Grahein City, Kragehn District, Maiyean Regio.
Planet Sandur
8  April 1588

Viscous drops of red soup fell from the wooden spoon edge; the ripples dampened in a bowl. This morning's breakfast was Kôra’s favorite vanarankareih; the traditional-style monitor lizard soup of Tôryaemae. The boy stirred the opaque liquid to find the biggest piece of meat he had saved for himself. His eyes glinted as his spoon hit said chunk. 

Kôra’s excitement diminished soon, however. His hand trembled upon realizing the strange object he had scooped. The boy lifted it cautiously, revealing a thing resting in the bowl of his spoon. His thick eyebrows rose looking at it.

An inchoate human, a fetus.

The boy sat stupefied and wide-eyed; locked still to his meal. He had no faintest clue of how it could end up in the dish he cooked himself. That distorted humanly image incited both fright and familiarity within his mind. Unnerving, but he could not resist feeling curious.

Its internal organs were vaguely seen through its translucent blood-soaked skin. The body was bizarrely disproportionate, specifically its flimsy limbs with strikingly enlarged head. Despite that Kôra still could recognize a face: mouth, nose, eyes. Its eyes especially; he saw the void of endless depth in them. They spoke to his heart.

Then its heart beat, faster and faster matching his. With a thump that echoed, with an echo that rang, then with a ring that called him.

“Kôra?”

“Kôra!”

Kôra jumped from his seat in an abrupt panic. His reaction knocked the dining table and the things on it. The falling condiment bottles made significant noises, scattered water beads from a potted flower were bouncing on the table. His own food was not even spared from a little spill. The ruckus sparked displeasure from the amber-haired man who called him.

“In the name of God! What the fuck is wrong with you?” The man scolded with a grating voice. There was not much room in this dining space for this loudness. "Don’t sleep on your breakfast!”

“It. . . is. . . nothing, Uncle Haren.” That question hit him colder than the morning air. Kôra’s voice was muted and shaky. His lilac eyes were not even looking at his uncle. An icy feeling emanated from his chest. He pulled the long sleeves of his school uniform, covering his brown skin. “My apologies.”

"Then eat your food, don't be late!" the disheveled man blustered, slamming the sour sauce bottle.

“Yes. . . Yes, Uncle.”

He greeted his meal back with a dismayed frown. Kôra investigated everything below the liquid. All it was vegetables, seeds, miscellaneous garnishes, and monitor lizard meat as it should; yet his appetite had already shattered as it would. The disgust lingered.

Kôra distracted himself. He stole a look at his uncle who was rearranging and cleaning the table. The wiping cloth he used was as shabby as the carbonated water brand T-shirt he wore. That bearded man looked nothing like his nephew except the color of his hooded lavender eyes. Haren’s skin looked notably ashen, it made his dark eye bags look striking.

The unkempt man had yawned multiple times; Kôra wondered what caused his unrest. He peered at Kôra to make sure he ate; only to notice something with the boy. Kôra’s sleeves lifted as he moved his arms, revealing numerous bruises.

“What happened to your arm?”

That question appalled the kid. Haren unrolled Kôra’s sleeve to check despite the boy’s weak disapproval. The bruises were growing more in numbers, along with newly healed scratches. Not only that, among them scattered around what looked like scars of laceration.

Surprise and disbelieving came to the faces of those two, both of their gazes met. Haren dug down at Kôra's eyes, speaking an unspoken question. Kôra could not face his Uncle, or think about a decent answer.

“What are these?”

“Old. . . From last. . .”

Haren pointed at a fresh scab.

“. . . I do not know. . . I not know. . .” he mumbled.

“Did someone hurt you? Did you fight?” Haren inquired, he suppressed the heightened worry in his tone. "Did you hurt yourself?"

Kôra shook his head in bewilderment. The kid did not remember what caused those wounds or for what cause he deserved them. These injuries conjured perturbation and questions. His mind wandered, recalling what had happened last night. Inaudible whispers escaped from his lips, gathering easements to tell.

“It. . . It. . . Is. . . Probably. . . The. . . Is something attacked me,” he let out his flickering voice. “Is. . . The. . . That night. . . Something that night. Since earthquake. . . Since that night."

“That night again?” Haren confirmed. His finger subconsciously squashed a stray water bead. “You said you hit some mug shards, and that was it.” His intonation was muddled between a question and a contention.

The nephew nodded. “Y. . .Yes. Maybe just accident.”

“There are ointment and bandages in the living room, the second drawer,” Haren said. “Now eat.”

Kôra struggled to continue the meal. His facade reflected on the textured surface of the soup; red soup, green vegetables. As green as it he recalled; red of blood, green of the eye. It overlaid on his reflection, a thing that he could not get over.

“But. . . Why my left eye turned green? I saw it,” Kôra mumbled under his breath.

“You were mistaken,” Haren—who overheard it, replied. “You had nightmares, and that was it.”

“But. . . It. . . Real. . . I. . . I. . . It. . . Looks like. . . Me. . .”

“That was it! It was your nightmare,” the uncle concluded, his patience having been eroded. “I’ll buy you some sleeping potions.”

Kôra chose to silence himself. Deep down he could not help but reminisce the face of that other him, the dead was it. The boy felt the boiling flow of his own blood, while the outside air froze his skin. Like unspoken things he wanted to let out, it stuffed him. Fear, worries, to open up.

A dot of faint white light.

Kôra opened his sweaty palms. A feel of sweeping cold wind blew inside the room. It was such a dashing force for the nerves to interpret, yet it was not a gust that knocked everything in its reach. Things were as it should be in its place, except the dragging weight of the suffocating air.

Haren distanced himself from Kôra. Glowing inscriptions of spells appeared on his bare skin, illuminating his alarmed face. It dimmed down to a cease, as gradual as how Haren’s vigor faded. Drained by Kôra’s worries to a strain.

Kôra’s head grew heavy, realizing what he had done. He closed his hand to grab the spoon, pretending to eat. His tremor did not let him to, he made more mess. He messed up.

Haren on the other hand tried to collect himself; he grabbed a glass of water and sat down. His vision was reduced to a blur while the light blinded him, everything felt pulsating in their gradual way into normalcy. Perhaps because of it Kôra looked like he was casting two shadows, in this small room with only one lamp.

“Did you just use it on purpose?!” Haren broke the silence. His yelling sounded forced, he gasped for air after using all his breath for it. Another inscription of spells flashed on his skin.

Kôra shook his head.

Haren faced Kôra in disbelief. “It’s been six months, what’s your excuse?” he sneered. “Bless your parents who dealt with you.”

“I. . . I. . . am. . . I am trying, Uncle. I am sorry. . . Uncle. . . I did not meaned to do that,” he apologized, extra guilt point was added. Cold sweat started pouring down, his breathing rate was irregular. “I am apologizing, really. I am sorry. . . Really sorry.”

"Finish your breakfast or throw it away, I don't care."  Haren said, without looking at that boy. “If you're gonna pack that, don't share with your friends.” He referred to the remaining soup inside a large pot.

“Yes, uncle.”

“I’m not your parents, so do me a favor and put more effort in controlling it,” Haren added, his tone softened. He dragged himself out of the room. “Also stop destroying the spell papers; I hate to deal with those priests.”

Kôra almost uttered a word of denial about the papers, yet Haren’s condition concerned him more. “Is Uncle okay?” asked Kôra.

Haren looked at Kôra, his eyes showed a tint of worry. “Control it. Don’t let it influence you.” He slammed the door as he reached his room.

Kôra sat perplexed. Anything he perceived as helping would cause extra trouble, however. He noticed the change of the potted yarun plant; it should have a salmon umbel inflorescence, but now the whole plant turned into a vigorless dry brown. Haren used the plant to brew a calming potion for himself, a habit the boy noticed since his arrival at this house.

Kôra looked at his own hand in a stare full of contempt and disgust. The plant was not a weed that deserved to be exterminated. His uncle did not deserve the burden he brought in. There was no questions nor answer to this situation. It is might be Kôra himself who deserved those cuts and bruises, as he aimlessly thought.

After the struggle of finishing his breakfast, the boy tried to erase the nausea by drinking and brushing his teeth. Kôra then prepared himself; dressed his scars with adhesive bandages, packed his lunch, and picked his backpack up. He stood in front of his uncle’s room, considering if he should knock and properly tell him he was going.

“Just go!” Haren shouted from the inside. “Close the gate tightly!”

“Yes, Uncle Haren,” Kôra faintly answered, “I am going.” He reminisced the moments with his parents; they always blessed him whenever he would be going. A small portion of his thoughts suggested that this may be the reason for his awful luck recently. “Please. . . Pray for me.”

Kôra opened the wall mirror’s cover, just to make a final check. It was customary for his people to close the mirror when unused; besides the philosophy of humility, looking at it for too long is believed to mediate evil entities to come. A creak screeched when the cover was opened with caution. The wood was old, with colorful stickers from various temples plastered all over its surface.

A smile of his reflection greeted him, their eyes met.

Kôra did not smile.

Consternated, Kôra slammed the mirror cover before his reflection could do or say anything more.