January 20th, 1948
The streets of Revilla churned with unrest, chants rising like a storm that would not quiet. Protesters waved banners "Free the Slaves!" "Equality for all!" their voices echoing against the tall stone facades of government buildings.
From the small townhouse window, Meika sat curled with her sketchpad balanced on her knees. Pencil scratched against paper as she captured the anger in the crowd, the clenched fists, the banners caught in the wind, even the soldiers shifting uneasily in their boots.
She was fifteen now, eight years had passed since the Great Fire of Cheapsake, when British loyalists rained flame upon the city. She remembered the heat, the ash, the night turned to day by fire. She could hear the families scream for their loved ones while Federal Troops did their best to contain the fire.
She took a deep breathe before focusing on her sketchpad. Every stroke giving her hope for a future that is better than the past that desperately clings to her.
A knock sounded at her door.
"Hey, kid!" came a voice she knew instantly. "You ready for school, or am I going to have to come in there and drag you out?"
Meika blinked, tucked her sketchpad into the satchel, and opened the door.
Her uncle Cody stood there, trench coat wrapped around his shoulders, the faint gleam of a vest and bow tie beneath. His glasses caught the lamplight, giving him a sharper air than she remembered from past years. Since becoming the Secretary of State, he carried himself differently, with a kind of stiff dignity, but his warm smile hadn't changed. It was a welcome change from when he was the Secretary of War.
"You've been sketching again," Cody said, glancing toward the window. They both could hear the protests from outside but chose to ignore it.
Meika only nodded. Her voice came soft. "I don't want to forget. Not like Cheapsake."
Cody's expression flickered, but he quickly masked it. "You sound more like your Father every day," he murmured. She could see the memories flicker through his eyes while he ruffled her hair with practiced ease.
Any tension that could've formed dissipated immediately.
Another voice drifted from the kitchen. "Cody, don't keep her waiting out in the hall," Jazmin called, laughter in her tone.
Meika peeked past him to see her aunt setting aside a small breakfast parcel, her dark red hair tied back loosely, her smile a balm against the distant roar of the protests outside.
"Don't worry, love," Cody called back. "I'm just making sure she's not secretly plotting a rebellion from her room."
Meika gave a tiny smile despite herself.
"Come on," Cody said, offering his hand as they stepped into the street together. "I'll walk you. Things are tense today, and I'd rather not take chances."
__________________
The three of them walked side by side down the cobblestone streets of Revilla. Protest chants carried from the square, their echoes mixing with the clatter of horses and the vendors who tried, with false cheer, to sell apples and bread as though nothing was wrong.
Jazmin kept up a gentle stream of conversation, pointing out little things to lighten the mood: the baker's cat sunning itself in the window, the ribbons fluttering from a carriage wheel, even a paper kite caught in the branches of a tree. She spoke to Meika, but she was speaking for Cody too, keeping them both from sinking too deep into silence.
Cody, for his part, walked with one hand tucked in his coat pocket, his glasses catching the morning light. His gaze swept across the streets, the crowd, and the soldiers.
The Federal Troops were in formation, trying their best to prevent the protest from becoming violent.
To the sides, National Guardsmen stood watch, acting as reinforcements for the Federal Troops in case the streets devolved into violence.
Since the talk of the First Amendment to the Constitution was introduced eight months ago. The National Convention has started the long process of passing it into law and ratifying it through the joint session of Congress and the Senate.
It isn't an easy battle, especially now that Luke isn't around to help in the drafting of the amendment, unlike in the past with the drafting of the Constitution.
He noticed everything, but said nothing. The silence wasn't cold, though; it was steady. Observant and cautious.
Meika mirrored him, her satchel bumped gently against her side as her eyes scanned every corner, every shift of expression in the crowd. She caught the tremble in a soldier's jaw, the way a protester clenched his banner so tightly his knuckles went white, the whispering exchange of two men in coats near the fountain. Like her uncle, she said nothing. She stored it all away.
Finally, they reached the school gates. The building rose proudly against the gray sky, banners of the Republic fluttering from its facade. Students hurried past, their laughter and chatter a sharp contrast to the tension of the streets.
Jazmin crouched slightly to adjust Meika's collar. "You'll be fine, sweetheart. Just focus on your lessons, not on what's happening out here."
Meika nodded quietly, though her eyes lingered on the soldiers stationed at the corner.
Cody bent down, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "Remember, kid, observe first, act second. That's how you'll get through life. Don't let anyone take that sharp mind of yours."
She met his eyes and, for a brief moment, allowed herself a smile.
Then the bell rang, pulling her away.
Jazmin kissed her forehead. "Go on."
Meika walked through the gates, her satchel pressed close against her. She glanced back once. Cody and Jazmin were already turning toward the government quarter, swallowed by the city and their duties.
For the first time that morning, Meika felt the faint tremor of loneliness settle into her chest. But she pushed it down. She had her sketchpad, her eyes, and the memory of the story her father told her years ago. That would have to be enough.
__________________
The morning passed in a blur of chalk dust and muttered lessons. Meika sat by the window, sketchpad hidden beneath her history book, capturing shapes in faint pencil lines while Mrs. Hopefilia droned on about treaties and trade. To anyone else, she looked like a quiet girl taking notes; only the faint scratch of her pencil betrayed her secret.
She didn't speak, but she noticed everything. The way one boy chewed the ends of his hair when nervous. The way another tapped his heel three times before daring to answer a question. The way Mrs. Hopefilia's smile faltered whenever she mentioned the Republic's fragile alliances, as though she knew more than she could share with children. Little details most ignored, but to Meika, they painted the truth of people clearer than their words ever did.
When the subject shifted to numbers, Mr. Cutter shuffled into the room, spectacles sliding down his nose. He mumbled equations in his gravelly voice, tracing chalk across the board. "Mathematics," he declared, "is the mirror of the soul. Precision outside, precision inside. A crooked sum is a crooked self." The other students snickered at his eccentricity, but Meika listened. She wrote it down, but the rhythm of his speech echoed in her chest like a strange incantation.
By lunch, the halls burst open into chaos. The schoolyard rang with shrill laughter and the scuffle of shoes over packed dirt. Children sparred with words, some tossed rocks, others practiced little chants their parents had taught them to "focus the soul." One girl lit her palms with faint orange sparks and was met with admiring cheers. Another boy formed a tiny orb of water, no bigger than a coin, and was hailed as a prodigy.
Meika sat under the crooked elm near the fence, her sketchpad balanced on her knees. She watched carriages rumbling down the far street, horses' hooves clipping in steady rhythm. She sketched their outline quickly, the wheels, the curve of the harness, the faint plume of dust from a passing carriage. She drew faster when her classmates wandered near, trying to sink deeper into her work, as if the page could shield her.
She watched with fascination... and dread. The sparks, the chants, the ease with which they wove light from their chests, all of it was beautiful. And terrifying.
After lunch, the students were ushered into the adjoining hall where Mr. Lovington, the soul instructor, waited with arms crossed. The real trial came. The one she had been dreading since she opened her eyes that morning.
Mr. Lovington clapped sharply, bringing the chatter to silence. His voice was brisk, rehearsed, carrying the weight of duty.
"Focus, children. Your soul is the seat of your strength. The nation thrives when its citizens master themselves. Now, let's see your sparks."
A hum of excitement filled the room.
One by one, the children stepped forward. Eyes closed, hands outstretched, they pulled from within. Some struggled, but still managed: a golden shimmer that pulsed once before vanishing, a green thread of light twisting in the air, a faint ember glowing at the edge of a fingertip. Even when the sparks fizzled, there was laughter, encouragement, playful teasing. It was a ritual they all knew well, a proof that they belonged.
Meika's chest tightened as the circle shrank. Her nails dug crescents into the wood of her desk. She already knew what was coming.
The whispers began before her name was even called.
"She's no good at this."
"Maybe she doesn't even have a soul."
"I heard she fainted last time she tried."
Her cheeks burned. She stared at the grain of the desk, trying to disappear into it.
Then Mr. Lovington said her name. Patient. Firm. Expectant.
"Mrs. Rivera. Your turn."
Her legs felt like stone as she rose. She smoothed the hem of her skirt, hands trembling, and walked to the front. Every gaze in the room was fixed on her, not with hope, but with hunger for the spectacle they knew would come.
"Steady yourself," the teacher instructed. "Breathe. Reach inside. The spark is yours to call."
Meika shut her eyes. Her heart pounded, drowning out even her own thoughts. She reached inward, clawing past the fear pressing at her ribs, searching desperately for the warmth others described. A glowing center. A flame.
All she found was cold. A vast emptiness that echoed when she touched it.
Her chest hitched. Her hands shook. The silence stretched far too long.
A boy's laugh cut the air. "Told you. She's broken."
Another voice piped up, crueler. "Careful! If she forces it, maybe her soul will crack like glass."
The class erupted in laughter, whispers swelling to cruel giggles.
Meika opened her eyes, blinking hard against the tears welling up. Her hands dropped, limp at her sides. Nothing. Not even a flicker.
Mr. Lovington's sigh was audible, heavy with disappointment, though his voice remained even. "Sit down, Mrs. Onderon. We'll... revisit this later."
She stumbled back to her seat, face hot, ears ringing with laughter. Her sketchpad weighed heavy in her satchel, like a secret she could no longer hold. She lowered her head, refusing to let them see her cry.
Instead, with trembling hands, she slid the sketchpad out beneath her desk. Her pencil moved on its own, sketching the motes of light she couldn't summon. She drew them brighter than the room had ever seen, orbs of flame, rivers of green, sparks so vivid they seemed to burn the page.
On paper, she could make them real.
And on paper, no one could laugh.
__________________
The final bell rang, echoing through the crowded halls like a call to freedom. Meika gathered her books slowly, careful not to let her sketchpad slip from her satchel. She kept her head down, weaving between the other students who spilled out of the classrooms in noisy clusters. Their laughter and shouts stung, every sound felt like it carried her name, though she knew most of them had already forgotten about her.
The walk home was quieter. Revilla's streets were restless, as they always seemed to be lately. Workers arguing at corners, banners still hanging from morning protests, guards in long coats watching the flow of people with stern, unreadable eyes. Meika hugged her satchel closer, her mind heavy with the sting of the day.
When she reached the townhouse, the door creaked faintly under her push. The air inside was warmer, heavy with the faint smell of ink and paper. She slipped off her shoes and padded softly into the living room.
There, stretched across the old sofa, was Jazmin. Her auburn hair spilled over the armrest, her breathing steady in the rhythm of deep sleep. A folded coat lay half-fallen on the floor, a sure sign she'd collapsed the moment she walked in from her shift.
Meika paused in the doorway, watching. Her aunt always looked so untouchable when awake. Sharp eyes, firm tone, hands always busy with some piece of work for the Assembly or the neighborhoods she kept an eye on. But like this, with her chest rising and falling, she looked almost fragile.
"Long day again," Meika whispered to herself.
She set her satchel carefully on the table and moved quietly through the room, unwilling to wake her. But she couldn't help noticing the absence of her uncle. Cody's overcoat wasn't hung by the door, his glasses weren't left on the desk like they usually were when he came home to read.
Meika frowned, glancing toward the empty hallway that led to his study. No trace of him.
Silence pressed down on the townhouse, broken only by Jazmin's steady breathing. Meika curled up on the armchair across from the sofa, sketchpad in her lap. With careful strokes, she began to draw again, not the protests outside, not the jeering faces from school, but her aunt's quiet, peaceful rest. It was the only moment of calm she'd seen all day.
The clock on the mantel ticked softly, each minute dragging heavier than the last. Meika had finished her sketch, closed the book, and even tucked herself into the corner of the armchair. Still, the townhouse felt too big, too empty.
It wasn't unusual, of course. Uncle Cody almost never came home before midnight anymore. The Cabinet demanded long hours, endless meetings, papers stacked so high Meika wondered if he ever actually slept at all. When she was younger, she used to stay up waiting for him, fighting her heavy eyelids just to hear the quiet click of the front door and the soft rustle of his trench coat as he hung it by the door. But now she knew better, he'd come when the city allowed him to, not when she wanted him to.
Jazmin stirred faintly on the sofa, her arm shifting just enough for her hand to fall over the edge. A sigh escaped her lips, weary even in sleep.
Meika rose from her chair, padded into the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of water. The silence of the townhouse was something she'd grown used to, yet it still left her chest tight. The streets outside rumbled faintly with the echoes of chants and guards' boots, and she thought of Cody again, sitting in those smoke-filled halls, glasses perched on his nose, listening more than speaking as the fate of the Republic was hammered out over ink and argument.
Her eyes drifted to the empty hook by the door where his coat usually hung. She pressed her lips together, a mix of pride and unease welling inside her.
"Always late," she whispered, sliding back into her chair.
She clutched her sketchpad to her chest. The others could summon sparks from their souls; she could only summon them on paper. But here, in the silence, that felt like enough.
Outside, the city didn't sleep. But inside, it was just her, Jazmin's steady breathing, and the ticking of the clock, waiting for the sound of Cody's key that wouldn't come for hours yet.
To be Continued