I always ran to my parents when I was in danger. My encounter with Thonk was not my first; every other time, my parents were there. only on that day they let me go to the market alone. So, as I opened my eyes, still blurred with painful tears, I ran toward the first blob I could see. Whatever it was, it felt cool, and its soft clothing soothed me.
"Calm down, my child. Everything is okay," he said.
His voice was soft and wise enough. The tension left me as he placed a hand on my head. Only then, looking up from his waist, I saw not my father, but the old man, still wearing the same cloak as before. The imprint of power was all that made my mind cling to him. I followed his words, my feet moving before I consciously chose to obey. He was great, and I knew it by the way he spoke and what he said. He gave me a command to take from him—an act I would soon learn the word for: charity.
"Child, would you like to eat?"
To hear such a thing! Was it a trick?
"Yes… sir, I would."
I walked to a table I didn't recognize. There were my parents, sitting with dishes of meat and bread in front of them—such things were a fantasy to me, like something out of a story. My father trembled, knowing we had not eaten properly in weeks, like a desert mouse drowning in a bowl of water. My mother, though, sat there, still enough to be mistaken for a statue. She stared at the moment in front of her, unsure what to do with it. Nothing like this had happened before. Among the many years of my mother's life, she had never considered herself lucky, except for two times: surviving giving birth, and now. This was an opportunity for change, for hope that the one thing she lived for nowadays could escape the ash and fire of this life. That one thing was me—her daughter. I sat there in awe. Then, I was just a child. Now, looking back as an older woman, I wish my mother had taken a moment more to think before accepting the old man's offer—before the fight that would come and claim us, claim them. But it was already over.
"Your child is something extraordinary, something we need," the old man said.
"Who's 'we'?" Mother said.
"The Empress—our world's heart—wants her," he said.
"How could she know my daughter?" she asked.
"This is her world. She knows it as it is her body. So it is foolish to hide from her."
He impressed upon my mother the lengths he would go to serve—that to stop him was to stop any chance of a good life for me, her daughter. But then he had to cross the line.
"Then, my lord, when do we leave?" Mother said.
I flinched when she said it. She so easily gave me away. Didn't she want me?
"Do you think that you can provide enough value to be a citizen? Your child can rise. I know it. But why you?"
The words mattered less than the implication: He wants to take me from them. I—I would not go then. I would rather die. My mother's stiffness was gone now, for she was most comfortable when she was mad. My mother stood, raising a hand—just as the sound of crushing rock and shaking sand echoed from outside. Something faster than I could see flew into the barn, landing in my mother's hand. And it was a blade. Too large for someone who had always seemed fragile; despite that, she could raise it with only one hand. The speed was unnatural. My mother was unnatural. I felt nauseous just looking at the blade; the hum of its power hurt my ears. I followed the point of the sword until I saw the old man. That's when I saw something even more shocking than the blade itself. He sat there with nothing, no weapons of any kind. But what I saw was his smile—calm, composed, and utterly unfazed. His eyes were at ease, devoid of shock and fear.
"To see such a sight—a living guardian of the forge—was something I never thought I would witness," he said.
Mother's tension returned, but she did not yield.
"You will not take my daughter from me. Now, if you want her power and my blade on your side, then you should get to negotiating," she said.
"Of course, that's what we are here for, but now that we are being honest with each other, let me show you something."
Then he too raised a hand, but he only stuck out one finger. As he did, it was enveloped in darkness, like a cut-out in the world. The void in his finger absorbed all light. I recognized that blackness; it was the same as the black stone. Then he took his finger and tapped my mother's sword. He tapped the sword like one might silence a bell. The hum stopped—and the sword didn't fall to the ground, but into silence. That was the only thing my mother had now. Her eyes went hollow as she collapsed to the floor.
"What did you do to her!" My father's voice rang in the barn.
He moved to the sword. Once he put his hand to it, it was clear that it had a terrible weight. My father strained, but managed a swing. The old man, however, had only to step aside to thwart my father's attack. This man had defeated the people who made up my world with only a finger. Then he looked at me.
"Now, let's let the important people talk now, eh, child?"
My body did not have the opportunity to betray him. I took a seat at the table. He took the seat closest to me.
"It appears that your family has its own value. But whether it can be used is up in the clouds. Now, where will it land, I wonder."
He looked at me expectantly.
"I-I-I will do my best, a-and my family will too."
"Oh, there was never a doubt in my mind."
He took my hand, and in it he placed a necklace. The gem at its heart was of the blackest of the black until I touched it. I gripped it hard in my hand; I couldn't help it. From me, to the stone, back to me. Each cycle, the power compounded. It didn't stop. And I didn't want it to.
"What is this thing?" I asked.
"A simple stone for most, a death sentence for some, but for you, it's everything. It proves you're something more. It proves you are a titan."
"Titan? What does that even mean?" I asked.
His smile widened as he took a few steps closer. I looked straight up to meet his eyes.
"It means you and your family are coming to the Capital. It means you are my apprentice. Remember that. It's the only thing that matters now."
Then he took us. It took weeks for my mother to recover. It took years for life to return to her eyes. None of us thought any of it was real. The only thing that anchored me to this new reality was the chain around my neck with the pretty stone that I thought was my power.
A few days into our journey, the old man took me aside and decided to teach me something. During much of our travels, my father would not let me out of his reach. With soldiers, horses, and the like always around us, my father never had a moment to rest; he needed to be ready when these strangers would finally attack. But that attack never came. That's why, with fear in his eyes, he let me go to the old man.
I soon walked to the largest tent. He sat alone, on a mat on the ground.
"Sit next to me, my child."
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
For the first time, his eyes shot open, like someone had thrown a cotton ball at him. His confidence never let him down, yet he was still surprised by the question. Soon enough, he was back to who he was.
"Because you are my apprentice. I am responsible for you. Now sit, child."
I felt my eyebrows raise at that. I was his. I took a seat next to him. He sat with his legs crossed and his eyes closed. I chose to do the same.
"What is it like to wear the stone?"
"It was good at first. It made me feel more. The pain of moving and working was gone now, but I haven't slept since I put it on. I pretend to at night so my father doesn't worry. But the strangest thing is: no matter how long it's been, I—I don't feel tired."
"Why haven't you taken it off yet?"
"You haven't told me to yet."
"Hmm. Well, it was not my intention for you to wear it all the time. From now on, remove it an hour before bed. My true intention was to see if it would start leaking out of you."
"Leaking what?"
"It's called a number of things by a number of fools, but you and I, as scholars and practitioners, will call it magic and its essence. Not everyone has it. For example, your father—he has none to offer. And what an unfortunate existence that is. But beings like me, you, and your mother—we create this essence just like breathing. We take in energy and—"
He raised a single hand, and as he waved it, I felt a pressure in my chest. A glass form made itself out of air. It was a cup.
"—and let it out. This process, for most—especially when they don't know of their abilities—is self-managing."
He placed the cup in my hand. Then he poked it. As he did, the cup began to fill with crystal-clear water.
"People with magic live on making magic until they fill up. Once they are full, they begin to leak magic out into the world. Depending on the nature of this essence, this may make the person irresistible—or unbearable—to be around. Every aura is different…"
As he went on and on, he only just now realized that I was frantically drinking from the glass cup so that none of it would be wasted. And what did he do to help? All he did was laugh—until he seemed to collapse to his side. I knew he was going to be no help, so what else to do but pour it on him? That didn't stop him from laughing. Actually, it made it worse. Now his chortles could be heard by everyone across the camp. His laugh was the kind of laugh where eventually even I couldn't hold myself together. Soon enough, we found joy in a cup that was now only half full.
"Now, child, you get it. The flow of magic—and one's capacity to hold it—is not unlimited. I have been wondering when your cup would fill. That stone of yours allows you to make magic faster. The only thing is that you haven't started leaking. Your glass is quite large, it seems."
I saw a smile I couldn't recognize when he said that, but he made it seem like a good thing. Yet no good thing is all good.
"So magic is what makes me a titan."
The light dimmed in his eyes.
"No. I am not a titan, but I can do this."
He raised a hand, and a flame rested in it. He admired its light and size.
"What makes titans different is this."
He took my hand and raised it, and I felt strange. It wasn't the pressure I felt when he did magic; it was different.
"You feel that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now close your eyes and envision the qualities of flame. The heat and color. Imagine its substance. Do you have it in your mind?"
"Yes."
"Then, let it out."
Suddenly, I felt a rush of warmth through my body. He was forcing the reaction. That's when I opened my eyes to see the flame in my hand—but it was big. Like, really big. The warmth didn't bother me, though. It was nice. I enjoyed this.
Then, I saw the man with his black finger. It shimmered with the same void that had silenced my mother's blade. Instantly, the flame was gone. I felt ill. I crawled away to find a patch of sand. The pulse of the muscle in my belly grew more painful—until it came: morning breakfast.
"You must never let it get out of control. I will not always be there to stop you."
As I raised my head from the hovel, I saw the holes scorched into the tent. Soon after speaking, the old man left me there. I lay in the darkness of my exhaustion. Then, for the first time since becoming his apprentice, I took off the stone—and only then did the dark take me.