The Five Realms

Chapter 7: Chyna III

Chapter 7: In the Absence of Fire

Chyna woke to birdsong and the creak of old pipes. Sunlight slipped between the curtains, staining the floorboards with gold, but it didn't warm her. She sat up slowly, the fabric of her father's flannel shirt soft against her arms. It still smelled faintly of cedar and smoke, even after so many washes. The room around her looked exactly as it used to: rebuilt drywall, new windows, every photo and bookshelf perfectly restored.

But something was off. It wasn't the furniture. Or the walls. It was the silence. The house no longer sighed as it once did—no kettle warming before sunrise, no distant hum from the study. It was whole, yet not.

She moved to the mirror above her desk and studied her reflection. Longer hair, darker at the ends as though it had absorbed the fire. Her eyes held something heavier than before—something she couldn't unsee. The dreams had sharpened, clinging to her skin like mist: flames that spoke, stars that wept, eyes watching through cracks in the sky. This morning, she woke with a word on her lips—foreign, ancient, unspoken:

Nyxeral.

She didn't know what it meant. Only that it meant something.
Downstairs, the scent of eggs and toast reached her—anchoring, ordinary. Chyna closed her eyes. Then opened them.

"Let's try today," she whispered, and descended into a world that was almost—but not quite—home.

It was an ordinary Friday morning. Whatever ordinary even meant now. The sidewalk was still damp with dew, and mist hadn't fully lifted. Chyna walked beside Joey in companionable silence—shoulders brushing like checking for gravitational pull. No backpacks; Katherine had already uploaded their school assignments.

The air felt held—a town holding its breath. Across the street, the marina boats rocked gently, water glassy as though it might crack. A heron perched on a piling—perfectly still. Too still.

"You slept last night?" Joey asked.

"Kind of," Chyna replied. "You?"

He shrugged. "Dreamed of fireflies. They spelled words."

"What did they say?"

"'Not yet,'" he said.

She swallowed. "That's... not nothing."

Their footsteps echoed. The antique bookstore's electric lamppost buzzed like gaslight. A cat stared. Chyna slowed. "Did that lamppost always do that?"

He looked up. "New bulb. Katherine changed it."

"It's not electric."

He paused. "You sure?"

"Positive," she said.

Silence filled the space.

Then Chyna asked, "You think we'll find William?"

"He's missing," Joey said quietly. "Vanished after the funeral."

"It's been months. I keep thinking—what if I'd asked him to stay?"

"You didn't make him disappear."

"I miss him."

"Me too," Joey said.

"He was a good shot," she forced a laugh. "In our last game together, he made three threes in a row."

"He carried us," Joey muttered.

"He wore that ugly headband."

Joey chuckled. "Said it gave him powers."

They paused near the school gate.

"I think he's still alive," she whispered.

Joey met her eyes. "Why?"

"Because I feel him—in the air, in ground— pulling gravity from somewhere far away."

No one spoke as they passed through the gate, stepping into what passed for ordinary.

History class was colder than it should've been. Chyna sat at her usual desk, notebook open, pen unmoving. The heat clicked off. Windows rattled though no wind stirred.

Professor Morzansson glided to the front, suit impeccable, voice smooth as velvet. "History is not what happened. It's what survived." The class's pens scratched; most students tuned out. Chyna and her friends remained.

He spoke of Yggdrasil, the world tree connecting mythic realms—"not metaphor, not myth." Chyna's pen looped symbols in the margins—circles inside circles—without her mind guiding it. Joey shifted closer.

He asked: "What always burns but never dies?" A silence tighter than steel.

Then:
You already know.

Chyna flinched—he hadn't spoken, yet the voice stirred in her. His mouth hadn't moved. But the words curled behind her ear like smoke. She looked up. He still smiled.

The bell breathed out. Students left. Morzansson's voice held firm: "Chyna. Joey. Beanca. Steven. Fatina. Stay."

The five remained as the hallway emptied. Morzansson closed the door; it latched unnaturally. He leaned on the desk—his presence smooth, quiet.

"You five dream," he said. "You feel things before they happen. You see cracks in the ordinary." His gaze swept them. "What connects realms?" No response. He traced three interlocked circles in dust on the board. "Something is waking. It knows your names."

Chyna's breath caught—the symbol matched her dreams. The sky darkened outside. He said quietly, "When the realms bleed, you'll remember. You'll wish you'd listened sooner."

He opened the door. "Class dismissed."

Hallway noise felt distant, warped. The five moved in stunned silence. Joey touched Chyna's arm. She followed quietly outside into the gray morning.

"What just happened?" Joey asked.

"He knows," Chyna whispered. "About us. The fire. Everything."

"He said it awakened us."

"It did."

"And William?"

"He knew of him too," she said, voice quivering.

Joey's face didn't change.

Chyna looked to the sky. "What if we're part of an age-old story?"

"Then we better learn the script."

She smiled faintly. "You sound like Dad."

She said softly, "He said 'the realms are bleeding.'"

Joey glanced skyward. "You believe him?"

She didn't reply. The gathering clouds seemed to shiver—like curtains stirred by whisper.

Through the window across the quad, Morzansson watched. He didn't blink—until he did. Then he smiled.