The morning after the Watcher attack was quiet… too quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses against your ears and makes your heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
Kristina was sitting on the couch, her sketchbook open but untouched. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing in particular, and every so often she would flinch like she could still feel the shadows brushing against her.
I knelt beside her. "You okay?"
She gave me a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah… I think. Just… tired."
Grandma appeared at the doorway, arms crossed. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were sharper than any blade I'd ever seen. "You both need to start controlling your power properly. That Watcher wasn't just a test. It was a warning."
Mom nodded, pale but stern. "Malachor knows you exist now. Every mistake you make gives him an edge. You can't be careless."
I swallowed, trying to keep the weight of that statement from crushing me. "What do we do?"
Grandma gestured to the basement. "We train. Again. Kristina, you'll start with control. Kristopher, you'll start with command. And you—" She pointed at me—"will learn the consequences of every thought you allow to become reality."
We returned to the basement—the air thick with the remnants of the last encounter. The walls no longer looked ordinary. Cracks formed strange patterns, symbols I recognized only because Grandma had taught me as a child, but now they glowed faintly, as if aware we had summoned danger.
Kristina opened her sketchbook. She drew a small creature first—safe, harmless, a tiny bird with bright feathers. When she finished, it flapped its wings in midair and chirped. I realized she was trying to remind herself that power could be controlled.
I focused. I imagined a dome around us, a protective barrier, but the edges wavered, flickering like candlelight. I gritted my teeth. Every ounce of concentration felt like lifting a mountain with my mind. Every mistake could ripple into the real world.
"Good," Grandma said, her voice calm but firm. "Kristina, your hands move the world. Kristopher, your mind shapes it. Remember this: imagination without discipline is destruction."
I tried again. A simple stone wall. But instead of staying in place, it stretched into spikes, growing taller than the ceiling. It bent and twisted toward Kristina.
"Stop!" she yelled, almost instinctively. I willed it to vanish. The spikes cracked and fell apart, but the vibrations knocked the pencils off her desk.
"I—" I started, but Grandma cut me off.
"Do you see?" she said quietly. "Every thought has weight. Every imagination has consequence. Malachor doesn't just punish weakness—he exploits mistakes."
Kristina's small hand found mine. "Kris… it's okay. We'll figure it out."
I nodded, but inside, fear churned. I didn't want Kristina to get hurt. I didn't want anyone to see the growing darkness Malachor had already started weaving.
Grandma called it "residual energy."
Even after the Watcher dissolved, the air around our home retained the shadows' echoes. Things moved slightly when we weren't looking. Paper fluttered. Drawings shifted. Small scratches appeared on furniture, like invisible claws had passed through.
"You have to be aware at all times," Grandma said. "This world is listening. Malachor's army is organized, ranked, and patient. They are already planning their next move. And remember…" She looked at Kristina. "…he is the one who cursed you."
Kristina's jaw tightened. She looked at me. "We'll fight it, right?"
I nodded. "Together."
Grandma placed a hand on both our heads. "The Bouie Bloodline always fights together. But you must learn… power without patience is the fastest path to destruction."
That night, I lay awake, listening to the wind outside, thinking about the Watcher and what it meant.
Kristina was beside me again, sketchbook open, pencil moving without hesitation. She whispered, "We're going to be okay, right?"
I squeezed her hand. "We have to be."
She smiled faintly and returned to her drawing.
I realized something important. This world wasn't just ours to play in—it was ours to protect, to shape, to survive.
And Malachor? He thought he was coming for a little girl.
But he hadn't met me yet.
Not really.