Grandma said the first rule of the other world was simple:
We were back home—but not really.
The living room looked the same: couch slightly torn, family photos on the wall, the clock ticking too loud like it always did. But now I could feel the world underneath it. Like a second heartbeat beneath the floorboards.
Kristina sat beside me on the couch, knees pulled to her chest. She hadn't said much since we came back. Her fingers kept twitching, like they were still holding the pencil.
Mom paced.
"I told you this day would come," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "I just didn't think it'd come this soon."
Grandma stood by the window, watching the street like she expected something to crawl out of the shadows at any moment.
"They crossed the threshold," Grandma said. "There's no closing that door now."
I swallowed. "So… what exactly are we?"
Grandma turned. Her eyes softened when they landed on me—but there was pride there too. Heavy pride. The kind that comes with responsibility.
"You are Builders," she said. "War-shapers. The Bouie Bloodline doesn't draw power from mana or strength or spells."
She tapped Kristina's sketchbook.
"You draw power from belief."
Kristina finally looked up. "So when I imagine things…"
"They obey," Mom finished. "And when Kristopher imagines—"
The lights flickered.
I hadn't realized I was clenching my fists.
The coffee table cracked straight down the middle.
Everyone froze.
I opened my hands fast. The crack sealed itself like it had never been there.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know," Grandma said quickly. "That's why training starts now."
Kristina's eyes widened. "Training? Like—fighting?"
Grandma nodded once. "Yes."
Mom's jaw tightened. "And hiding. And surviving."
That night, Grandma cleared the basement.
She moved furniture like she'd been waiting years to do it. Old rugs rolled up. Boxes pushed aside. Symbols carved into the concrete floor revealed themselves—symbols I somehow understood without being taught.
Kristina whispered, "We've been here before."
Grandma didn't deny it.
"Stand in the circle," she said.
We did.
The moment our feet touched the markings, the air thickened. The basement faded—not vanished, but layered over—until another place bled through.
A training ground.
Stone pillars. Endless space. No sky—just glowing fog.
"This is a pocket construct," Grandma explained. "A safe one. Mostly."
Kristina gulped. "Mostly?"
Before anyone could answer, something lunged.
A shadow-creature—roughly human-shaped, all jagged edges and smoke—charged straight at Kristina.
I moved without thinking.
"STOP."
The word hit like a hammer.
The creature froze mid-step, cracks racing across its body like shattered glass.
I felt it strain against my will.
Kristina screamed, "Kris—move!"
Too late.
The shadow exploded into fragments that dissolved before touching the ground.
Silence followed.
My knees buckled.
Grandma caught me before I fell.
"Good," she said softly. "Too good."
Kristina stared at her hands.
"I didn't do anything," she whispered. "I couldn't even move."
Grandma crouched in front of her. "Because your power works differently."
Kristina frowned. "How?"
"You create worlds," Grandma said. "Kristopher… you command them."
Mom went pale.
"That's not—" she started.
"That's dangerous," Grandma finished.
Kristina reached for my hand. "So… you're like the shield?"
I forced a smile. "Guess that makes you the artist."
She laughed weakly.
But something dark pulsed deep inside her chest.
I felt it.
A flicker.
A wrongness.
Far away, unseen and unheard, Malachor watched the training ground ripple.
"Interesting," he murmured. "The girl blooms slowly."
His gaze sharpened.
"But the boy…"
A smile crept across his shadowed face.
"…is the storm."