Xavier jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The dream was back—sharp, blinding, impossible to forget.
A tall man with jet-black hair stepped into a grand room. On the moonlit balcony stood a beautiful woman—emerald eyes glowing, honey-brown hair cascading down her back.
Without warning, a red beam shot from his hand.
It struck her in the back.
She gasped—a choked, broken sound—then crumpled forward, emerald eyes wide in shock as the light drained from them. Lifeless.
The man didn't look back. Expression unreadable, he turned and walked toward the next room, footsteps heavy and deliberate.
A soft cry rose from within. A baby lay in a carved cradle, wrapped in soft blankets. Honey-brown hair. Emerald eyes—wet with tears, but glowing all the same.
Then the door burst open.
A blond man rushed in, half his face hidden by a dark cloth mask. Aquamarine eyes wide, trembling hands. He scooped up the baby—gently, protectively—and vanished in a blink of light.
The scene shifted.
Beneath a glowing street lamp, the masked man reappeared on a quiet, empty street. He set the baby on a worn bench, tucked a folded note beneath the blanket, and lingered with sorrow in his eyes—like he was silently asking for forgiveness.
From the shadows, a red-haired boy stepped forward. Crimson eyes shimmered with something ancient—sorrow, hope, purpose. He knelt by the baby and whispered so softly the words barely touched the air.
"Prince… we need your help."
The lamplight flickered. A hush fell. Then came the sounds.
Whispers that didn't belong. Scratching. Slithering. A hiss like breath scraping stone. They rose from nowhere, digging under Xavier's skin.
The ground vanished. He fell. Endless black swallowed him. Weightless. Terrified. Falling.
Then—he jerked.
Xavier snapped awake, chest heaving, heart pounding. Moonlight spilled across the floor of his room like silver blood.
The sounds were still there. Low. Ragged. Almost… snorting?
He turned—and groaned.
"Seriously, David?"
David lay sprawled across the other bed, snoring like a walrus gargling soup.
Xavier collapsed back into his pillow. "From royal mysteries to nasal disasters," he muttered.
But the dream clung to him like smoke. Too vivid. Too real. And echoing in the silence—Prince, we need your help.
*
Sunday came cold and clear.
Frost glazed the window panes of Rising Star Boys' Home, and the wind bit at Xavier's face the moment he stepped outside. He tugged his hoodie tighter, breath puffing out in pale clouds. Gracie trotted beside him, her tail wagging like a little flag.
This was their routine. Every Sunday, without fail, they'd set out together—sometimes for games at the shop, sometimes a walk in the park, sometimes both. It was their day, carved out of the week like a promise only they kept.
"Today's the day," he said, smiling despite the chill. "Game shop run. You ready?"
"Am I ever," Gracie barked. "You promised I could sniff the controller wall!"
A voice groaned behind them. David leaned out of the doorway, hair sticking up in about ten directions, blanket still draped over his shoulders.
"Oi, shut the door, mate," he mumbled. "It's freezing."
"Go back to bed, walrus," Xavier shot back, grinning.
Another boy, Lewis, clattered down the stairs two at a time, scarf half on, and called after him. "Oi, Xavier! If they've got the new football game in, save me a turn, yeah?"
"We'll see," Xavier said over his shoulder.
Mrs. Blackwood's voice floated from inside, sharp but not unkind. "Don't spend all your pocket money at once, Xavier!"
"I won't!" he called back, though his fingers brushed the coins in his pocket and he smiled. She always seemed to know.
Gracie barked once, impatient. "Are we going or what?"
Xavier laughed. "Yeah, yeah, come on."
And together, they stepped out into the cold morning streets of Rookford.
She practically danced with excitement as they turned onto Maple Street, the heart of Rookford's tiny market strip. The stalls were already open, old-fashioned and charming, their awnings flapping in the wind. Somewhere, someone was selling roasted chestnuts.
The local game shop stood at the end of the lane, warm light glowing through the window like a promise. The familiar scent of plastic cases and fried snacks drifted through the door as they stepped inside.
Gracie veered straight for the wall of controllers, tail wagging. She pressed her nose against the cool surface, sniffing deeply. "Mmm. Grease. Shoe polish. Fresh paint… You like these smells too, right?"
Xavier wrinkled his nose, laughing. "Yeah, I do. I know they're probably not great for you—but they just smell kinda nice, you know?"
Gracie gave a happy grunt and kept sniffing.
Just then, Xavier spotted a stall outside. A woman with prickly warts on her chin was arranging rows of shiny pet tags.
He crouched beside Gracie. "Stay here, girl. I'll be right back. Going to get you that name tag we talked about."
"Make sure it's pink!" she barked, tongue out.
Xavier chuckled, gave her a quick pat, and ran off—unaware of the danger already ticking to life behind the shop.
Xavier weaved through the crowd toward the pet tag stall, scanning the glittery shapes—bones, hearts, stars. He picked up a soft pink one shaped like a paw and smiled. "This one's you, Gracie." She would love it.
He reached into his pocket and carefully counted the coins he'd saved—every one of them earned through weeks of pet-sitting, teaching neighbourhood kids to train their dogs, and helping them with their homework. It hadn't been easy. But it was worth it. Gracie wasn't just a dog. She was his best friend.
*
A few days earlier…
The sun had been setting that day, casting long shadows across Mrs. Whitmore's garden. The smell of grass, biscuits, and fur mixed in the air.
Gracie sat perfectly still, eyes locked on Xavier, ears perked like a soldier awaiting orders.
"Good girl," Xavier said. Then he looked at the others. "Bandit. Fluffo. Do what Gracie's doing."
Bandit—chubby and full of energy—gave a confused bark, but sat. Fluffo, the nervous poodle, circled twice and slowly lowered his fluffy butt to the grass.
"Nice," Xavier grinned. "We're getting somewhere."
That's when Mrs. Whitmore stepped out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a floral towel. She paused to take in the scene—three obedient dogs, a boy with biscuit crumbs on his hoodie, and a patience beyond his years.
"You've got magic in your bones, Xavier," she said, walking over and pressing a few coins into his palm. "Dogs just listen to you."
He smiled, weighing the coins in his hand. But when she slipped in a couple extra, he held them back out immediately.
"Three hours, not four," he said. "This is too much."
"You're saving up for Gracie, aren't you?"
He nodded once.
"Then take it," she said. "It's not a tip. It's belief."
*
The memory faded. A chill crawled up Xavier's spine.
Teach him a lesson. Thinks he's better than everyone.
Xavier froze.
The thought sliced through his mind—hot, bitter, and horribly familiar.
Jake.
An image shot into his head: Jake behind the game shop, yanking wires with clumsy hands, eyes hard with anger. Red wire… blue? Doesn't matter. Just a blackout. Freak him out. He deserves it.
Xavier's heart dropped.
"Gracie," he whispered—and turned.
BOOM.
The explosion ripped the street apart.
A blast of heat knocked him back. Windows explod– ed—glass like razors. One shard sliced his cheek. Xavier cried out, stumbling backward. He tripped over the curb and crashed into a nearby lamppost. Metal slammed into his shoulder. His ears rang.
Screams rose immediately.
"Call 999!" shouted a man nearby, shielding his child.
"My stall! My stall's on fire!" a man wailed, trying to be– at the flames with his coat.
"Get back—everyone get back!" another voice shouted.
"Fire! Get the fire brigade!" another woman yelled, dragging her groceries to safety.
"Someone's inside!"
The air stank of smoke and melted plastic.
Xavier staggered to his feet, one hand clutching his bleeding cheek, the other reaching toward the flames.
"Gracie!" he shouted. "She's in there!"
A shop worker burst through the smoke, coughing hard, hair singed. "I-I didn't see her! There's still people inside!"
He wrenched free, desperate. "She's my dog! She's—"
Across the road, Jake was sprawled on the pavement, scraped and dazed, coughing through the smoke.
His thoughts were loud—panicked. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Just a power outage. Not—this.
His hands shook. His eyes were wide with horror. What did I do?
A firefighter shoved past Xavier, helmet glinting, shouts muffled through the mask. "Keep clear! Everyone back!"
"Please!" Xavier begged, grabbing his arm. "She's in there! Tan fur—white paws—please find her!"
The firefighter's visor turned toward him for a brief moment—then the man disappeared into the smoke.
An ambulance screeched to a halt. Paramedics rushed past Xavier.
On a stretcher: singed fur. A small, still form.
"Gracie!" he shouted, limping toward them, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the blood on his face.
A paramedic turned, eyeing his injury. "Kid, you're bleeding."
"I don't care. She's my best friend."
The paramedic hesitated, then nodded. "Come on. We'll take care of her."
Xavier climbed into the ambulance, heart pounding, hand trembling as he gently touched her paw.
"Hang on, Gracie," he whispered, tears stinging the cut on his cheek. "I'm here. I'm not leaving you."
The sirens wailed in his ears, but all he could hear was Gracie's labored breathing and the beep of the ambulance monitor.
His thoughts spiraled—fire, blood, smoke, Jake's face, Gracie's still form. His chest tightened until it felt like he couldn't breathe.
And then—darkness.
*
The next thing he knew, everything was quiet.
A soft beeping. The faint hum of fluorescent lights. A blanket tucked neatly over his legs. The air smelled of antiseptic and something vaguely like soap. A dull ache pulsed through his shoulder. His cheek stung. Something tugged at his hand.
He blinked, confused, and looked down.
Someone taped a bandage to his cheek. They attached a drip to his hand, the thin tube snaking into a bag beside the bed. Gauze tightly wrapped his shoulder. He wasn't in the ambulance anymore.
He was in a hospital room—bright, sterile, still.
Then he saw her.
Mrs. Blackwood sat in one of those stiff plastic hospital chairs, wrapped in her thick grey cardigan like armor against the cold. She had a ball of yarn in her lap, knitting needles paused mid-stitch. When she noticed his eyes open, she let out a slow, relieved breath and lowered the needles.
"How're you feeling?" she asked softly.
Xavier tried to sit up, winced, and gave a small nod. "Where… where's Gracie?"
"She's in surgery," Mrs. Blackwood said gently. "They rushed her to the animal hospital across the road. The vet's doing all he can—they promised to call as soon as there's news."
Xavier's eyes filled with tears. He looked away, throat tight.
Without a word, Mrs. Blackwood reached into her large handbag and pulled out an enormous bar of chocolate—his favourite kind—and a slightly worn paperback novel.
"I thought you might need these," she said, placing them carefully on the blanket over his lap. "Something to keep your hands and your head busy."
It was the book he'd been eyeing back at the orphanage library. He hadn't said anything about it. Somehow, she'd just known.
He looked at her, stunned by the simple kindness.
"Thanks," he murmured.
She gave him a small, warm smile and tucked the blanket a little closer around his arm. "No need to thank me, love. Just rest. You've had a day no one your age should ever face."
The beeping of the monitor filled the silence, soft and steady.
Outside, the fire was out. Inside Xavier, it still burned.