A blue sun pierces through the cloud barrier above Talia’s head, turning the ocean in front of her a deeper, richer shade of purple. The water is warm as it laps against her ankles, but she can hear a distant roar on the horizon—building, building, building—

She turns from the towering wave and suddenly the ocean is gone. She’s amongst the whispering trees. A voice chants underneath them, so low it rumbles the ground beneath her feet—too deep to make out any sort of words. She sees the flicker of flames in the corner of her eye, or rising shadows and she takes a step forward—

Into a field of rippling grass, full of dark and creeping things. They hiss as they move along the ground. The blue sun is so bright overhead but it does nothing to block the growing shadows that consume the grass. The light dims, the creatures reach for her with grasping, furious claws and she—

Wakes up.

She presses a hand to her hammering heart—the gasp of her breath loud in the stillness of her room. She feels like something is moving beneath her skin, like those claws managed to pierce her and now there’s something inside her chest, her ribcage. For a moment, she considers old recklessness: going out into the night, finding trouble to throw herself into until this strangeness dissipates.

But she’s older now, and she likes to think she has learned something. Instead, she heads for the roof. Foster Home Nine is a townhouse, sandwiched between several taller buildings, but she likes being able to stare up at the lights of the buildings from the flat roof. An advertisement glows on the side of one: a beautiful model pedaling a new line of skincare. It changes after a moment to a seaside resort offering discounted rooms.

Talia watches the neon glow play across her skin in pinks and purples and blues. Sometimes, the city feels more alive after dark, when everything is illuminated. Clara used to love it, always wanting to go to markets or karaoke or just wander through the glimmering streets.

It feels like the magic hour, she said once.

Talia wonders what she would make of these dreams. She doesn’t read as much about knights and fairytales anymore, but she’d still insist they have some kind of meaning. She would make Talia sit down and recount every detail while she listened with rapt attention. She’d prescribe metaphors to the blue sun, the purple ocean, the whispering forest.

She’d make sense of everything.

She’s gone.

Talia grits her teeth against a sudden rush of tears and slides into one of the stances that Polo taught her. This fighting style flows like water, each movement rippling into the next and the next, and it’s soothing to work her way through the poses, battling an imaginary enemy. Better that than the chasm of loneliness yawning within her.

But it’s hard to focus. She shifts into a kick and for a second she’s back in the forest as it burns. She spins to dodge a phantom attack and thinks for a moment there are whispers coming from the billboard on the opposite building. The thing inside of her is still restless, gnawing and yet there is a piece missing too. A part of her that is just beyond her grasp—something she should know, something she has forgotten, something buried that is waking up like the creatures between the trees.

Frustrated, she drops her hands to her sides and screams. It echoes of the buildings, slowly fading into nothing.

Everything has a meaning, Clara insists with bright eyes, sometimes you just have to be patient until you figure out what it is.

But what does Clara know? Clara left.

Clara left and Talia—

Talia buries her face in her hands and breathes until the urge to cry is gone.

***

The dreams follow her through the next day, as she prepares for the start of a new semester. As usual, the Foster Parents have contributed nothing to the purchase of school supplies, but Polo passed her some cash last week and insisted Talia could pay her back someday.

So she ducks in and out of shops, haggling a bargain where she can. As she’s stepping out of her last one, pencil case tucked under her arm, she runs right into a solid chest.

The case clatters to the pavement and Talia looks up (and up and up, how annoying) at a familiar face that’s only grown sharper and meaner with age.

The Neighborhood King still has a posse that follows him around, terrorizing everyone that perceive as weak. Talia’s avoided him for years, and faced with him now, she realizes that she doesn’t want to fight. It isn’t the burning need that it was when she was younger. She could walk away now and be fine, but she can see, from the fury on his face, that he isn’t going to let her.

Fine, she’ll just have to beat him instead. Finally, close this chapter once and for all.

“You,” the King sneers.

Talia grins at him. “Me.”

Then, lightning fast, she knees him in the groin, taking the chance to scoop up her pencil and run.

He groans, staggers, and gives chase as Talia turns off the main street into a smaller, quieter square. In this part of the city, passersby rarely bat an eye at two kids getting into a scuffle.

Talia drops her bag to the ground and cracks her knuckles. “You know, I’ve been looking forward to this,” she says conversationally.

“Me too.” The King shoves his hands into his pockets, but tension lines his shoulder. He reminds Talia of a coiled panther.

Talia surges forward, anticipating his quick step to the side, and shifts with him, forcing him to rush to block the blow she aims at his head. Her fist slams into his forearm hard enough to draw a gasp out of him.

And Talia realizes, with amazement, that this is going to be easy.

She aims another punch at his side, landing between his ribs. He wheezes and shoves her away. She catches herself on herself and propels herself back to her feet, kicking his leg in an attempt to knock him off balance.

He manages to twist out of the way and retaliate with a strike to her stomach that knocks the air from her lungs. She recovers quickly and waits for him to strike again.

He swings at her face and she steps out of the way at the last moment, grabbing his extended arm and twisting it behind his back. Then, she hooks her foot around his ankle and wrenches him off his feet.

He hits the ground with a thud and a faint cry. Talia plants a sneaker between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned face-first to the asphalt.

“I win,” she says, wishing she had a better comeback. Polo should teach her those next.

“Get off me,” the King snarls.

She presses down harder. “I win,” she repeats. “And I want you to stop picking on the other kids in this neighborhood. Or I’ll make sure we have an audience next time I beat you.”

He bares his teeth at her but remains silent. She smirks and lifts her foot off, leaving him bloody on the ground. Just like he once did to her.

***

“What happened to you?” Polo asks when Talia sweeps into her apartment a few hours later with messy hair and a stained shirt.

“Nothing,” Talia says, not sure if Polo would approve of another fight. “We should spar.”

She’s high off of her earlier victory, buzzing with energy, and she doesn’t know any other way to release.

Polo arches an eyebrow, pausing in the middle of washing vegetables. “Now.”

Talia nods. “I can help you with dinner after.”

Polo gives her a long, searching look. The piercing kind. But she eventually nods, taking off her floral apron. “Alright,” she says with a sweep of her hand. “Lead the way.”