Smoke curled lazily around the lanterns of Abranta, like restless spirits seeking warmth. What were once celebratory streets now shimmered with a dreamlike haze—beautiful, but wrong. The golden and lavender lights still burned overhead, but they flickered now, uncertain. As if even the city itself wasn't sure whether to hope or to fear.
The siblings ran.
Not toward anything. Not away from anything. Just… running. On instinct.
The blast had shattered the night's illusion. Screams rang out. Orders barked. Fire bit at their lungs, laced with the stench of scorched stone.
They weren't the only ones.
Children. Families. Teenagers. All scattering like marbles on cracked pavement. But even amid the chaos, they felt it. Eyes. Watching.
"Keep your heads down," Nola hissed, dragging Nachtan by the wrist, weaving through smoke and rubble. "Stick to the sides. No flashy moves. No powers."
She didn't need to explain why.
Her own anomalyte thrummed beneath her ribs—wild and unpredictable. One misstep, one flicker too strong, and panic would bloom into violence.
Behind them, Ronan and Leo ducked between broken stalls. Ronan, usually the first to vanish into folds of space, stayed grounded. Tonight, stealth wasn't worth the risk. A blink left residue. Residue could be traced.
And in a city like Abranta—where power, paranoia, and politics ruled—leaving a trail was like tightening a noose around your own neck.
The first accusation came like a gunshot. Sharp. Unmistakable.
"There! It was them! I saw them!"
The siblings froze. A teenage boy—fifteen, maybe—stood dazed in the smoke, ash smudging his cheeks. For a second, Nachtan's heart stopped. It looked like Gavin.
But it wasn't.
And he wasn't alone.
"I saw six of them running!"
"Same age, same clothes—they were right by the blast!"
"Nexurians. Of course it's Nexurians."
Just like that, the tide turned.
From chaos… to blame.
From fear… to fury.
Elora had been fighting her way through smoke and bureaucracy, but by the time she slipped past the lockdown barriers, the damage was done.
Across the city, Abranta's towering displays lit up with grainy footage: six shadowy figures fleeing the blast. Faces blurred. But close enough.
Too close.
Someone had leaked the footage. Someone who knew exactly how to feed the flames.
Elora stood in the hall outside the council chamber, her jaw locked as she watched it unfold.
"…the resemblance is notable," one of the Nine murmured.
"A dangerous coincidence," another agreed. "If these are the Amaranthe children, we're facing a diplomatic disaster."
"They were unsupervised."
"They were Nexurian."
The word landed with weight. Like a stone thrown in still water.
Elora turned away before the rage curling in her stomach could surface.
By the time the children reached the Night Owl Café, the streets had turned cold.
Nestled between a crumbling bookstore and a shop with half-lit signage, the café was a sanctuary. The kind of place that didn't ask questions. The air smelled of roasted chicory and burnt sugar. A clock ticked behind the counter like a heartbeat from a slower, older world.
Nachtan slumped into a booth. Nola followed, silent. Ronan took the door, eyes flicking toward the street with every passing shadow.
Amelia paced.
"They're saying it's us."
"We know," Leo murmured.
"No," she snapped, stopping mid-step. "They're not just thinking it. They're saying it. Screens. Walls. People. Someone threw a rock at me."
Nola said nothing. Just stared at the flickering light above, her gaze far away.
"They need a scapegoat," she said quietly. "And someone made sure we were in the perfect position."
"You think it was a setup?" Gavin asked.
Ronan didn't even glance back. "It always is."
The door chimed.
Every head turned.
Elora stood in the doorway—robes torn, ash on her sleeves, eyes unreadable.
She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her. The world outside faded.
"I told you to stay out of trouble," she said, voice like paper before the burn. "One day. You had one day."
"We didn't do anything," Amelia said, her voice rising.
"I know," Elora replied.
Silence. Heavy. Disbelieving.
She walked to the counter, dropped a few credits, returned with a cup of tea. She sipped it slowly, her gaze fixed on them.
"They're coming for you," she said softly. "They already have."
Nachtan shifted in his seat, uneasy. "We were just… there."
"And that's all it takes," Elora whispered. "Being there. Looking wrong. Being born wrong."
For a flicker of a second, her mask slipped. Not anger. Not pride. Fear.
Not for herself. For them.
"This isn't over," she said. "Someone set this up. And now…"
She turned to the window. Sirens lit the night in bleeding red and blue.
"…you brilliant, reckless children…"
Her gaze cut back to them, eyes sharp as a drawn blade. "…just became the opening act."