The morning sun in Smallville didn't hit with the neon glare of Metropolis. It filtered through the eyelet curtains of the Victorian house with a soft, honey-colored warmth that smelled of dust motes and aging cedar. I stirred in my bed, the heavy quilts pinning me down, but my mind was already miles away.
I sat up abruptly, my breath hitching. The air in the room felt thin. Since the family had opened the new shop, the broom-closet hallway door had become a heavy anchor in the house. Last night, while I slept, something massive had shifted. It wasn't just the hum of a successful day; it was a cold, sharp tension that had vibrated through the very floorboards.
I swung my legs out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wood. I walked toward the hallway, my eyes narrowing. The closet door at the end of the hall looked ordinary to anyone else, but to me it felt like it was holding back a pressurized storm.
"Grandmother," I whispered to the empty hallway.
I didn't know why, but that vibration felt like a closed book—a finality. Someone had tried to cross my family, and they had been shut down with the weight of a mountain.
Downstairs, the house was quiet, but the smell of bacon and strong black coffee acted as a tether. I walked into the kitchen to find Aunt Rose and Aunt Region sitting at the farmhouse table. They looked exhausted but strangely energized.
"You're awake," Rose said, not looking up from a ledger she was scribbling in. Her sharp charcoal suit was gone, replaced by a soft flannel robe, but her eyes still held that intense glint.
"What happened last night?" I asked, pulling out a chair. "The house felt heavy. Like the air was about to snap."
Region leaned back, a smirk tugging at her mouth as she sipped her coffee. "Let's just say a shark tried to swim into our shop, Sage. And he found out we don't scare easily."
"Morgan Edge," Rose added, finally closing the ledger with a satisfying thud. "He thought he could buy us out. Then he tried to threaten us with inspections and regulations. Grandmother handled the conversation. She didn't even let him finish a sentence."
I looked toward the parlor. "Is he going to be a problem?"
"He sent over a security donation this morning. Six figures. Anonymous," Region chuckled. "It's like he woke up and suddenly realized he was being incredibly rude. Consider it an apology."
I felt a chill. I knew my family was talented, but the way people reacted to us was becoming intense. The Luminous wasn't just a shop anymore; it was becoming a power play.
As the weeks went by, the boundary between our two lives began to blur. Smallville was a town built on slow-moving news, but even the cornfields seemed to be whispering about the New Troy Miracle over in Metropolis.
I walked into the local hardware store to pick up some brass hinges. The bell chimed, and I found myself standing behind two farmers in overalls who were staring at a crumpled copy of the Daily Planet.
"Look at this, Ed," one of them said, pointing to a full-page spread. "Says here this new jewelry place, The Luminous, is run by world-class artisans. Look at that sapphire. It looks like it's glowing right off the paper. How do they even cut a stone to do that?"
"Metropolis folks," Ed grunted. "Got more money than sense. They say the gold looks like it grew that way instead of being melted. My wife says she heard a rumor the owners are related to someone out this way. You believe that?"
I kept my head down, focusing on the hinges.
"Doubt it," the first farmer replied. "Folks around here are too plain for stuff like that. That's high-society craft. Probably from Europe or something."
The irony wasn't lost on me. The very people Smallville thought were plain were the ones forging the pieces that were currently baffling the city's best jewelers.
By the third week, the Smallville post office was seeing more action than usual. Packages began arriving at the Victorian house addressed to the Hall Residence, but the return addresses were from law firms and high-society estates. People were trying to bypass the storefront. They wanted the personal touch.
I stood on the porch, watching a delivery truck pull away. Aunt Rose stood beside me, arms crossed.
"They're hunting us, Sage," she said quietly. "In Metropolis, we're the Artisans of New Troy. Here, we're just the quiet family on the hill. But word travels. Our work is too good to stay hidden."
"Are we going to keep the door open?" I asked, nodding toward the house.
Rose looked out over the Kansas horizon. "We have to. We've started something, and there's no going back to being plain. If the world wants to find us, they'll have to play by our rules."
Deep in the house, in her library filled with rare books and old secrets, Pandora sat in the quiet. She didn't need magic to know that Morgan Edge was currently terrified to even speak our name. She just knew people. She knew that once you showed the world true quality, they would crawl through the mud to get to it. And if they came to her door in Kansas, she would be waiting to show them exactly where they stood.
The morning air was crisp, smelling of damp earth and the first hints of spring, as a dusty blue pickup truck pulled into the gravel driveway of the Victorian house. Martha Kent climbed out, smoothing her floral apron over her jeans, clutching a tin of her famous cinnamon rolls. Though the Hall family had only moved to Smallville about six months ago, Martha had quickly become their most frequent visitor, her warm face a welcome sight in the quiet of the Kansas plains.
Inside the kitchen, Rashandra was seated at the heavy oak table, her fingers tracing the fine lines of a new design in her sketchbook. She looked up as the screen door creaked open.
"Martha, you're early," Rashandra said with a soft smile, closing the book. "But the coffee just finished brewing."
"I couldn't help myself, Rashandra," Martha said, setting the warm tin on the table. The scent of cinnamon immediately filled the room. "The General Store was a hornet's nest this morning. For folks who have only lived here half a year, you sure have started a fire. All anyone can talk about is that story in the Daily Planet."
Martha pulled out a chair, her expression a mix of neighborly pride and genuine bewilderment. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"They're saying there's a shop in New Troy—The Luminous—that's selling jewelry that looks like it was woven out of starlight. And Lydia at the post office? She's telling everyone who will listen that the return address on the artisan's business license matches this very stretch of road."
Rashandra poured a mug of black coffee and pushed it toward Martha, her expression remaining perfectly serene. "People in this town have very active imaginations, Martha. You know how gossip grows the more it's passed around."
"I know, I know," Martha laughed, taking a sip. "But I saw the picture, Rashandra. That emerald dress Vivienne St. Claire was wearing… and that stone. It looked so real, so deep, that it practically jumped off the newsprint. Ed says it's high-society craft from Europe, but I looked at that gold work—the way it curves like vine growth—and I thought of the sketches I've seen on this very table over these last few months."
Martha paused, looking around the kitchen. It was a normal Kansas home, yet there was an undeniable weight to the atmosphere, a sense of quiet, untouchable authority that seemed to radiate from the Hall women.
"Is it true?" Martha asked softly. "Is that you all? Are you the Artisans of New Troy the city is losing its mind over?"
Rashandra leaned back, her red-tinged hair catching the morning light. She didn't confirm it with a boast, but the steady, calm look in her eyes was answer enough. "We've always been jewelers, Martha. We just decided it was time the world saw the work the way it was meant to be seen. Metropolis has a lot of money, but they don't have much taste. We're just providing a bit of balance."
Martha shook her head, a whistle of disbelief escaping her lips. "Good heavens. Do you have any idea what this is going to do to Smallville? People are going to be coming out here looking for the source. Jonathan and I saw a black town car yesterday that looked like it belonged to a Senator, just cruising slowly past your gate."
"Let them look," Rashandra said, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet, absolute confidence. "They won't find anything we don't want them to see. We like our privacy, Martha. And we know how to keep it."
Martha looked at her friend, realizing that the neighbors she had only known for a short while were operating on a level the rest of the county couldn't even fathom. It wasn't magic to Martha—it was just a level of talent and power that felt almost otherworldly.
"Well," Martha said, reaching for a cinnamon roll. "If those Metropolis big-shots come sniffing around my farm asking questions, I'll tell 'em I haven't seen a thing. But Rashandra… you be careful. Fame is a bright light, and it draws more than just admirers."
The late afternoon sun slanted through the bedroom window, casting long golden bars across the wooden floorboards. I sat cross-legged in the center of the room, the door firmly shut. On the floor in front of me lay a weathered book from the Smallville library on visual geometry and origami patterns. I wasn't interested in the paper; I was interested in the math of the folds.
I took a deep breath and settled into the first pillar of my training: Mana Manipulation.
I didn't need a physical object to start. I closed my eyes, reaching into the cool, rushing current beneath my ribs. A brilliant blue glow began to radiate from my palms. It wasn't the fiery red of my mother or the emerald of my aunts; it was a deep, electric cobalt that hummed with focused power.
"Structure," I whispered. "The mind defines the limit."
I visualized a shuriken. The weight of the center, the tapering sharpness of the blades. Slowly, the air between my hands thickened. A spark of sapphire light ignited, spinning rapidly. I pushed the energy inward, forcing it to solidify.
With a soft hiss, a translucent, glowing blue star appeared, hovering above my palm and rotating slowly. It held a distinct, sharp edge.
I didn't stop there. Next came a folding war fan. I spread my fingers wide, imagining thin overlapping slats. The blue Mana strained against my focus, but I gritted my teeth and held the shape. When I flicked my wrist, the fan snapped open with a sharp crack.
Hours passed as I moved from stars to fans to a jagged kunai. Each success made the air in the room feel more vibrant.
The distant chime of a bell from downstairs broke my concentration. The blue kunai in my hand vanished instantly.
"Sage! Dinner!" Aunt Region's voice drifted up the stairs.
I stood, limbs heavy but mind sharper. After checking that the faint blue flicker in my eyes had faded, I headed down.
The kitchen was filled with the savory scent of slow-roasted chicken and herb-crusted potatoes. The family sat around the table in comfortable rhythm. There was no talk of Metropolis or Morgan Edge tonight—just the clink of silverware and the steady presence of the Hall women. Pandora sat at the head, her violet eyes occasionally drifting toward me with quiet approval.
After dinner, I climbed back to my room. The excitement of the afternoon's progress had faded into deep fatigue. I pulled the heavy quilts over myself and closed my eyes, the faint afterimage of glowing blue stars still dancing behind my eyelids.
The quiet of the Kansas night wrapped around the Victorian house like a protective shroud.