Macaria blinked as the world around her shifted—her breath caught in her throat.
She stood in the middle of a vast meadow, bathed in an ethereal twilight that shimmered between dream and memory. The tall grass waved in slow, deliberate rhythms, dotted with glowing flowers that radiated hues of soft blue, gentle gold, and delicate pink. Each bloom pulsed faintly, as though they breathed with the earth itself. Above her, the sky stretched endlessly, freckled with stars—more than she had ever seen in her life—like a celestial ocean wrapped around the world.
Tiny orbs of light floated upward through the air like fireflies, silent and patient. They drifted zily toward the heavens, vanishing into the stars like they belonged there.
Macaria turned in a slow circle, her boots crunching softly on the dewy ground. She was alone. No alley, no shouts, no blood, no fear—just the meadow, the wind, and the distant sound of her own heartbeat. The air smelled like pine and saltwater—a strange but comforting combination. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the faint weight of the dream pressing in on her chest.
And then she saw him.
A figure stood beneath a tree some distance away. Its bark glowed faintly, casting soft blue light onto the grass around its roots. The figure wore a flowing turquoise cloak, the fabric rippling in the wind like waves. Their back was turned.
Macaria took a step forward. “Hello?” Her voice wavered in the quiet.
The figure didn’t move.
She stepped closer, the glowing flowers brushing against her knees. Light trailed off their petals as she passed, drifting into the sky to join the other orbs.
Then—
“Macaria.”
The voice came from nowhere, soft but steady. It was familiar, but she couldn’t pce it. Her heart jumped.
“Who... who’s there?” she asked, spinning on her heel.
No one.
She turned back toward the tree.
The figure was gone.
“This isn’t real,” she whispered, her fists curling at her sides. “This is just a dream…”
“It’s more than a dream.”
The voice came from behind her.
She whipped around.
A man now stood only a few feet away. His presence was… still. Measured. His turquoise hair framed a youthful face with calm, almost ancient eyes that saw too much. His cloak shifted in the wind, blending so seamlessly with the scenery that it felt like the air wore him.
Macaria stumbled back, her pulse spiking. “Who are you?” she managed, one hand instinctively reaching for the knife she no longer had.
The man tilted his head, offering a soft, enigmatic smile. “I’m Hoshiko. A wind spirit... or I believe I am. My memories are frayed, like threadbare cloth, but I know this much—I was sent by the god Oakuss.”
“Sent for what?” she asked, breathlessly. “Why me?”
“Because we’re connected,” Hoshiko said. “You and I. Your world and mine. I’ve been trying to reach you for a long time.”
The wind wrapped around her gently, curling at her legs and tugging at her hair, not with force, but comfort. It felt like recognition.
Her hands trembled. “I was fighting—those men—Renley was—” Her voice cracked. “And then I was here.”
Hoshiko stepped closer, eyes kind. “This is a pce between. Between sleep and waking, between memory and destiny. Here, the rules bend. Here, we can talk.”
Macaria’s gaze drifted toward the sky, where the stars blinked in slow pulses. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It will,” he said. “In time.”
Suddenly, a voice echoed again—this time, not from the meadow.
“Macaria! Wake up!”
Her breath hitched. The dream flickered like fme in the wind.
“Wait,” she said, turning back to Hoshiko. “Who—who are you really?”
But he was fading now, like mist dissolving into sunlight.
His voice lingered, a whisper in the wind: “Remember me.”
Macaria gasped as she opened her eyes, immediately squeezing them shut again as harsh white light burned through her vision. Her entire body ached. Muscles screamed. Her lungs felt too shallow, too small.
Voices—muffled and far away.
“I know you’re awake. Open your eyes,” came a low, familiar voice—Simon.
“You’re an idiot,” said another—Natsuki, sharp and breathless.
The light above her dimmed.
This time, she blinked her eyes open slowly. Her vision adjusted, bringing the dim glow of the coffee shop into view. She was lying on a pile of cushions in the corner booth, tucked away like a fragile artifact.
Natsuki was on her right, worry etched deep into her brow. Simon knelt on her left, adjusting his gsses with a tight expression.
“What… happened?” Macaria murmured, groggy.
“You tell us,” Simon said. “We found you unconscious in an alley on the other side of the city.”
“You left by yourself,” Natsuki added. “Told me not to worry. Then Simon got this gut feeling or whatever and ran off like he knew exactly where to find you.”
Macaria sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her pounding head. The images came in fragments—Renley, Felix, the alley fight, the fsh of wind erupting from her palms. “I… I don’t remember everything. It’s all jumbled.”
“Not surprising,” Simon said ftly. “You were covered in bruises and mana residue. But at least you’re alive.”
Macaria’s eyes flicked to Natsuki, guilt heavy on her tongue. “I lied to you. I didn’t go home. I saw a girl—Renley—being hunted. I followed her.”
Natsuki’s face twisted into a mixture of anger and panic. “Macaria, you should’ve called me. That was insanely dangerous.”
“I know.” Macaria’s voice broke. “I thought I could handle it. I didn’t know what I was getting into.”
She recounted everything—the chase, the portal magic, the battle, the wind that responded to her will.
Simon’s expression shifted from neutral to intrigued. “So... you manifested wind mana. Pure, too. Rare as hell.”
“Pure?” she repeated.
“It means your magic wasn’t warped by external sources. Unfiltered. Direct. Elemental mana like that doesn’t just happen. It’s usually… tied to something deeper.”
“You’re saying this is destiny?” she asked.
“I’m saying it’s not an accident,” he replied.
Simon gnced toward the clock. “You need rest. And answers. But not tonight.” He turned to Natsuki. “Go home. I’ll walk her back when she’s ready.”
Natsuki stood reluctantly, shooting one st look at Macaria. “Call me. Anything weird—anything—you let me know.”
“I will,” Macaria promised.
Once the door clicked shut, Simon sighed and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a gleaming red prism, holding it up to the light. It shimmered like a living fme.
“I’ve got some prep to do before opening,” he said. “Mochi will keep you company.”
He tossed the prism.
It shattered midair—bursting into light and coalescing into a small, cat-like creature with fluffy cream-colored fur, bck stripes on her ears and paws, and a velvet red ribbon tied around her neck. Her rge, curious purple eyes blinked up at Macaria.
“This is Mochi,” Simon said. “Technically not a familiar. Long story.”
Mochi jingled as she stretched, then settled on the counter, staring intently.
Simon disappeared into the back.
Macaria stood slowly, every muscle protesting. She stacked the cushions and grabbed her ptop, dragging it to the nearest table.
Mochi padded over and leapt beside her, startling both of them.
Macaria ughed, and so did Mochi—if a twitchy tail and a soft huff counted as a ugh.
They settled together in quiet rhythm. The glow of the screen reflected in Mochi’s eyes as Macaria scrolled through an exhausting list of textbook questions.
Then—light.
A soft fsh of yellow-green outside the window caught her eye.
A lone firefly hovered near the gss, wings pulsing with gentle light. It nded on the leaf of a potted pnt, crawling in zy circles.
Mochi pressed her nose to the window, mesmerized.
And Macaria sat frozen, heart stirring.
The dream. The meadow. The orbs of light.
The figure beneath the tree.
Who are you? she thought.
But the wind outside offered only silence—and a promise of answers still waiting to be found.
Macaria watched the firefly drift into the night, its glow vanishing into the darkness beyond the gss. Mochi’s reflection lingered beside her own—two quiet shapes in the low light of the empty café.
She didn’t know what came next. She didn’t even know what questions to ask.
But the wind had changed.
And so had she.
