Time to Talk

"There! He has it! It's in him!"

The words tore from Elorae's throat before she could stop them. Her voice rang through the air, raw with wonder and fear. Her idea, her creation, so close. Across worlds she had travelled, and now it was within reach.

The man and woman had just stepped out of the apartment building, their silhouettes backlit by the glow of the lobby. She was older and taller than him, beautiful and confident. The woman stopped short, alarm flaring in her eyes at Elorae's shout. In a fluid motion, she moved in front of the man, her arm slightly outstretched. Protective. Defensive.

The man behind her stood still, watching. He had a nervous look on his young face. Of course, thought Elorae, a strange woman did just yell at him.

Elorae's fingers twitched at her side, and a whisper of power slipped from her palm—a thread of herself, gossamer-thin, darting toward him like a spark seeking dry kindling.

And when it touched him—

Elorae gasped.

His power struck her like a wave. Not dormant, but rising. Expanding. Rooted in language, belief, conviction. It pulsed in rhythm with something ancient and unfamiliar—a resonance that sang of dominion not by ****, but by certainty. It was hers and not hers, born of her spilled magic but shaped in a crucible she did not control.

She pulled back quickly. Too much. Even a taste had nearly overwhelmed her.

The protective woman narrowed her eyes. "Okay," she said slowly, her voice syrupy-sweet, laced with suspicion. "I think we should go, sweetheart. I think the lady might be having a mental health crisis."

Elorae barely heard her. She was looking at the woman now, truly seeing her.

Another thread, this one gentler, brushed the woman's core.

And what she found made her breath catch.

This woman had been rewoven. Not simply altered—remade. Her desires, her loyalty, even her sense of who she was had been reframed by the same **** Elorae had just touched in the man. Her mind now moved along grooves carved not by nature or nurture, but by deliberate influence. Elegant. Terrifying.

Exactly like what she had done to Steve.

Only... more refined.

More complete.

Elorae took a step forward. "Please," she said, her voice shaking, addressing the woman. "I need to speak to him. Just for a moment."

"I don't think so," the woman said, backing away, "Maybe I can call someone for you. Do you have family around here? Friends?"

"You don't understand," Elorae said. "It's him I need to speak to. I've come such a long way, and only he can help me."

"I see no reason to have you speaking to my s..." the woman hesitated, "...husband, lady. Now if you'll excuse us, it's time that we were on our way."

"We need to discuss your power."

The woman hesitated, then glanced at the man beside her. "What power?" she asked, sounding genuinely confused. "What are you talking about?"

Of course she didn’t know. She wouldn’t. Her memory, her very framework of reality had been bent around him. Even if she were told, she wouldn't be able to understand. His words were truth to her, and no evidence to the contrary would prove otherwise.

Elorae looked at the man.

"Please."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked at the woman—really looked at her. Stepping out from behind the woman, his wife, Elorae supposed, and touched her arm.

"Stay here," he instructed, "I'll be right back."

Then he turned back to Elorae.

"Maybe we should talk."