Her Own Colour

Elorae stirred as dawn crept across the edges of the hotel suite. The air was soft, filtered by machines she did not understand. It smelled clean, sharp. This new world was a sensory experience that she could have never anticipated. Her eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting not just to the light—but to colour.

Such boldness. Such defiance.

The palette of this world was relentless. It wormed into everything, even her.

She shifted beneath the silken sheets, fingers curling gently near her cheek. A strange comfort pulsed through her—plush fabrics, a soft bed, a humming silence broken only by the distant murmur of city life below. This is how they live, she thought. This is what they built without ether. Without the weight of the mistakes made by previous generations.

Across the room, the man—Steve—slept upright in a chair, neck bent awkwardly, mouth slightly ajar. His exhaustion was evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, the stiffness of his posture. But still, he hadn't left her. Not once. A dutiful sentinel.

She watched him for a long time.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she extended her senses outward—not her body, but something older, deeper. A thread of power slipped from her mind like vapour from a still lake. A sliver. No—less than that. A sliver of a sliver. The barest whisper of who she truly was.

It touched him.

And recoiled.

Oh, she thought, startled but unsurprised. It is already gone too far.

The day before, she had reached into him with caution, a test, a touch. She had meant only to nudge him into compliance, ease his fear. Instead, she had upended the entire structure of his psyche. He was no longer Steve in the way he had once been. Not truly. The essence of him now wrapped itself around her like ivy. He was bound—hopelessly, utterly—to her wellbeing. Not from ****, but from identity. It was who he now was.

There would be no undoing it. No walking him back from the edge.

This world amplifies me, she thought, withdrawing her touch. I must be careful. If even this small gesture rewrites a man… what will happen when I find my idea? My errant experiment, out there in the open?

A flicker of unease passed through her. She sat up slowly, drawing the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. Her skin—once matte and dim and safely unnoticeable—now shimmered with hues she had no language for. She held her hand up in the morning light, turning it, watching as pale color caught along her knuckles and fingertips.

This realm was changing her.

She rose and padded across the room to the mirror, careful not to wake Steve. Her reflection startled her—vivid, soft, full of warmth that hadn't been there before. Her face, her lips, even her hair, once dun, now held traces of colour that made her dizzy to stare at.

Names, she thought. Steve will know the names for these colours. He knows many things. He would be her guide.

She stared at herself. An unfamiliar woman looked back.

It frightened her.

Not because it was ugly—no, this world was beautiful. Addictive. A world without ether, restrictions. A world that was light, not shadow. Bright, not heavy. It tempted her with gentleness, with clarity, with hope.

And for a moment, she allowed herself the question:

Could I just stay?

She could settle here. Let the past collapse behind her like an old ruin. Never return. Never try to fix what she broke.

But the thought withered quickly.

No.

Because the thing that was breaking her world—the Seed of Doubt—was hers. Born from her mind, **** by a vindictive man who used her own mistakes against her. A rogue idea, a splinter of curiosity. She hated it. And yet, as with all her creations, she loved it as well. And now it was out there, somewhere in her home. Rooted. Thriving. Unchecked.

Spreading.

The image of her ex-lover rose unbidden—Vaelith, cloaked in the echoes of his ex-lovers, his voice thick with venom. They had shared dreams once, hoped for a brighter future together. Now, she feared he walked through the ruins of their world, his ambition fueling a campaign of rage and destruction. At home people would be suffering, perhaps even dying.

And yet she stood in a hotel suite with soft towels and a man who would slit his wrists if she asked.

Focus, she told herself.

The answer was not to flee. The answer was here. Her errant creation—her Idea—had taken root in this place. It had become flesh. It was growing. If she could find it—contain it—understand it—maybe she could bring it back. Heal her world. Restore balance. Redeem herself.

But how would she know it? What would it feel like?

She looked at Steve again.

It might not feel like power. It might feel like something else. Something new.

Dangerous, she thought. She would need caution.

She sat down beside the sleeping man and placed her fingers on his temple, a gesture of quiet apology.

"You are mine now," she whispered.

"But I must not break what remains of you."

Because this world had its own shape. Its own colour. And soon, so would she.