Chapter 9: Time Moves Slow

As they drove home, all of them were silent. Ria watched the light posts flickering in the pitch-black streets; Marco kept his eyes on the road, while Arwyn slouched down, hands clasped as sweat dripped despite the cold air-conditioning in the car. He'd catch a cold if he didn't change soon.

As soon as Marco parked in the garage, he cracked a tired smile, glad he was okay. "Sweet home," he murmured.

With a fatherly tone, he said, "I'll get the crates. Arwyn, help Nate with the rest."

The trunk popped open with a click. Nathaniel hauled the larger items while Arwyn carried the rest inside. They opened the door, and a wave of comfort washed over Arwyn. He'd never tire of the faint dust tickling his nose, the wooden tiles clacking under his feet as he walked.

After setting down the items, Arwyn didn't change his clothes. Still in that sweaty tux, he shuffled to the garden out back. A man-made waterfall trickled nearby, its steady sound soothing as he sank into a plastic chair. He flipped open his sketchbook.

The pages were messy now, full of random lines and curves, not his usual swords and guns. Too much sketching lately.

Nathaniel followed, catching the blank look on his face. He set a glass of water on the glass table, resting his elbows down. "You're thinking about it?"

Arwyn didn't answer. He drew a bowl of fries and slammed his hand on the paper.

The bowl popped out of the sketchbook, a few fries spilling onto the ground from the impact. He wasn't fazed and just grabbed two. He chewed them in one bite.

"Listen, kid. I know you're down and all, but—"

"Please," Arwyn murmured. "Just… leave me alone."

Nathaniel hesitated, then sighed, standing. "Fine. Just don't let the fries get cold."

He walked off, grass crunching under his steps. The faint smell of water drifted as Arwyn sat there, pencil in hand.

He looked up. Stars gleamed from afar, brighter than he'd ever seen, since air pollution usually dulled them out. But tonight, it was as if the world tilted just enough to cheer him up. His eyes caught the glow, wide and intrigued.

The moon was as shiny as the stars. The craters were sharp in his enhanced sight, a perk of his Passion Energy. It lit the page in his lap, soft and cold.

He glanced down at the fries he'd sketched. He took another bite, and it was juicy, tender, but nothing special. 

It was just… there.

His hands were half-frozen, and the pencil tip brushed the thick paper. The auction kept replaying. Cedric's smirk, that ink, "Tell your mother I said hello." Sleep wasn't coming anytime soon.

So he stood, grabbed a small frame from inside. A young woman, crimson-red hair, hazel eyes like his. 

Arlene. 

He sat back down, set it beside the fries, and drew. A subtle line took shape as he stole glances at the sky.

Each stroke poured a piece of him onto the page. It wasn't just Passion Energy, but something deeper, something that meant something. If Nathaniel saw this, he'd have a proud-ass grin.

He sketched her arm stretching out, reaching past the page, like she could grab him. Leaves rustled as he drew the final line.

He hesitated.

The sketch flickered. His Quill-scar blazed warm-yellow, throbbing like a pulse. The sketchbook hummed low, vibrating under his fingers.

A burn seared his hand—he yanked it back, pencil clattering to the ground. "What the hell?!"

His vision blurred a beat, then snapped back. The wind flipped the sketchbook to a blank page.

He didn't wanna look.

Didn't wanna think what'd happen if he flipped back. That scar flare, the hum—it knew what he'd drawn. It felt… alive.

Arwyn stared at the blank page, the sketchbook trembling in his hands. His scar still pulsed, warm and faint, like a heartbeat not his own. The pencil lay on the ground, glinting under the moonlight, but he didn't pick it up. Couldn't. Not after that.

He leaned back in the plastic chair, the waterfall's trickle filling the quiet. His eyes drifted—first to the clear water, catching flecks of moonlight, then to the house. Its windows were dark except for a faint glow from the living room. The garden stretched around him, shadows of leaves swaying soft as well as the grass. It smelled like damp earth and home, the kind of smell that stuck in your bones.

And then, he thought about Marco. His dad, asleep on the couch probably, worn out from the auction from Cedric's interference from 18 years of carrying a ghost in a painting. Marco didn't know and didn't see the shield, the net, the katana he forgot to get from the auction, and the ink Arwyn fought off. But if he stayed… what then? One slip, one sketch gone wrong, and Marco'd be in the crossfire. 

No. He couldn't let that happen.

It left Ria. Her door would be shut by then, thermos dented but still cracking dry jabs in her sleep, probably. She'd sniffed too close tonight. 

"What's with the notebook, Picasso?" That's what she'd mutter if she saw him out here. If he stayed, she'd dig. She'd figure it out. And then what? Drag her into this mess? Rings, Terra Incognita, Cedric's games?

No. She didn't deserve that.

His chest tightened, maybe heavier like the crates he'd hauled earlier. For the first time, he let the thought settle, let it sink deep. He couldn't stay. Not with the ring in his pocket, not with his scar pumping static on his arm, and definitely not with Cedric's "Tell your mother I said hello." clawing at his skull. 

Staying meant danger. It meant Marco waking up one day to a son he didn't recognize, or worse, a son he'd bury next to Arlene. Or maybe the worst, Arwyn watching his father and all of his closest friends buried at the same cemetery as Arlene's.

Arwyn's hands shook–not from cold, not from fatigue, but from the weight of it. 

Leaving. 

He'd never said it out loud, never let it form fully in his head till now. But it was there, solid as the katana he'd sliced that apple with. He couldn't ignore it anymore.

So he stood slowly, and the chair creaked under him. The bowl of fries sat untouched, cold now. He grabbed the frame of Arlene's face, crimson hair blazing even in the dim—and tucked it under his arm with the sketchbook.

The living room was dark. It was just the faint flicker of a lamp. Marco sprawled on the couch, out cold, one arm dangling, snores soft. Exhausted. Arwyn paused, watching him a beat. His dad's face slack, lines deeper than they should be for a guy his age. 

"Night, Dad," he whispered, so quiet it barely stirred the air.

Upstairs, Ria's door was closed, a faint glow under the crack—probably crashed with her clipboard still in hand. Arwyn's lips twitched, picturing her muttering about "Houdini shit" in her sleep. He didn't knock. Didn't need to.

But Nathaniel waited by the kitchen, leaning on the counter, arms crossed. No smirk this time, just a steady gaze, and his green eyes sharp in the dark. He didn't say a word. Didn't have to. The nod he gave was enough. He'd known Arwyn enough that it would get here, one way or another. 

He just needed the kid to figure it out himself.

Arwyn clutched his sketchbook tighter, the frame digging into his side. His hands were steady now–no shake, no doubt. The scar still hummed, faint but warm, like it was waiting too.

"Let's go," he said, voice low but solid.

Nathaniel pushed off the counter, grabbing a jacket from the hook. No big speeches or dramatic exits. Just two shadows slipping out the door, leaving the house behind. The night swallowed them whole, stars still gleaming above, as Arwyn walked away from everything he'd ever known.

"We're going back to the auction hall, kid," Nathaniel instructed firmly. "To where Cedric voided out. Get your katana as well. You ain't surviving Terra Incognita with Dream Sketching alone."