in his hands. A quick knock against the wall activated the lights in the modest bathroom, revealing its simple, functional layout. He tapped the tiles next to the shower head, hot water sprinkling out with a satisfying hum.

  “Ahh.” His muscles loosened under the warmth, but he didn’t linger. There was work to do. The paint clung to him stubbornly, resisting the soap and scrubbing. Ten minutes turned into nearly twenty as he fought the streaks off his skin. Once he was sure it was all off he tapped the tiles in the same rhythm—the water's flow stopping.

  Drying off quickly, he slipped into fresh clothes, the heaviness of exhaustion settling over him again—tenfold. All he wanted now was sleep.

  A small growl echoed in the space. Well maybe food then sleep.

  Feeling marginally more human, he padded to the kitchen, tossing his paint-stained pants into the wash as he passed. The freshhold door clicked open, revealing a neatly packed container. It was filled to its brim with noodles and mixed vegetables, labeled with his mom’s distinctive handwriting.

  His favorite.

  A small grin tugged at his lips as he pulled it out. If it were up to him, he’d eat this every night. His mom would call his taste “tragic” and his dad would nod along in agreement, but he didn’t care. Some things didn’t need defending.

  Xander plopped the container into the flashoven. The solite crystal embedded in the back hummed softly, feeding the metal box with its energy. It was miles better than what they had before—that cooker took ages. This was quick, efficient, hot food in seconds. A beep let him know it was done. Once he grabbed a fork he took out the container and sat down at the table, a small sigh escaping him.

  Just as his fork sank into the noodles, the door opened. His parents stumbled in, his mom leaning on his dad, her movements a little too loose to be normal.

  Was she… drunk? He raised an eyebrow, that was not like his mother at all.

  She spotted him and flashed a smile, swaying toward him with her husband steadying her. "You’re up late, honey."

  “Finally put the canvas to use.” He smirked, his painting sessions commonly had him up at all hours of the night.

  His dad perked up, clearly interested. "Oh? I’ll have to check it out tomorrow, then."

  The words seemed to make mom’s brows knit in thought before she smiled and suddenly blurted, words just slightly slurred, “Happy birthday Xan Xan!”

  Oh right—his birthday. He’d been so caught up with everything that he’d completely forgotten.

  His dad chimed in, the realization dawning on him as-well, “Right—Happy birthday son!”

  "Thanks," Xander said, offering a faint smile, taking another bite of his noodles. He was surprised when his mom sat down across from him, giving him a drunken grin.

  “You want your reading now?”

  He froze mid-bite—his heart starting to beat like a drum. The moment he’d been waiting for, finally happening. A part of him had almost believed it was a joke, that once he hit eighteen, they’d laugh and say, ‘Sike!’

  He closed his mouth, swallowing hard, trying to keep his cool. "Like, right now?"

  “Mary, honey, I don’t think…” His dad started, looking conflicted—whether it was due to mom’s drunken state or the reading itself, Xander had no clue.

  Mary waved off his dad’s reluctant hesitation. "My personal cards, can you get them please?"

  “I really think this can wait until—”

  “Jermaine, my cards.” She emphasized, even in her inebriated state she was a force to be reckoned with.

  Xander could only watch as his dad relented, trudging to their shared bedroom. Xander, now fidgeting, tried to focus on his food, but the anxiety made each bite feel heavier. His mom was watching him, smile never leaving her face.

  Jermaine returned, cards in hand, and Xander’s breath hitched. It was happening.

  It was time.

  Mary grabbed the deck, running her fingers along the smooth white edges, her expression shifting from playful drunkenness to a sudden, steely focus.

  Her knuckles knocked sharply on the top of the deck before she looked at him intently—her gaze piercing into him, sending an unnerving chill down his spine. Was this what it was like to be on the receiving end of a reading? Xander recalled all his recent sessions with customers, noticing they wore similar looks to one he currently had. Guess so.

  “So my question—” He began.

  She held a hand up, speaking quietly, “I already know your question son—though that isn’t what you need.”

  He frowned, bits of annoyance creeping up into his jaw. Wasn’t this supposed to be his reading?

  She seemed to ignore his frown entirely, continuing to prepare the cards with focused precision. Moments of silence passed, the air thick with tension, before her finger twitched. In an instant, three cards shot out onto the table, landing with a soft thud. He jerked back, staring at her in disbelief. Wasn’t she just completely drunk only minutes ago?

  He glanced toward his dad, who simply shrugged, his face unreadable. Guess mom’s got some tricks up her sleeve.

  She flipped the cards over one by one, and Xander’s eyes widened. Three cards. And they were all Major Arcana. What the heck was going on?

  “The World, The Fool, and The Wheel of Fortune.” Her fingers tapped each card, her gaze drilling into him. “You feel stuck. Stagnant. Like there’s a whole world out there, and you’re just wasting away in complacency—like you don’t have any control.”

  His stomach twisted. The accuracy was almost suffocating. Being on the receiving end of a reading was terrifying—he’d unlocked a new kind of patience for any future customers he’d have.

  Mary’s focus suddenly snapped upward, her eyes unfocused as if possessed by something else entirely. Her hands twitched unnaturally, and her mouth moved, though no sound escaped.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  This was not normal. Xander’s eyes shot to his dad in panic, but Jermaine only looked back at him with a resigned look—as if he’d known this would happen all along. His grip tightened on the edge of the table, the fabric of his pants crumpling beneath clenched fists.

  “Write this down.” His mom looked down and snapped, voice sharp.

  Panicking, Xander scrambled for paper. His dad, seemingly prepared for this, passed him a piece of paper and a pen without a word. This was getting strange—and fast.

  “The wheel shall soon spin,” Mary murmured, her voice distant, as if recalling a memory. Xander’s hands shook as he hurriedly scribbled down the words. “The world will soon call. Your journey will soon begin. Will you let the world fall?”

  He paused, waiting for more, but the words hung in the air. Silence stretched out before she abruptly gathered the cards and pushed back from the table, disappearing down the hallway with an eerie calm.

  Xander turned to his dad, his voice shaky. “What… the hell was that?”

  Jermaine sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, looking conflicted. “You’ll know soon enough.” And with that, he followed her down the hallway, leaving Xander alone at the table.

  Noodles long forgotten, Xander’s eyes drifted over the words he’d just written, each pass more agonizing than the last. The wheel shall soon spin? Will you let the world fall? What did that even mean? It was vague and endlessly frustrating.

  He shoved an annoyed forkful of noodles in his mouth, the pasta pieces now cold and unappetizing.

  “Well happy birthday to me,” he muttered darkly.

  Jor’dan’s broad hands clamped onto Xander’s shoulders, steering him toward another exhibit. The crowd parted instinctively, a ripple of movement as people scrambled to get out of the bigger guy’s way. The faint scent of cologne lingered as Jor’dan leaned in close, his breath brushing the back of Xander’s neck—a hot gust laced with frustration.

  “Bro, it’s your birthday.” Jor’dan’s voice was a low rumble, punctuated by a light swat to the back of Xander’s head. “I know you’re still thinkin’ about that reading your folks gave you, but stop letting it ruin your day.”

  Xander sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his thoughts. His friend was right, as usual. But the disappointment gnawed at him like an insistent tide. Even earlier, during his parents’ attempts to cheer him up, the dull ache of unanswered questions had refused to fade. He couldn’t help but feel guilty—ungrateful even—but no matter how hard he tried, the frustration remained. He’d expected clarity from the cards, a sign, something—but all he’d gotten was a riddle that left him more tangled than before.

  The sudden shadow falling over him broke his reverie. Jor’dan loomed like an immovable boulder, hands planted firmly on his hips, his dark eyes narrowing in mock severity. The stance looked slightly ridiculous coming from his rugged best friend, but Xander knew better than to laugh.

  “You’ve got three seconds to smile before I slap the sulkiness outta you,” Jor’dan warned, raising a broad hand in threat.

  The worst part was? Xander knew he wasn’t lying. He’d have exactly three seconds before he saw the light.

  “Bro,” he protested weakly, not in the mood for the tough-love routine.

  “One.” Jor’dan arched a thick brow, his expression unyielding.

  “It’s my damn birthday, dude—seriously—”

  “Two.”

  Xander grit his teeth, irritation bubbling up like a geyser—only to deflate just as quickly. Annoying as Jor’dan could be, he knew his friend was trying to help. That didn’t mean it didn’t drive him crazy.

  “Fine,” Xander huffed, plastering on a halfhearted smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

  Jor’dan’s gaze sharpened, “Try again.”

  Damnit—Xander ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly as the tension ebbed. He let his eyes drift, searching for something—anything—that could shift his mood. His best friend was here with him, it was his birthday. He, at least, was grateful to be here. The soft glow of the museum lights bathed the room in a warm amber hue; he let the warmth ground him.

  The smile he gave was faint but miles more genuine. “You’re right, sorry.”

  Jor’dan clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a cheeky grin—clearly pleased with himself. Xander rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out.

  Finally, his gaze lifted to the statue Jor’dan had dragged him to—a towering marble figure, its surface smooth and glimmering under a beam of light streaming through a circular window from above. The artistry was breathtaking, every detail etched with precision that made the figure seem almost alive.

  “Why this one?” Xander asked, his fingers brushing tentatively against the cool stone.

  Jor’dan shrugged, his nonchalance breaking the moment’s solemnity. “Dunno. Just looked pretty cool.”

  Xander let out a small laugh, shaking his head as he turned his focus back to the statue. “Yeah,” he murmured, the words lingering in the quiet air, “it is.”

  Jor'dan was never really one for the arts—a peculiar trait among the locals of the Vale, where creativity was as vital as breath. Still, Xander couldn’t help but linger, his gaze drawn upward to the marble figure. The woman’s form was striking, her hands clutching her chest as if holding something unseen, while shadowy tendrils coiled around her body like a creeping curse.

  In a way, it mirrored the painting he’d created—a visual outcry of feeling trapped, of losing control. His chest tightened at the thought, but the ache was softer now. The act of painting had exorcized some of that weight, leaving him with wisps of reflection rather than the storm it had been.

  Jor’dan’s impatient tug jolted him from his reverie, yanking him along to another part of the exhibit. Xander let himself be dragged, redirecting his attention to the lively reception area. The soft, airy notes of a band drifted through the space, harmonizing with the murmur of voices from attendees. Conversations blended like the backdrop of a well-composed painting, grounding the museum in a quiet yet unmistakable warmth. It was part of what made this place so intoxicating—its energy, its life.

  A snippet of conversation drew his focus. To his left, an artist crouched, deeply engaged with a small girl who spoke in a torrent of words, her excitement radiating in squeals and hand gestures. He’d only heard bits and pieces—words of encouragement from the older man and excited squeals of response from the girl.

  A softer smile found its way to Xander’s lips. This was the magic of Solari—the Vale always had a way of lifting the heart.

  He didn’t notice Jor’dan stopping until he bumped into his broad back. “What the—” Xander began but stopped short, peeking around his friend’s shoulder. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes widened.

  Holy shit…

  Before them stood a painting that shimmered as if alive, a galaxy swirling in radiant hues. Stars and planets danced in chaotic harmony, their light bending and twisting into the outstretched hand of a young woman at its center. Her fingers seemed to cradle the cosmos itself. Xander’s mind raced to identify it, the realization settling quickly—it had to be a depiction of The World card.

  More a myth than anything. Most people didn’t even think it existed. Hundreds of years had passed without a single verifiable holder, yet some believed fiercely in its existence. His parents were among them.

  The memory of their conversation last year flickered to life, as vivid as the painting before him. They’d been walking home from the art festival after supporting some of the local artists in the market later in the evening—the thought had come out of nowhere.

  “How are you so sure it’s out there?” he had asked, his shoes crunching against loose gravel on the path.

  “There… are things you don’t truly understand honey.” Mary’s voice was uncharacteristically soft—catching him off guard.

  “Just know it's out there,” His father echoed, though his voice was tighter—expression unreadable.

  The memory dissolved, leaving Xander gazing at the painting with quiet awe.

  Jor’dan’s low voice pulled him back. “This is a goddamn beauty.”

  Xander nodded along, still in awe. This was definitely going to win the art competition this year—without a doubt. The sheer talent on display left him marveling at how many gifted people lived in one place. A flicker of longing crept into his chest as he stared at the painting. Maybe one day his painting’s would adorn the museum walls too.

  After a few moments, it was Xander’s turn to yank his friend out of a trance. He’d seen enough of the museum for one day—his artistic thirst thoroughly quenched by that last piece. Now, his stomach growled in protest, making it clear what his next priority should be.

  “Come on.” Xander tugged at Jor’dan’s arm, grinning at the low grumble of complaint that followed. He wasn’t used to seeing his friend this captivated by art. Usually, Jor’dan’s interest didn’t extend much further than Xander’s own work, and even then, he’d assumed it was just the guy being a good friend. But maybe there was more to it.

  The Vale was alive with its usual midday bustle, the golden hour sun painting the buildings in hues of amber and honey. Some structures gleamed so brightly they seemed to be carved from solite itself. Xander unclipped his sunray from his back, its soft hum a satisfying confirmation as it powered on beneath his feet.

  “Follow me,” Jor’dan called over his shoulder as he hopped onto his own board, a fluid motion that sent stray auburn strands falling into his face. He pushed them back with a practiced swipe before shooting off, small plumes of dust kicking up in his wake.

  Xander followed, his own board leaving faint trails behind as they cruised through the streets. Solari didn’t have strict districts, but it was easy to tell when they were crossing into the more upscale parts of the Vale. The greenery of the park blurred past, and Xander arched a brow as they sped beyond its boundaries toward the wealthier side of town.

  Jor’dan lived nearby—an unspoken perk of being part of the Solari combat ranks. Xander didn’t envy him, though. He couldn’t imagine fighting the beasts his friend faced regularly. He’d seen the aftermath in hushed conversations and grim stories. That wasn’t his world. Besides, Jor’dan had a card—he didn’t. He’d never seen him in battle, but he assumed his friend's King of Wands card gave him a huge edge.

  The history class tidbits came back to him as they rode, thoughts weaving around the lore of the divine hunt. After the hunt, the cards weren’t just given to humans but to animals as well. He shuddered, remembering the fiery bear he’d glimpsed not too long ago, a beast wreaking havoc near the wall before the combat team had taken it down. It was terrifying enough without the flames—no animal that size needed extra powers.

  Jor’dan finally stopped in front of a building, its facade gleaming with an ethereal shimmer. Green-stained glass mingled with deep blue, refracting the light in a way that made the interior appear submerged, as though the ocean itself had taken residence within its walls.

  His breath caught as his eyes landed on the name.

  The Sirens Touch.

  “You’re insane,” he blurted, his gaze snapping to Jor’dan, wide with disbelief. “Dude, I can’t afford this.”

  His friend only smirked, utterly unfazed. “Who said anything about affording it? I’m payin’, of course.”

  Xander stood frozen as Jor’dan unclipped his board and slung it over his back, moving as casually as if he hadn’t just brought Xander to the most expensive restaurant in the entire Vale.

  “Dude no way—”

  “Don’t even start that bullshit—” Jor’dan cut him off, growling, “—I’m treatin’ my friend for his birthday—now hurry up.”

  Xander clamped his mouth shut, swallowing the retort forming on his tongue. There was no arguing with Jor’dan, not unless he wanted to end the conversation with stars spinning around his head.

  “Fine,” he muttered to himself, folding up his board and following him inside.