Ash stared at the book.
At the glowing ring in his father's hand.
At the strange golden light that had opened the basement door like something out of a storybook.
His mind spun, full of half-understood terms and tantalizing revelations—Extradimensionals, Aura, contracts, Arceus.
It all felt impossibly big for his small frame to carry.
And yet, one question pushed through the clutter in his thoughts.
Small. Simple.
A whisper blooming into want.
He looked up at his father.
"Can I do it too?" he asked softly.
David looked up from where he was tucking the book back into its protective cloth wrap.
"Do what?"
Ash pointed at the thick, ancient book like it was made of magic.
"Summon one," he said, eyes wide with childlike hope.
"Like you did. Like Lala. And Hooter."
David raised his brows slightly in surprise, then softened.
There was no defiance in the boy's voice. Just curiosity—
The kind every child has when they discover candy exists, and wonder how much they're allowed to have.
David stepped forward, kneeling so their eyes were level.
He placed a warm, steady hand on Ash's small shoulder.
"Not yet," he said gently. "That comes later."
Ash's face fell. "Why?"
David chuckled quietly. Not mockingly—
With the kind of fondness only a father can carry.
"Because you haven't awakened your Aura yet," he said.
Ash tilted his head. "But I have Aura, right? 'Cause you do."
"You do," David nodded. "Everyone in our family does. But having it and using it? Two different things."
He tapped a finger against Ash's chest, just over his heart.
"It's like a little flame inside you. It's there—but right now, it's sleeping. You'll need to wake it up before it can shine."
Ash touched the spot where David had pointed.
"How do I wake it up?"
David leaned back a little, gaze distant—
as if flipping through old memories stored in dust.
"Most of us awaken around ten or eleven. Some sooner, some later. For me, it was when I was twelve."
Ash blinked.
David gave a crooked grin. "Emotions help. Sometimes it's fear. Other times, it's protecting someone. Sometimes it's just… love. Or grief. Or anger. Something real."
He ruffled Ash's hair with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times.
"But you can't force it. Trying too early usually ends in headaches. Or nosebleeds. Or… explosions."
Ash pouted slightly. "So I can't do anything until then?"
"Plenty to do," David said with a smile. "You can learn. Train. Understand how Aura works. You're already ahead of most kids your age—just by asking the right questions."
Ash looked down, his small hands clenching into fists at his sides. The waiting felt enormous—like being told Christmas was years away instead of months. He could feel something stirring in his chest, a restless energy that wanted to reach out, to touch the world the way his father did. But David's words made sense, even if they stung.
He looked up again, eyes bright with determination mixed with disappointment.
"I'll be ready," he said quietly. "When it happens, I'll be ready."
David's expression softened further. "I know you will be, son."
Ash nodded slowly, accepting the reasoning even as his heart ached with impatience.
********
The days passed like pages in a slow-turning book.
Ash was nearly five now, and though the ache of unanswered questions still simmered beneath his skin, he had begun to settle into a rhythm—one where mystery lived side by side with morning cereal and training drills.
Every day began with homeschooling lessons at the kitchen table. For most kids, that might've been a challenge. But for Ash—who remembered calculus, statistics, and three versions of world history from another life—multiplication tables and phonics felt like stretching before a sprint.
His mother, Annie, never caught on. She chalked up his quick answers and sharp questions to early brilliance and an insatiable love of books. She taught with the calm confidence of someone who trusted the world could be learned one gentle lesson at a time.
When Ash got distracted—usually by Lala floating upside down above the spice rack—she never lost patience. Annie had grown accustomed to the supernatural rhythm of their household, though she sometimes paused mid-lesson when Hooter materialized silently on a bookshelf, or when Albus padded through the kitchen like a living cloud. She'd simply adjust, incorporate the moment into their learning, and carry on with a grace that spoke of years spent adapting to the impossible.
It was their quiet rhythm. And Ash had come to appreciate it more than he let on.
Mid-mornings were for "Aura time" with Dad.
Sometimes they sat in silence, breathing, sensing. Other times, they sparred lightly with wooden focus sticks that buzzed faintly when swung too fast. Some days they wore weighted rings and ran short circuits around the backyard, Ash grumbling the whole time but pushing himself harder than David asked.
He still hadn't awakened his own Aura—no inner light, no shimmering pulse of power—but David swore he was close. Close enough that the lessons had shifted.
They'd begun to explore theory. History. The philosophy of will and the harmony between mind, body, and spirit. And, at last—stories of the beings David once called Extradimensionals.
Or—as he now said, with a half-smile and a shrug—
"Pokémon."
Ash had tried not to smile the first time he heard the word again. He failed miserably.
"I mean," David added, tossing a piece of jerky toward the kitchen doorway, "it's easier than saying 'Extradimensional Entity Bonded via Arceus Contract.'"
Hooter, the owl-like predator with brown-and-black feathers and unblinking golden eyes, snatched it out of the air without so much as a sound. He perched above the archway like some ancient sentry—still as a statue until food or affection called him down.
Lala was the opposite in every way—light, mischievous, and occasionally a menace. A floating cotton-ball creature with stubby arms and a perpetual smirk, she often hovered near Ash while he read, nudging him when he lost focus—or, more often, to cause it. Once, she'd swapped the letters on his homework until the paragraph read like a tongue-twister in reverse. Ash had laughed so loudly Annie had to hide her smile behind a mock scolding.
And then there was Albus.
Big. Warm. Steady.
His white mane and blue-gray coat made him look like a snow beast in winter. When storms rolled through New Hope, Albus curled beside Ash's bed like a silent sentinel, warding off the thunder with presence alone.
Strange didn't feel strange anymore.
It felt normal.
Comfortable, even.
Ash had just started to relax into that sense of normalcy when the knock came.
It was just past noon. The sun was high. Lala floated lazily above the kitchen table, popping blueberries into her mouth one by one and humming to herself. Ash sat cross-legged on the floor with The Record—the old, leather-bound compendium passed down through generations of their family. The ancient pages crackled softly under his fingertips, their edges worn smooth by countless hands before his. He called it the Pokédex, of course, but he respected what it truly was: a legacy.
"I'm just saying," Ash murmured, flipping through the weathered parchment, "if there's a fire dragon that lives in a volcano, there's probably one that lives in ice. You don't get one without the other."
David raised an eyebrow from the counter. "What makes you so sure?"
Ash shrugged. "Balance. Mythology loves opposites. Fire and frost. Sky and sea. It's practically a rule."
David chuckled. "Remind me to introduce you to the concept of mythogenesis after lunch."
Just then, Hooter blinked into the room with a faint shimmer of displaced air, landing on the counter with a soft thump. The sudden motion startled Lala, who yelped and dropped three blueberries—two bounced off her head; the third vanished beneath the fridge.
Ash giggled.
Then—
Knock-knock-knock.
Three deliberate raps echoed through the house.
The room stilled.
All three Pokémon froze.
Annie looked up sharply from the sink, towel in hand. David's face shifted, his expression flattening into something alert but unreadable. He nodded once and moved toward the door with measured steps.
Ash followed, his curiosity blooming like a slow fire.
When the door opened, the figure standing on the porch was striking in a way Ash couldn't quite define.
She was tall—taller than David—with a lean, athletic build. Probably late twenties. She wore a slate-gray jacket over a fitted shirt, weather-worn jeans, and boots scuffed by miles of hard travel. A heavy satchel hung at her side, and her auburn hair was tied into a braid that swung low over one shoulder like a whip. Her posture was upright, sure, and ready—military, maybe. Or something close.
The moment she saw David, her guarded expression cracked into something radiant—years of distance melting away in an instant.
"Hey, big brother."
Ash's eyebrows rose.
David blinked once, then let out a short, genuine laugh—a rare sound from deep in his chest. For just a moment, his carefully controlled composure slipped, revealing something younger, warmer. He stepped forward, pulled her into a brief but fierce hug, and clapped her on the back with the kind of relief that spoke of too much time apart.
"Freya."
Ash's head tilted. That name. It struck a faint chord.
"Wait… Aunt Freya?"
She turned immediately, her attention shifting to him with a softened gaze. She crouched slightly, meeting his eyes on his level.
"Well, that must be Ash," she said, voice warm and confident, laced with a subtle accent Ash couldn't quite place. "You're taller than I imagined. Quieter, too. I thought I'd find you climbing the walls."
Ash frowned. "I don't climb furniture."
"Shame," Freya said, grinning as she rose and stepped inside like she'd never left. "That used to be your dad's thing."
Annie emerged from the hallway, her face lit with real warmth—but Ash caught the way her eyes lingered on Freya's belt, taking in the equipment with the quiet acceptance of someone who'd long ago made peace with the extraordinary.
"Freya. It's been a while."
"Too long," Freya replied, slinging her bag down by the coat rack. "I meant to come last year. Work got... complicated."
David shut the door behind her, his eyes searching hers. "Still stationed in Lyon?"
"Transferred last month. I'm local now," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear before looking back at Ash. Her tone turned mock-serious. "But more importantly, I hear someone's been reading The Record like it's light bedtime reading."
Ash blinked. "It's not bedtime reading. It's... fascinating. It's history."
Freya tilted her head, smiling. "Well, damn. A scholar already?"
"He's been calling it the Pokédex," David said with mock disapproval, folding his arms.
Freya snorted. "Good. 'The Record' sounds like something you find in a vault guarded by riddles and fire."
Ash grinned. "Maybe it is."
Freya leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyeing the three Pokémon now watching her intently.
"Well, it's good to see you too, featherball," she said to Hooter. "Still stealing snacks?"
Hooter blinked slowly.
"And Lala," she added with a mock bow. "Lady of Levitation. Don't think I forgot the time you swapped my shampoo with whipped cream."
Lala made an exaggerated show of innocence.
"And Albus…" She looked toward the hallway, where the large beast had appeared quietly, his eyes calm and deep. Her tone softened. "Still the best boy."
Albus blinked once in solemn agreement.
Ash watched the moment settle—the familiar laughter, the shared glances, the memories that didn't belong to him. And yet... somehow did.
For the first time in a long time, the house felt just a little fuller.
The house had a different energy now.
Not tense—but charged. Like something had stirred the air just slightly, like before a thunderstorm or a sparring match. Freya Ketchum wasn't loud or dramatic. But she moved like someone who could be, if she wanted to. Ash sensed it in the way she paced the living room while catching up with his parents, boots still on, one hand hooked casually in her jacket pocket. Her heavy satchel leaned against the wall, but the belt around her waist caught his eye more than anything else.
Spherical indents lined one side—containment spheres, six of them, each no larger than a walnut in standby form. Sleek and metallic with faint glowing seams, two of the spheres pulsed faintly, synced to the heartbeat of something alive inside.
Ash sat halfway up the stairs, just out of sight, ear tilted toward the voices drifting from the kitchen.
He wasn't spying.
Not really.
Okay—he was definitely spying. But no one told him not to.
"You could've at least sent a message ahead," Annie was saying with a warm tone. "We'd have prepared something."
"Where's the fun in that?" Freya replied with a chuckle. "Besides, I figured you'd have a dozen excuses to talk me out of it."
David snorted. "She's not wrong."
"I came for Ash too, you know," Freya added. "Wanted to see the little legacy for myself."
Ash rolled his eyes. Legacy? He was five.
There was a faint click-hiss sound—like air escaping from a sealed container.
Ash peeked through the stair railing and caught sight of Freya unhooking one of the spheres from her belt. With a flick of her wrist and a press of the side, the sphere expanded to full size with a soft mechanical whir. Then she tapped the release.
A stream of focused light spilled out into the living room carpet and solidified into a quadruped with dark, sleek fur, crimson horns, and burning coal eyes.
Houndoom.
The creature stretched, yawned—smoke curling from its jaws with the acrid scent of sulfur and charcoal—then trotted over to Freya with casual familiarity, pressing its skull-marked head gently against her thigh. She scratched him behind the horns, and his tail thumped once.
"I remember him," David said. "He was just a Houndour the last time I saw him."
"He still thinks he's the same size," Freya said, glancing down at her partner. "Sleeps with his head in my lap like he's ten pounds of fluff instead of ninety pounds of molten growl."
Just then, a heavy whuff came from deeper in the house.
Albus.
The big white-coated beast padded into the room, blue-gray fur bristling slightly as he sniffed the air. For a heartbeat, Ash thought he might challenge the newcomer—but then Houndoom's tail gave a slow, familiar wag. Albus responded in kind, brushing his shoulder against Houndoom's as he passed.
Like old comrades reunited.
The two creatures settled beside one another almost immediately, heads bowed in a shared silence that spoke louder than words. Ash watched, fascinated. It wasn't just politeness. These two knew each other. They had fought together once—maybe more than once.
Another flash of light, sharper and more energetic, accompanied by a brief electronic chirp.
A Heracross landed on the carpet with a chitter and a dramatic flex of its arms, striking a pose before stomping once in place like a wrestler entering the ring.
Ash nearly laughed—but then Hooter appeared, silent and sudden, blinking into place atop the doorframe like a shadow come alive.
His golden eyes locked immediately onto Heracross.
Not curiosity. Not caution.
A glare.
Heracross didn't notice at first. But then the buzzing settled, and he turned his head—and froze. The moment their eyes met, an unspoken history passed between them.
Hooter fluffed his feathers once and narrowed his gaze, clearly unimpressed.
Heracross tilted his head and chittered, somewhere between sheepish and smug.
Ash narrowed his eyes. That... wasn't a new rivalry.
That was old.
"I live in New York now," Freya said, sitting down on the edge of the couch, her voice drawing attention back to the adults. "Transferred last month. I've been working out of the Queens division—mostly covert clearance jobs, some combat ops. Nothing classified enough to stop me from taking time off."
"That's a first," David said dryly.
Freya shrugged. "Let's just say I earned it."
"Are you staying long?" Annie asked from the kitchen, pouring something into mugs—probably tea, though Ash caught a whiff of the spiced kind she reserved for adult company.
"Few days," Freya answered. "If I'm lucky. Longer, if my CO doesn't need me for that situation in Chile. Still waiting for confirmation."
"Situation?" David raised an eyebrow.
She just smiled faintly and said nothing more.
Ash frowned, filing that away.
Heracross took a cautious step toward the hallway again, and Hooter leaned forward, talons scraping faintly against wood.
Freya reached out and gently tugged Heracross back by the horn. "Don't go stomping around just yet," she said. "We've barely caught up."
Houndoom let out a soft chuff from beside Albus, and the larger Pokémon gave a quiet, rumbling breath in reply. Their calm felt like the eye of a storm—two veterans sharing peace before the next battle.
Ash pressed his cheek to the stair rail and let himself smile.
Aunt Freya was cool.
Really, really cool.
And judging by the way her Pokémon carried themselves—
She was dangerous too.
_____________________________________________________________
A.N. What did you think of the chapter?
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P.S. Give me power stones!!!