Heart Attack

No longer you

After that, it was time to separate my dear brother Oscar from the other soul. We had prepared everything — at least Damian and I did — while Qrow stationed himself at the door to keep anyone from barging in. Convincing Bart to stay away had been hard, but we told him to distract the rest of the group and he reluctantly agreed. This was delicate, dangerous work; if something went wrong, none of us could guarantee what pieces of Oscar would remain when it was over.

We held the crystal in our hands, the one Rachel had sent. A deep green gem clasped in black metal, shaped into a choker meant for Oscar. It hummed faintly, alive in my palm, like it could sense what was coming. Oscar lay on the bed, too still for someone his age, too pale, but breathing evenly. Damian stood on one side of him, posture military‑rigid, while I stood on the other, my fingers trembling no matter how many times I told them to stop.

Close your eyes, Kori. Breathe. This is Oscar. This is your brother.

And then we dove into his mind.

The world shifted with a sick lurch and we landed in open farmland — endless fields of gold under a soft blue sky, a lonely dirt path leading to a single farmhouse that creaked in the wind. It was so vivid it almost hurt my eyes. Not Remnant. Not Tamaran. Not Earth. Something between all three, dream‑stitched and frayed at the edges.

Oh. Wait. Wizard of Oz. That book Cassandra lent me — the one about yellow bricks and talking lions. I’d meant to return it and never did. (Note to self: Apologize to Cassandra if we ever get home.)

The farmhouse door swung open and there he was: Oscar. Or at least the part of him that wasn’t tangled up with Ozpin. He looked nervous, wringing his hands like he’d been waiting for us. My poor brother.

“He doesn’t seem to open yet,” Oscar murmured, biting his lip.

“Don’t worry, Pine,” Damian said, voice low and steady, as though sheer willpower could anchor Oscar in place. “We’ll handle it.”

I almost laughed at that nickname — Pine — and then didn’t, because Damian was serious, and my own chest felt too tight to risk it. When had Damian become like this? So quietly protective of everyone? I couldn’t remember the exact moment, but it was there, creeping in like frost over glass.

I wandered ahead of them into the farmhouse. The inside smelled of old wood and ink, faintly like paper left in sunlight. There was a hallway, lined with closed doors, each painted differently. I ignored their voices behind me and followed instinct — no, not instinct, something sharper, my semblance tugging me toward the one door that hummed louder than the others.

White, trimmed with green. An emerald for a handle.

I turned it without thinking.

And stepped into an office I had never seen but somehow knew belonged to someone else. Tall windows let in pale light. Stacks of books teetered against one wall. A desk sat in the center, neat but not sterile, papers arranged with obsessive precision. Behind it, a man with silver‑streaked hair and small spectacles looked up at me. He wore black, severe and unflinching, though his smile was maddeningly calm.

“Your semblance,” he said, voice smooth as glass, “has proven… useful, Princess Koriand’r.”

I stiffened. Nobody called me that here. Not out loud. Not like that.

“Because nobody could open that door,” he went on, resting his chin on folded hands, “unless they wielded magic… or a mind strong enough to bypass my defenses.”

“Uh‑huh,” I said, trying very hard not to fidget. “Cool office. Nice window. Bad feng shui, though.”

His smile didn’t falter.