Chapter 19- In a New Life.

The static hadn’t stopped.

It had devoured him.

His body went limp in Felinkin’s arms, the way petals surrender to frost.
And Felinkin, with that same strange, unsettling sweetness, kissed his cheek like a fevered hound.

“My little firestorm. Go under. I’ll stay with you.”

Black.

No dreams. No stars.
Only a feeling—
Like an engine turning over.
Like a key being twisted, slowly, slowly... into a lock made of bone.

And then:

The smell of burning wood.
The dry crackle of a blaze.

The distant sound of a scream—
Familiar. Masculine.
A voice that knew him, a voice that had died before.

Ydoc did not speak.
His lips did not move.

But inside his ribcage, something was marching.

[Left right, left right]
(Everybody. Everybody.)

Through the darkness came a beat.
Drum and guitar. Simple. Repetitive.

A procession.
A call.
Like a funeral set to a marching rhythm.

Ydoc’s legs—unmoving—felt as if they should be walking.
His arms—numb—felt as if they were meant to swing.

A new language was being carved into his spine.
Memory traded for movement.
Fear traded for fire.

[Right now, right now]
(Must be. Must be saved.)

He could see his own hands.

Not really.
But in the space behind his eyes, they floated.
Held up in torchlight. Callused, bruised, glowing slightly around the knuckles.

Who did these hands used to belong to?
He couldn't remember.
They felt powerful. Sad.
Like they’d held something once.

Or someone.

[Here there, here there]
(Everybody. Everybody.)

Ydoc opened his eyes—
but not to the waking world.

He was in the in-between.
Everything golden and thick like melted sunlight.

Lanterns above him floated in reverse.
Grass curled upward like seaweed in a current.
He was underwater, though he could breathe.

Or maybe—

maybe this was his new cocoon.
Someplace between the boy who obeyed
and the man who would finally refuse.

[Last chance here. Last chance here...]
(Saaaved... saaaved...)

He could hear people.
Faces.
Names he could not place.
Not yet.

But there was a warmth building behind his chest.
A pulse that dared to become a heartbeat.

A voice—not Felinkin’s—his own.
It stirred. Croaked.

“I… I’m here.”

[Ooohh. Ooohh.]
[Left right, left right.]

Ydoc did not remember Lucy.
He did not remember the bruises Edwards left.
He did not remember his own name, not truly.

But he remembered this:

He was tired of being afraid.

He closed his eyes.
Let the beat continue.
And let the metamorphosis take him—

all the way.
--------

The music had stopped.

The world returned in a rush of color and confetti, of laughter on the wind and pies spinning in midair.
Ydoc’s eyes fluttered open—

—and for a moment, everything spun.

He was slumped over, cheek pressed into a wooden table, lips tacky from drool and dreams.
A sharp throb pulsed behind his eye.
He groaned softly, dragging himself upright by the strength of a single elbow.

“Oww— gods… that was a nightmare...”

He blinked.

The world around him danced and shimmered.
Paper streamers drifted overhead like pastel jellyfish.
Mimes stood on boxes mimicking fishbowls and wind.
There was a man with goat horns doing cartwheels beside a clown on stilts.

And in the middle of it all—a juggler.
A swirl of pies twirling above his head like moons around a planet.

“Ha... that’s… wonderful,” Ydoc muttered.

He rubbed his face and wiped the dry line of drool from his cheek with a little grimace.

“Gross.”

A group of children sprinted past him, their laughter trailing behind like streamers. Someone was playing a fiddle off in the distance. Somewhere else, the air smelled of cinnamon and roasted fruit. He could hear the clatter of carnival wheels and a calliope somewhere further down the tent line.

Ydoc sat quietly, letting the moment wash over him like warm water.

“Festival day…”
“...right?”
“Where... am I exactly?”

He turned in place, trying to get his bearings.
Somehow, this all felt normal.
Joyful, even.

He spotted a few simple glowing fireflies drifting lazily through the air—Dew Spirits, maybe? But nothing else seemed… spiritual.

No shimmering silhouettes. No trickling lights.
Just mortals. Just joy. Just pie.

The Divide—where was it?

He didn’t remember walking away from it.

He didn’t remember much of anything. Not how the day began. Not how it ended.

“Where’s Edwards?” he murmured, glancing around.

A cold wind passed between the tents.

Strange.
Very strange.
Edwards never disappeared.
Not without making a fuss.

“Probably getting us snacks,” Ydoc decided with a hopeful tone, trying to smile.
“Or maybe charming one of the clowns. He’s good at that.”
“He’ll be back soon.”

And yet—
And yet.
The feeling of wrongness lingered at the corners of his thoughts. Like fog that hadn't quite lifted.
Like a bruise he couldn’t find.

Still—he chuckled.
Laughed even, at the clown who tripped into a barrel of whipped cream.
At the goatfolk who had no idea how to juggle, and was being booed by a dozen clapping children.

“It’s a good day,” he said to himself.
“I think.”

He didn’t notice the faint shimmer along his arms.
Or how one of the Dew Spirits paused in front of his eye, and tilted.

Watching.
Waiting.
---------

Ydoc sat beneath the open canopy, the warmth of a lazy afternoon pouring through the gauzy fabric overhead. The sunlight shimmered in soft golden threads, weaving patterns along the folds of canvas and casting dappled specks of light across the dirt floor like fairy freckles.

A breeze, warm but fleeting, passed through the festival camp—stirring paper lanterns and rustling the strings of drying herbs that hung from a nearby food stall. Far off, a juggler dropped a pie to a chorus of laughter and stomping feet. The festival had bloomed into its afternoon rhythm, and Ydoc—cheeks pink, shoulders relaxed—was just now catching up.

He blinked slowly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, lips twitching into a smile.

“Gods, I hope no one saw me sleeping like that.”

He chuckled under his breath. It was the laugh of someone not embarrassed enough to really care—but just enough to tuck his collar a little higher.

He had woken only minutes ago, face still pink from being pressed against the rough grain of a wooden table. The mark was fading now, but he could still feel the heat of it on his cheek, like the whisper of some forgotten lover’s palm. How long had he been asleep? How long had he been here?

The last thing he remembered was… pie, perhaps. Or fireflies.
Someone juggling. A goatfolk. Lucy.

His heart gave a strange flutter at the name. Lucy.
That was someone important. A woman with a big voice and a soft laugh—romantic, maybe? He could remember her eyes now. Deep like brambleberry wine.
He touched his chest absentmindedly.

“She’s going to kill me if she saw that drool stain,” he said aloud, grinning. “Absolutely kill me.”

Above him, the tent flaps swayed gently. The smell of fried sweets and spiced apples wafted through the air like perfume, and a few children ran past the opening with sticky fingers and bright festival masks. Ydoc leaned back into the chair again, fingers laced behind his head as he let his eyes drift shut—

And there it was.

The music.

Soft. High-pitched. Piano keys, faintly chiming in some distant part of his thoughts.
Like rain on porcelain. Like glass being touched by silk.
It wasn’t real—not to anyone else. But to him, it was always there.
The soundtrack of his thoughts.

This one—this melody—was melancholic.
Not sad, exactly. But gentle. Like memory.
Like a child humming a tune they don’t know the name of, but sing anyway.

Ydoc smiled into the quiet. The tune curled into him like an old friend.

He reached for his satchel, searching for coins.

“Alright,” he said to no one, “what should I buy today?”

A pastry?
No. Too rich.
Maybe some fruit.
Or a new scarf—something with colors. Something playful.

He let his thoughts wander lazily, daydreaming about spinning wheels of treats and silly prizes. There was a dancing bear somewhere nearby—or at least someone pretending to be one. And that alone was worth tipping a few silver.

But then his eyes caught something.

His own hand.

He froze.

Fingers bony. Knuckles sharp. His palm looked pale under the light, the veins rising like rivers beneath fragile skin. Slowly, he brought the hand to his face—examining it. The sleeves of his shirt hung looser than he remembered, and when he tilted his head and caught sight of his reflection in a polished silver teapot on the table—

He blinked.

“I’ve lost… a lot of weight,” he whispered.

His jaw looked slightly hollow. Cheekbones high. That wasn’t how he remembered looking.
He reached toward his face, gently tracing the edges of his cheek and chin.

“Hm.”
“Bit of a mess, aren’t you.”

But he smiled anyway. Half-hearted, but genuine.

“It is what it is.”

A distant fiddle took up a tune beyond the tents. Somewhere, someone whistled.
The moment passed—not forgotten, but folded neatly into the back of his mind, as if it belonged in a drawer with other things he didn’t want to think about just yet.

Today was for pie.
And lanterns.
And smiling at people you don’t know.

Ydoc stood, dusted himself off, and pulled his coin pouch tight.
Maybe he’d find Lucy again. Maybe she wouldn’t be too mad.

After all—he had the best smile he’d worn in ages.