No!
I shove the tray away and rise from the bed, forcing the memory back to the dark places of my mind. I don’t want this. I’m not ready. Whatever’s in my past is too big, too tangled, too painful to face right now. I need time, let it sink drop by drop, or it’ll drown me.
After a minute of nervous lapses around the bed, I collapse back on the sheets.
My fingers search for the comfort of a nest again, but there is none. Finally, I wrap myself in the blanket and try to build a fort out of it, but it’s still not enough. There’s no calming structure, no scent of my glands, no embracing shape…
My body craves more, aches for safety I cannot have. Never. That much I know. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m someone else, someone without problems, someone living an ordinary life.
But to no avail, there’s no escape from my magic.
That’s what they wanted.
That’s what they all tried to control. Whatever it is, it has to be strong, because the mafia wouldn’t bother with anything ordinary.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.
The knowledge of what my magic really is sits somewhere at the edge of my mind, like a locked cabinet, close enough to touch, yet sealed off from the rest of me. I press my mind to it, straining to catch what’s inside, cautious, alert.
The moment I try to pry it open, a sharp pain stabs through me like a needle. I pull back fast, but not before I catch a single fleeting thought, like a soap bubble that bursts into rainbow light the second it forms.
Hylomancer.
For a while I just sit with the word, trying to make sense of it, but I don’t recognize it. I need more info!
I glance around the room. No phone.
But on the desk sits an old laptop, plastered with half-peeled stickers. Probably belonged to whoever lived here before me. I drag myself out of bed, open the laptop, and find a spider scuttling across the keyboard, as if it had been setting up house there. With a sigh I scoop it up and let it out the window.
The laptop boots with excruciating slowness, the fan wheezing painfully. Finally the screen comes alive, flashing some giant monster from a comic book. I don’t know the character, but it's clear that the previous owner of this room was obsessed with monsters.
I open the browser and type the word in Google, but nothing comes up. No results.
So I switch over to ChatGPT and ask what ‘hylomancer’ means.
The answer pops up a moment later:
"I couldn’t find a precise definition of the wordhylomancerin available sources. However, we can try to break it down. The first part, ‘hylo’, likely comes from the Greek word hyle, meaning ‘matter’ or ‘substance’, the basic material of the world. The second part, ‘mancer’, is common in English for someone who wields or controls something, like necromancer (controlling the undead) or pyromancer (controlling fire). Sohylomancercould be interpreted as someone who controls matter in its most fundamental form, the raw fabric of it. Of course, this is an etymological interpretation, not an official definition."
Wow.
I just stare at the screen for a long time. So… something like a ‘mage of matter’? Or a ‘particle mage’?
What am I supposed to do with that? Where would I even start?
I get up and drift to the window, my thoughts scattering like wild mustangs. The silver surface of the lake glimmers below the slope. Curiosity eats at me, but the second I try to reach back into my memory, the same wave of pain crushes me. Why can’t I just remember? What’s blocking me?
Wait.
That guy, Snow? Maybe he could help? I could see him again, his violet eyes scanning my face with a calm kind of… softness?
The thought sparks a flicker of hope, but then embarrassment hits. How would I even ask, when I can’t string together a single sentence?
Frustration drives me back onto the bed. My gaze lands on an empty teacup. I fix on its cobalt blue surface.
What would ahylomancerdo with a cup like this, if he knew how? The thought makes me laugh under my breath. It’s silly.
Whoever wanted to erase me has done a decent job. My identity’s nothing but scraps I’ve pieced together over the lastforty-eight hours. And on top of that, the whole mess started because of my secret. Now I can’t even use it. It’s maddening. Maybe ironic? Or probably tragic.
