Morning came with the smell of smoke and sizzling bread from the street vendors. Kiro sat at the kitchen table, helmet beside him, a spoon in his hand but no appetite.
His father glanced over from the stove, flames dancing effortlessly from his palm into the pan. "You're quiet."
Kiro poked at the bread. "I'm always quiet."
His mother floated a jug of milk across the table with a flick of her fingers. "Quieter than usual." Her telekinesis was as natural to her as breathing.
Kiro gave a small shrug. "Just tired."
"You should come to the training fields with me sometime," his father said. "Even if you don't have a Talent, building muscle will—"
"I'll pass," Kiro cut in.
His father's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. The silence stretched until Kiro excused himself, grabbing his helmet and heading out.
The common school's courtyard was already buzzing. Students with Common Talents were practicing — a girl sorting piles of documents without touching them, a boy polishing boots with just a glance.
Kiro didn't stop to watch. His mind was elsewhere — on the golden threads.
He slipped around the side of the building and spotted his first target: Mr. Drass, the supply clerk, stacking crates. The man was known for never lending out extra supplies, no matter how small.
Kiro leaned against the wall, watching.
Focus, he told himself.
The world dimmed, and there they were — faint golden strands connecting everything around him. The one leading into Mr. Drass's mind glowed faintly.
He reached for it, careful this time, and thought: Drop the crate.
Mr. Drass's arms twitched. The crate slipped from his hands, crashing to the ground.
The man swore under his breath. "What—?!" He looked around but saw no one.
Kiro smirked under his visor.
Later, during class, Lian slid into the seat beside him. "You okay? You looked… weird this morning."
"I'm fine," Kiro said.
"You saved Garron yesterday. He hasn't shut up about it. Said the guy just… let him go."
"Maybe he got scared."
"Uh-huh," Lian said, clearly unconvinced. "And maybe I'm the Queen of Zenis."
Kiro didn't answer. Instead, he glanced across the room to where Garron sat, talking loudly with his friends. He focused on the golden thread, tugged it slightly.
Garron's words faltered mid-sentence. His face went blank for a second. Then, without warning, he turned to the boy beside him and said, "Your hair looks like a dead squirrel."
The class erupted in laughter. Garron looked horrified. "I— I didn't mean to say that!"
Kiro looked away, hiding a grin.
By the time lunch came, Kiro had tested the ability four more times — a teacher forgetting to assign homework, a bully tripping over his own feet, two girls suddenly deciding to swap seats.
It worked every time. But he noticed something: the more he used it, the heavier his head felt. Like a weight pressing behind his eyes.
He was still thinking about it when Lian appeared with two meat rolls. She handed him one. "Eat. You look like you're plotting someone's murder."
"Just thinking," Kiro said.
"You always say that. One day you'll actually tell me what about."
"Not today."
She studied him for a moment but didn't push.
That evening, after his parents went to bed, Kiro sat at his desk with the helmet in front of him. He ran his fingers over the cracked visor.
"You're hiding something," he muttered to it, as if the helmet itself could answer.
Slipping it on, the darkness closed around him again — golden threads stretching out like veins of light. This time, he reached further, testing his range. Threads connected to sleeping neighbors, patrolling guards, even a stray cat prowling the alley.
His heart pounded.
If he could reach them all… then he could control them all.
But somewhere deep inside, a thought whispered back: What will you do with that kind of power, Kiro?
He didn't answer.
Not yet.