Content warning for: gender dysphoria, misgendering of a transgender character

They say that all Fendriaks worthy of power have a soul, an invisible force filled with memories and gifts that travel from one vessel to the next—but my soul has a twisted sense of humor, Indigo Sarte thinks, for it has made its home inside the wrong body.

In the comfort of his secret hideout, Indigo listens to the pitter-patter of rain beating rhythms into the old wood. The dried violet herbs he plunges into the cauldron before him causes the boiling water to stir. Indigo wipes away beads of sweat that trail down his forehead. He makes sure not to hit an array of handmade candles, which burn for him, with his elbow.

Clear solutions turn to deep purples until they become translucent again. A proud smirk is etched across his features. Finally, he thinks, whilst dipping in a modest vial, then two, and more—until the pot’s contents have been emptied dry. Finally, it’s complete, at last.

Indigo eyes the remainder of his ingredients. Some are still crawling, trying to escape, as others lay on their backs, with their crooked legs pointed toward an invisible sky.

The young warlock licks his lips. He wonders what he could possibly make next—however, the shouts of his sister are quick to interrupt his handiwork.

“Indigo? Indigo? Where are you?”

Indigo gasps. His hands fumble around shelves, books stacked atop one another and, for the brief instance of a second, he regrets not having chosen a bigger tree trunk; the options for storage in this one are rapidly diminishing.

The young warlock curses under his breath, then damns his sister. She’s always interrupting when it gets good.

With a few short huffs, Indigo regains his composure. He steps forward, back into reality and out of a place filled with long-forgotten dreams. He spares one glance at the barrier of rustling leaves which soak up dew, newly peppered across its brilliant greens. Indigo ignores the other entities—ones that protect the entrance to his domain who, Indigo knows, should not be named.

Around the roots of his lair, Indigo sprinkles powders and potions onto the ground. He waits—watches—until the soil absorbs it all. A raven caws, then speeds past his figure. The wind rises, and a nearby patch of grass perishes, until it fades to an ugly tint of brown.

Indigo takes in the scent of the incoming storm with his eyes shut tight. When he blinks again, the oak-made door has disappeared. The sound of footsteps makes itself known, as Lydia marches across the autumn leaves scattered around the forest, her feet crunching against the wet terrain. “There you are!” she huffs, now bent over as she catches her breath, with both her palms pressed to her knees. “Mommy’s been looking everywhere for you!”

Indigo tilts his head. “Has she?” He cleans his shoulder of dust, as he wipes the dirt off his clothes, with a casual wipe from the back of his palm.

Lydia waves her arms around. “Yeah! It’s been hours! Where were you?”

It occurs to Indigo that she’s still wearing the ivory dress he made for her three years ago. The young warlock does his best to think nothing of it. He also tries to forget he’d had to lie about how exactly the item of clothing was brought to life.

As he walks in the direction of his village then passes his younger sister with no bout of hesitation, Lydia skips to his side. Her fluffy, chestnut hair, bobs up and down against her frail shoulders. “Where do you even go every day?” she asks him, in a tone that’s much too accusatory, for Indigo’s liking. “It’s like you appear out of nowhere each time I come to get you!” Lydia snickers. She brings a palm to her thinning lips, then coos. “You’re not seeing a boy, are you?”

Indigo cannot help but roll his eyes—partly because of her remark, yet, mostly because he’s unsettled and wants an excuse to look away; for staring at Lydia is like looking at the past, at a younger version of himself. “No,” he finally tells her. “I’m not seeing a boy.” Words left unsaid—I don’t have time for that—float in his mind.

Lydia pauses. She clasps her hands together behind her back, then squints. The gesture hides the pure emeralds in her eyes. The roars of the storm overhead begin to settle as the clouds in the sky slowly drift away from the island of Ilragorn. “All right, well…” Lydia hums, “it’s not like it matters anyway. Mommy’s got lots and lots to tell you, so hurry back home, okay?”

After she speaks these words, Lydia dashes off again.

As his sister’s little feet run toward their modest home, leaving a pool of dread to swim inside Indigo’s belly—Indigo wonders, if it is finally time.