Page 3 of A Reign of Chromes & Shadows

Then the woman blurted, “You killed my auntie!”

Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could shove the words back in. The accusation hung between them, sharp and suffocating. Rain felt it like a blade to the chest. Emotion crashed over him—devastation, guilt, and a familiar, hollow ache. Part of the pain was selfish: a reminder that he would never be allowed ordinary moments, never be permitted the simple comfort of friendship or anonymity. Every interaction circled back to the same truth: he was a destroyer. A monster. Someone to fear.

Their judgement pressed down on him, and he knew he deserved it. The hatred wasn’t just for the soldier he had been—it was for the horror of what he had done. Acts committed in duty. Acts committed when he lost control of the curse he was born with. A torment he could never outrun. Others suffered because he existed, and he believed he alone should have borne that burden.

Sick with shame, Rain staggered backward, desperate to put distance between himself and their pain. His legs hit a wooden stool, sending it clattering to the floor. The sharp crash jolted him from his spiralling thoughts.

Only then did he realise his channels were wide open.

His emotions were flooding the room—raw, unfiltered, overwhelming. Patrons hunched over their tables, tears streaming down their faces as his sorrow washed over them. The two friends stood ghost-pale, clutching their chests, drowning in the intensity of his grief.

Rain reacted instantly, slamming his emotional barriers into place. He fought to contain the bitter self-loathing gnawing at him, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t belong here. And once again, he was hurting people who had done nothing to deserve it.

His throat tightened. Panic surged. But he forced himself to acknowledge it. Elder Isarion’s first lesson; an empath must recognise the panic before they can control it.

Ground yourself.

Five things you see. Dark tile. Black boots. Laces…

He stalled, breath hitching as panic rose again.

His gaze snapped upward. The two friends stared at him, frozen with fear. He needed to do this, for them. To protect them from him. It was the least he could offer.

Come on, Rain. Get your shit together.

His thoughts cut through the fog, giving him just enough clarity to move on.

Four things you can touch.

The buttery leather of his pants beneath his fingertips.

The wooden stool under his thighs.

The cotton of his shirt.

The warm skin of his arms.

Three things you can hear.

Glasses clinking.

Distant chatter.

Crappy music humming through the speakers.

His breathing steadied. The fog receded. Relief washed through him—he had regained control. He skipped smell and taste, too aware of the eyes on him.

He pushed himself to his feet, ready to face the people he had just overwhelmed. They deserved the chance to confront him. They deserved far more than he could ever give. But survival instinct kept him from offering the justice he believed the world would be better for.

He lifted his hands in surrender, body language open and nonthreatening. The bravado that usually shielded him was gone, replaced by raw sincerity.

“From every ounce of my being,” he said, voice trembling, “please know that I am so incredibly sorry. To you and to your families.”

His words were rough, barely above a whisper. Every muscle in his body tensed as he fought to keep his emotions contained, determined not to lose control again. Frustration tightened around him—his apology felt— weak.

With a shaky sigh, Rain’s shoulders slumped further, defeat settling over him like a heavy cloak. He kept his eyes fixed on the black tiles beneath his boots, unable to meet their gaze. His eyes had always frightened people; he didn’t need to see their reactions to know what they were feeling. Guilt pressed down on him, thick and suffocating, and he retreated inward, curling around the ache that never truly left him. His posture folded in on itself, his attention locked on the floor as isolation wrapped around him like an old, familiar shadow.

“Well… she was my least favourite aunt. And she was incredibly old. She probably only had a few more years left in her.”