The silence of his room was not a choice; it was a necessity. Etan stared at the bare wall, where not even a painting hung, waiting for the buzzing in his temples to subside. He was seventeen, yet he still lived in that shell of aseptic stone, like a prisoner who feared his own shadow.

  ?He pulled on his black leather gloves. The stitching bit into his wrists as he tugged the material until it clung perfectly to his skin.

  ?"Still afraid of a touch?" hissed the Voice, stretching in the darkness of his mind. "Do you really think a piece of dead skin can stop me? Feel how your palm itches? It wants to touch something. It wants to... change the world."

  ?It had begun when Etan was only five years old. He was playing in the palace's private garden, in the shadow of an old willow tree, under the distracted supervision of a young maid who smiled at him while mending a cloth. That was when he heard it for the first time: an acidic vibration in his skull, a Voice that didn't come from the outside, but from the depths of his own blood.

  ?Look at how she stares at you with that fake sweetness, the presence hissed, regurgitating a visceral hatred and a resentment that did not belong to a child. She is a servant of matter, a parasite. Take your revenge, Etan. Feel how her heart pulses? Make it still. Make it... perfect.

  ?Etan, confused and frightened, reached a hand toward the woman, seeking comfort. But as soon as his fingers brushed the maid’s arm, the Voice roared with pleasure. Beneath the child's touch, the woman’s body underwent a gruesome metamorphosis: the blood in her veins turned into molten lead, her tissues stiffened in a fraction of a second, and her skin shifted into a grayish metallic alloy. The woman couldn't even scream; she remained frozen in a pose of pure terror—a heavy metal statue that collapsed onto the grass with a dull thud, crushing the flowers beneath its unnatural weight.

  ?Etan stood staring at that metal corpse, screaming until his throat bled. From ?? on, the garden became his personal graveyard, and the Voice never left him again, feeding on his guilt. He realized that his touch did not bring life, but a distortion of reality fueled by the vengeance of something living inside him. It was then that he asked for his first pair of gloves, swearing he would never again let that hatred touch anyone he loved.

  ?Etan ignored the shiver and turned when the door opened. Lady Elara entered with the rustle of green silk, but her eyes held that usual, imperceptible flinch. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking for someone else in his reflection.

  ?"You are ready," she said, and it was a sentence, not a question. She stood at a safe distance. "Your father is waiting for us. Remember, Etan: no scenes. For once, try to be normal."

  ?"Say it, mother," the Voice mocked her. "Say you'd rather have someone else here instead of him. Anything would be better than this scrap, wouldn't it?"

  ?"I will be invisible," Etan replied, his voice flat.

  ?As he followed his mother through the corridors, the friction of the leather against his fingers brought back the first real tear in his life.

  ?The doors to the hall swung open. The banquet was an explosion of lights. Etan settled into a corner, but two young women in expensive gowns stopped not far away. He recognized those looks immediately: they were the same ones from the gala years before.

  ?"Gloves again, Etan?" whispered the one in blue. "Your parents seem so tired... it must be such a burden to take care of a thing like you."

  ?Etan clenched his fists. The memory of when he was twelve years old still burned.

  ?[...] A few years earlier, Etan had been taken to another gala. He was about twelve, wearing a velvet jacket that squeezed his lungs. That silence was the only thing that made the roar of the banquet raging in the main hall bearable. He had taken refuge behind a massive column, pressing his forehead against the cold stone.

  ?His mother, Elara, had left him there just a moment before, with a caress that felt more like a warning than a gesture of affection. "Try to be kind, Etan. Smile. Show them you can do it," she had whispered. She hadn't asked him to have fun; she had asked him not to fail.

  ?"Hear how her voice trembles?" the Voice hissed. It wasn't the bestial roar of his five-year-old self; now it was a slimy, sophisticated whisper that slithered through his thoughts like black smoke. "She doesn't care if you're hurting. She only cares that you don't make a scene in front of her important friends."

  ?Etan shrugged, trying to silence it, but the hum of the outside world was about to be replaced by something worse.

  ?Two young girls rounded the corner, clouds of tulle and pastel lace that seemed to float across the polished floor. They stopped a few paces from him, staring with that cruel curiosity that only children possess.

  ?"Here he is," said the one in the blue dress, waving a fan with an air of superiority. "The Valerius' secret son. My mother says you're mentally ill, but you just look... strange to me. Why do you always wear those black gloves? Are your hands covered in mud, or are you a monster?"

  ?The other, with a peach ribbon in her hair, giggled, covering her mouth with silk-gloved fingers. "I bet he doesn't even have fingers. Under the gloves, he hides claws, like the beasts my father hunts in the woods."

  ?Etan felt heat rising up his neck. His palms began to sweat against the leather of his gloves—the barrier that kept the world from turning into lead or dead flesh.

  ?"Don't just stand there letting these geese humiliate you," the Voice urged him, laughing with a metallic sound. "Look at the blonde one... she looks like a spoiled pastry. Tell her she’s ugly. Tell her she’s disgusting. Do it now, Etan. Bite them with words, since you can't use your hands."

  ?Etan looked up, his eyes heavy with an acidity that did not belong to a child.

  ?"Go away," he hissed, his voice trembling.

  ?"Oh, he speaks then!" exclaimed the girl in blue, stepping closer, almost challenging him to touch her. "Show us your hands, Etan. Are you a monster or just a coward afraid of two girls?"

  ?Etan felt something snap. The anger suggested by the Voice became his own.

  ?"Your dress is hideous," he spat, with a sudden, sharp malice. "You look like a cake gone wrong. And you... that ribbon looks terrible on you. My mother says ugly people like you shouldn't come to parties to bother others. You're just two stupid, ugly geese. Get lost!"

  ?The girls' eyes widened, silenced by the direct insult. The one in blue puffed out her chest, tears already threatening to fall, but before they could respond, a tall, stern shadow loomed behind them.

  ?"Etan!"

  ?Lady Elara was there. Her face was a mask of ice and disappointment. The two girls scurried away in an instant, leaving him alone with his mother. Elara did not take him in her arms. She grabbed him by the arm, her grip iron and unyielding, and dragged him brutally into a corridor alcove.

  ?"How dare you?" she snarled in a low voice, her face contorted with letdown. "We brought you here at an enormous effort, risking everything to give you a chance, and you behave like a rude bully? We have spent years hiding what you are, and you spit venom at two little girls over a whim?"

  ?"But Mom... they said I was a monster..."

  ?"Silence!" Elara shook him with a firmness that took his breath away. "I don't care what they said! You are not like the others, Etan. You don't have the right to make mistakes. If you act like this, people won't see an offended child; they will see the monster we're afraid you’re becoming. Do you want to end up locked in a cell forever? Is that what you want? For them to take you away from me because you can't control yourself?"

  ?Etan lowered his head, feeling tears burn like acid. His mother wasn't defending him. She was scolding him because he couldn't be the perfect son she could show off with pride.

  ?"Listen to her carefully, Etan," the Voice whispered, and this time its tone was almost sweet, with a terrifying pity. "See? I was right. She doesn't want you for who you really are. She doesn't care about your pain or those geese. She just wants a normal son, a pretty mannequin to display. She doesn't give a damn about you or what you feel. She wants to change you because she’s ashamed of your existence."

  ?Etan trembled, unable to answer his mother who continued to stare at him with eyes full of demands and terror.

  ?"The girls were right, can't you feel it?" the Voice continued, digging a chasm in his chest. "You are a monster. Your mother knows it; that’s why she scolds you. That’s why she hides you in empty rooms. You’re not a child; you’re a mistake she’s desperately trying to correct. You are alone, Etan. She loves the idea of you, not you. I am the only one who accepts you."

  ?"I'm sorry," Etan whispered. But as he said it, he didn't look at his mother. He looked at the shadow on the floor, accepting, for the first time, that he was exactly what everyone feared.

  ?"Your dress is hideous," Etan had spat that day, defending himself against their insults. "You look like a cake gone wrong."

  But Elara had dragged him away, furious. "You are not like the others, Etan! People won’t see an offended child; they will see the monster we fear you are becoming!"

  ?Etan understood then that his mother’s love was merely an attempt to correct a mistake. But the final confirmation came a year later, when his desperate parents brought him before the Great Sage of the Highlands.

  Etan remembered the circular room, the scent of incense, and the old man sitting on a throne of roots. The Sage had placed a hand on Etan's forehead, closing his eyes to peer into his soul. The silence lasted an eternity; his parents greeted the sage with courtesy, and he turned back to Etan with empty words of comfort. But in his eyes, there was something strange, as if he were searching for something lurking behind the boy.

  ?Months after his birth, his parents had taken infant Etan to the Great Sage of the Capital for the Magic Level ritual. Valerius and Elara waited with bated breath, but the verdict was a cold sentence: the sage shook his head, declaring that the child did not have a shred of Mana in his body and, in all probability, would never be able to use magic. As they left the hall, however, the old sage froze: for a fraction of a second, he had seen in the infant's shadow a second, unsettling shadow—a dark silhouette that remained motionless beside the little one. He rubbed his eyes, convincing himself it was just a trick of the candlelight, but the doubt left a shiver down his spine.

  Elara had burst into tears at the definitive loss of that "perfect son" the Sage had just declared non-existent.

  ?The world, for Etan, had never been made of material objects, but of an incessant hum. Sitting at the immense oak table, he stared at his polished shoes, trying to ignore the vibration of atoms hammering at his skull. He wore dark leather gloves, his only defense against the chaos of matter.

  To the world, Minister Valerius’s son was just a fragile boy who had never gone to school; in reality, Etan was a prisoner of himself. To silence the voice, Etan was forced to bite his tongue until it bled or stab himself with forks—anything he could find.

  ?At seven years old, one night, crushed by the weight of an existence he hadn't asked for, he decided that the only way to free his parents and silence that torment was to end it. He slipped a leather lace from his jacket and, in the darkness of his aseptic room, tried to strangle himself. But as the air failed and his vision blurred, something unexpected happened: for the first time, the Voice screamed in pure terror. It was no longer the hateful roar of a predator, but the desperate cry of one seeing the abyss open wide.

  ?In that moment of agony, Etan discovered the truth: the bond was a two-way street. If he felt pain, the Voice suffered with him; if he died, she vanished into nothingness. He felt the entity's emotions merge with his own—a vibration of primal fear that made them one. From ?? night, Etan began a brutal, secret training. Every day, he inflicted small physical pains on himself—biting his tongue, digging nails into his flesh, burns—to force the Voice into submission through shared suffering.

  ?Paradoxically, this macabre ritual brought a truce. The Voice, realizing its own survival depended on Etan’s stability, began to settle. It didn't go silent, but its cry turned into a constant whisper, light and present as a breath at his back. It was no longer an entity that overpowered his thoughts, but a conscious tenant aware that both were tied to the same fate. A symbiosis of blood and silence was born: Etan accepted her presence, and the Voice accepted being, at least in part, contained.

  ?Look at how they pretend, the Voice hissed in his head, steeped in a dull rage. Your mother smiles, but she is just dust waiting to return to the earth.

  ?Lady Elara, seated to his right, sensed her son’s tension. The rustle of her emerald green silk dress accompanied her movement as she leaned toward him. As the former Head of the Mages' Guild, Elara was the only one, along with her husband, who knew the weight Etan carried in his chest. She placed a hand on the nape of his neck, murmuring an ancient formula. A bluish warmth flowed from her fingers: a relief spell that made the Voice retreat, but only for an instant.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  ?Etan rose mechanically, following his parents' solemn pace toward the head of the table. Lord Valerius kept a hand on his shoulder, guiding him through tables covered in brocade. It was on that path that Etan saw them: the two mean girls from before, wrapped in pastel-colored dresses, laughing with a vanity that seemed almost to radiate heat.

  Around their necks shone imposing pendants, which the young women touched constantly to draw attention. But for Etan, there was no beauty. Through his strange perception, he felt that the matter of those objects was "crooked." It wasn't the dense, pure essence of gold, but a poor mixture, altered only to deceive the eye. A fake that grated against his sensitivity like nails on stone.

  ?They finally arrived before Marcus. The man with long white hair rose slowly. He looked at Lord Valerius, and in his eyes, Etan saw a flash of cold envy—the resentment of one who desires another’s prestige. Then his gaze slid to his mother, Elara: there, envy mixed with an ambiguous sweetness, a sick desire to possess her light.

  When Marcus lowered his eyes to Etan, the boy responded with a slight bow and a greeting so cold it cast a chill between them.

  ?"What are you hiding under that leather, boy?"

  The white-haired man’s voice snatched him from his thoughts. The man was there, leaning toward him. Etan felt the Voice in his head curl up like a predator meeting a larger one.

  "Nothing that concerns you," Etan replied.

  The man laughed. "You lie. I feel the shadow you carry behind you. It is dense, hungry... just like mine. Your father thinks he can keep the world in balance, but he doesn't know his greatest mistake is walking right beside him."

  ?The man reached a hand toward Etan’s shoulder but stopped an inch from his ear. "I am Marcus. And tonight, little monster, we will finally see what happens when the void decides to eat the light—the very thing your parents want so badly to protect but have denied you."

  ?Lord Valerius and Lady Elara were not born to be together; they were two forces of nature destined to collide. They had met as children among the benches of the Royal Academy, a place of dust and ancient tomes where their love blossomed like a secret in the shadows of the library. He was the prodigy of magical geology; she, the rebel who already whispered to the Weave. They loved each other with a fierce love that had become legend in the kingdom.

  ?When Elara became pregnant, her joy was tinged with an absolute certainty born from her sensitivity as a Guild Head: she felt two hearts beating in her womb, two sparks of life, distinct and vibrant. "They are twins," she would repeat to Valerius, stroking her belly with almost mystical veneration. Yet, on the night of the birth, the world seemed to hold its breath. Amidst screams and shadows, only one child was born: Etan. Elara searched for the other with her gaze, confused, looking for the heartbeat she had protected for months, but no one was there. The healers and Valerius consoled her with a cold, rational explanation: she had simply been mistaken, a delusion caused by too much power and a mother’s longing. Elara stopped speaking of it, but the doubt remained etched in her eyes every time she looked at Etan and the strange, dual nature of his torment.

  ?The truth manifested shortly after, on a night the parents would never forget. While Etan was resting, Elara entered the room and stood paralyzed with horror: the wooden cradle was no longer an inert object, but had transmuted into a malevolent living being—a creature made of wooden veins like muscles and splinters like teeth, quivering, ready to devour the infant. Elara reacted on instinct, using her magic to disintegrate the abomination before it was too late. In that moment, the parents understood: Etan was not devoid of power; he possessed something dark, primal, and beyond control. To protect him—and to protect the world from him—they made a drastic decision: Etan would grow up in silence, far from prying eyes, without school or friends, a prisoner within the gilded walls of the palace.

  ?Etan’s life became that of a ghost. His room was an aseptic shell, devoid of furniture, paintings, or rugs: every object was a potential enemy that could take life or mutate under his uncontrolled power. He lived protected by magical barriers that filtered every noise or trace of external mana, a cell of absolute silence to prevent his mind from shattering. This forced segregation transformed him into a broken soul; social anxiety became an impassable wall. To Etan, every human being was a fragile container of life that he risked destroying, and every look from others was a blade trying to pierce his secret.

  ?Marcus moved to the center of the open space, drawing the room’s attention with a theatrical gesture of his hands. The chatter died out instantly.

  ?"Ladies and gentlemen," Marcus began, and his voice seemed to vibrate in Etan’s bones like rusted metal. "The magic we know is a cage... a rough diamond. We limit ourselves to shaping what we see, ignoring the true architecture of the universe."

  ?He pulled from his robes a perfectly cubic object made of a black mineral so opaque it looked like a hole in reality. With a snap of his fingers, the cube rose, hovering in mid-air. It began to oscillate, slowly at first, then with a frenzy that defied gravity, emitting a high-pitched whistle that made the crystals of the chandeliers vibrate.

  ?Before the astonished eyes of those present, the cube's geometry collapsed into itself and then expanded in directions the human eye could not follow. It was no longer a three-dimensional figure; the edges bent inward and outward simultaneously, revealing impossible angles and volumes that transcended physics. It was a four-dimensional object, a physical relic torn from the realm of divinity and forced into the mortal world.

  ?That horror should not exist, the Voice hissed, this time with a note of genuine fear. I feel the matter screaming in pain. Etan, look... look at how reality is breaking.

  ?Etan stood petrified. For the first time in his life, the constant hum of matter had stopped, replaced by an unnatural and absolute silence emanating from that cube. He tried to penetrate the object's structure with his senses, to feel its density or grain, but he felt nothing. To him, that object was a total void, an absence of vibration that terrified him more than any noise. He saw what the others saw: a shape twisting in impossible directions, but he could not perceive its essence. He was blind before a geometric deity.

  ?Inside his head, the Voice changed drastically. The anger and envy vanished, replaced by a pure, visceral terror. There was no trace of mockery in its tone, only a desperate plea that made his blood run cold.

  ?Etan... please... the presence whispered, its voice trembling like that of a terrified child. Get away. I beg you, take us away from here. I can no longer feel the walls of the world... that object is eating us. Run, Etan. Run!

  ?Marcus snapped his fingers again. With a fluid and unnatural movement, the cube calmed instantly, returning to a motionless black solid suspended in mid-air. The whistling ceased, leaving a silence in the room so thick it could be cut with a knife.

  ?Etan, short of breath and with his heart racing, took advantage of the general distraction to back away. He retreated into a shadowed corner, sitting on an isolated chair. He looked at his hands, clutching his leather gloves as if they were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.

  ?"Always the same antisocial boy, aren't you, Etan?"

  ?The two girls from before had reached him. The one in the peach dress was preening, swaying her pendant with fingers laden with rings.

  ?"Why are you staring at your shoes? You should be admiring Marcus’s masterpiece instead of sitting here in the shadows," said the second, the one in blue, with a contemptuous giggle. "Or maybe you’re too busy envying the beauty of our jewelry? They are unique pieces, you know? There are no others like them in the whole kingdom."

  ?Etan slowly raised his gaze. The Voice in his head, still shaken by the terror from before, began to sting again with a defensive envy. He observed the stones and metal on their chests; now that the cube was still, his ability to "feel" matter had returned, sharper than ever.

  ?"Where did you say you got them?" Etan asked, his voice thin but firm.

  ?"They cost a fortune, little Minister," the girl in the peach dress shot back, puffing out her chest in annoyance. "Only the purest gold in the Capital shines like this."

  ?Etan tilted his head, staring at that soulless metal. "You were cheated," he said with a coldness that made them flinch. "This isn't gold. It’s an alchemical fake, magnetic and empty. It’s..."

  ?As he spoke, the Voice in his head roared back to life, but it was no longer the plea from before. It was blind rage, a desire for destruction fueled by the humiliation of the terror he had just felt.

  ?Look at those smirks of superiority, the Voice hissed, clawing at the walls of his mind. Why limit yourself to touching metal? Grab those golden locks and tear—

  ?Marcus leaned in even closer, his breath as cold as marble hitting Etan’s face. His voice shifted, becoming a skeletal vibration, heavy, swollen with an envy so dense it felt tangible. He began to badger him, words coming fast like hammer blows, leaving him no room to breathe. In that moment, the arm moved on its own; Etan tore a piece from his gloves to expose a finger that brushed one of the pendants. The girls jumped back from Etan, thinking he wanted to snatch their necklaces, and ran away, oblivious to the fact that he had changed the molecular composition of the pendant, turning it into the purest gold. It was the first time Etan had used his power, though he hadn't done so consciously.

  ?A shadow manifested behind him, heavy and cold. It was Marcus.

  ?"How did you do it? Answer me!" Marcus exhaled, his pupils rotating frantically in their sockets. "I didn't feel the Mana vibrate around you. You drew no seals, you spoke no syllables of power. Nothing! No enchantment... no Weave evoked..."

  ?He stopped a millimeter from Etan’s nose, his face contorted by a rage that made his lips tremble. Then, with a tone dripping with deep hatred for the laws of nature Etan dared to break:

  ?"How is it possible, Etan? How can you create gold from mere iron without passing through the alchemical process? How can you... rewrite substance itself with a simple touch? Is it the gloves?"

  ?Marcus grabbed him by the shoulders, his fingers as steady and hard as iron bars, gripping him like talons. "Tell me the secret! Why can you do it and I cannot? With all my wisdom, must I still resort to these stage magician tricks?"

  ?He gestured madly toward the cube suspended in the center of the hall. In that moment, the Voice in Etan’s head reawakened. It was no longer a plea; it was a battle cry that rang out like a funeral knell.

  ?Just as the pressure in Etan’s head was about to become unbearable, a firm and icy hand intervened between him and the predator. Lady Elara had approached with the speed of a hawk, her gaze like ice.

  ?"Marcus, I believe my son has had enough excitement for one night," she said in a voice that allowed no argument, radiating an aura of power that pushed back the invisible filth on the man's face.

  ?Marcus did not move immediately. His right hand remained anchored to Etan’s shoulder, his fingers a morsa of steel. It was not a protective grip; it was a possessive one, so brutal that Etan felt his collarbone creak.

  ?Marcus smiled, a gesture made with eyes bloodshot with hatred. "You won't escape, Etan. Not now that I’ve seen what you’re capable of."

  ?Kill him! the Voice screamed, no longer subtle but a roar of pure wrath. Snap those filthy fingers before he snaps us! Feel how he enjoys your pain? Make him bleed!

  ?The tension between Elara and Marcus became palpable, a static electricity that made the hair on Etan’s arms stand up. They faced each other like two fierce predators over a helpless prey: Elara was the lioness protecting her cub with bared fangs, while Marcus was the vulture ready to tear off shreds of meat to possess its secret. Marcus’s grip on Etan’s shoulder showed no sign of letting go; his knuckles were white, the pressure so blind it made the boy’s joints groan.

  ?It was then that the Voice, instead of shouting, shifted tone. It became close, a slimy and searing whisper directly against his eardrum.

  ?Enough suffering, Etan. Feel how he grips you? He sees you as an object, a toy to be dismantled. The Voice laughed, a sound of pure malice and rage. TOUCH HIM! Let me out and I promise you he will never grip anything again in his life.

  ?Etan, blinded by the pain in his shoulder and the psychological pressure, obeyed. With a frantic movement of the finger he had freed earlier, he touched him.

  ?As soon as his bare skin made contact with Marcus’s hand, the air seemed to freeze and then explode. A chilling heat—an impossible temperature that did not burn but annihilated matter—erupted from Etan’s palm. Marcus let out an inhuman scream and released his grip instantly; his skin, at the point of contact, had turned ash-gray, as if life had been sucked out in an instant.

  ?"But it’s beautiful... marvelous! More! More! Show me more!!!" Marcus snarled, his face now completely transformed by a sadistic joy.

  ?He did not back down. Instead, he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers twice, a sharp sound that echoed like a gunshot.

  ?The black cube, until then motionless, went wild. It began to bounce furiously around the room, hitting the walls and ceiling at a speed the human eye could not follow. It wasn't a physical impact: wherever the cube touched something, that part of matter vanished into nothingness. A waiter trying to flee was brushed on the shoulder; there was no blood, no pain, only a perfect hole where bone and flesh had been. His very existence was being absorbed by that four-dimensional horror.

  ?The banquet turned into a silent slaughterhouse.

  ?Look! the Voice roared, excited by the chaos. The world is crumbling! It’s beautiful, Etan! It’s time to show this worm what true gold is capable of!

  ?Etan collapsed to the floor, his knees hitting the marble with a sharp thud. He could no longer stand; terror had hollowed out his limbs, making them heavy as lead. A warm stain spread quickly across his elegant trousers, a sign of childish humiliation he didn't even notice, paralyzed as he was by that nightmare vision. He couldn't scream; not a single breath came out, only a convulsive tremor that shook his shoulders.

  ?The cube scythed through the air above him. His father, Lord Valerius, stepped forward to shield him, but the object brushed him. Without a cry, without a drop of blood, Valerius’s head simply ceased to exist, erased from reality. The Minister’s body slumped forward, a mannequin of flesh and purple toga that collapsed in absolute silence before his son’s wide eyes.

  ?"NO!"

  ?Marcus’s scream pierced the chaos. It wasn't a cry of pity for the Minister, but pure terror of losing his treasure. "Etan! Stop! Not him! NO!"

  ?Marcus saw the cube bounce off a column and head straight for the boy and his mother. Elara, her face streaked with tears but her eyes lit with a final, desperate determination, grabbed Etan by his jacket, trying to drag him away. But the cube was too fast. It was a black blur bringing oblivion.

  ?In that instant, Etan’s mind shattered. There was no more room for fear, only for the instinct to protect the only thing he had left.

  ?Do it now! the Voice roared, no longer evil but charged with a primal power. Take everything! Close everything! Lock them in a grip! With his mouth, he hurriedly pulled off his gloves. In his eyes shone a blue light in stark contrast to his brown ones; his hair turned white, and his skin took on a rosier hue.

  ?Etan stretched out his bare hands toward his mother. All the iron present in the hall—the candelabras, the wall decorations, even the blades in the guards' scabbards—tore loose with a thunderous roar. The metal flowed like black liquid through the air, converging toward them at a maddening speed. Before the cube could touch them, a perfect sphere of pitch-black metal, opaque and impenetrable, sealed around Etan and his mother, isolating them from the rest of the universe.

  ?Etan screamed—a strangled sound he didn't even recognize as his own—and reached his bare hands toward the chaos. "Protect her! Protect her!" he cried out, addressing matter itself. He called to himself every gram of iron, every fragment of marble, every available atom to erect a shield.

  ?Exhausted, as if he had run miles, his heart beating a thousand times a minute, he felt utterly drained, as if all his energy had been sucked out in a single instant. He was covered in sweat, and his face had returned to normal; he could no longer move a muscle.

  ?But his power, corrupted by panic, did not generate a clean barrier.

  ?In the silence and darkness around him and his mother, a sound emerged—slimy and metallic at once. The shield that rose around them was an aberration: a pulsating sphere of iron, marble, and living flesh welded into a single sentient structure. The ceiling decorations had intertwined with the guests' limbs; the marble of the columns had become muscle. Etan found himself a prisoner of an architectural nightmare.

  ?Everything within that sphere suffered. The walls of flesh and metal oozed blood and oil, and a thousand hands emerged from the structure, waving stumped fingers and iron claws. Out of pure hatred and the panic of suffering, those hands began to seize Elara as if they were looking for someone to help them, but they inevitably dragged her down.

  ?"Mother!"

  ?Etan watched in horror as the sphere’s hands grabbed his mother, twisting her arms and legs with brute force, seeking insane help in that tangle of agony. Amidst the folds of pulsating flesh that had neither beginning nor end, Etan recognized a golden reflection: the necklace. The girl from before was there, reduced to a mass of lips begging for death and fingers scratching Elara’s back so as not to drown alone.

  ?Inside his head, the Voice did not laugh. For the first time, its tone was broken, devoid of any trace of cynicism.

  ?It’s our fault, Etan... the presence whispered, trembling with him. Please... save her. Save mother. Do it now or they will tear her apart!

  ?Etan felt the bond between him and the Voice fuse into a single desperate desire. He reached out his bare hand toward Elara’s face as she was being dragged away by the monster’s limbs. His touch was not a caress; it was an absolute command to reality.

  ?"Enough!"