Silence filled the living room as I processed what Syrin had just said. His court. I didn’t really understand how Crithnon worked. There was a king, and the Tower, and the court, but the way those pieces fit together had never mattered before.

  The air seemed to hang heavy. I flinched when our front door shuddered slightly. Mom squeezed my arm. Not an attack. Not a shadow. Just the air pressure shift from someone opening the door to the parking lot. I was fine.

  I’d just gotten my breath back under control when Syrin pulled away from me. He was off the couch before I could even process it. I lunged to grab his sleeve, but Mom’s sudden grip on my arm stopped me.

  Syrin disappeared down the hall without even looking back. I turned an accusing look on Mom, but she just shook her head at me. “He needs a second, honey. Let him go.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

  I bit my lip. Was that really the best option?

  Mom let out a long breath. “Let him put himself back together. He’s been through too much lately.”

  I stared at the hallway. “What does that mean for us? That the court was involved?”

  Mom let out a long sigh. “Crithnon has what we’d probably call a parliamentary system, power split between the monarchy and the lords. The Tower is its own entity, but the Keepers probably work closely with the government, given their role.”

  She hesitated, then added quietly, “He just realized someone he trusted may have killed his father.”

  Oh.

  Suddenly, Mom shifted forward and pulled me into her arms in a way she hadn’t since I was a little kid. Then her fingers were in my hair.

  “Mom?”

  “You scared me to death, Trina.” Her voice shook slightly. “The Light faded from the healing, and you were unconscious. For a second, I thought you were dead in that chair.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Her arms tightened. “But I thought you were. You should have heard me yelling at Syrin.”

  I stiffened. “You… yelled at Syrin.”

  “I panicked a little,” she said, her breath tickling my neck. “Enough that it took him a few sentences to get a word in and reassure me you were alive.”

  My brow furrowed, remembering the odd calm when I’d landed back in my body. “He wasn’t worried at all?” That sounded… completely un-Syrin-like.

  “That’s why I was angry,” Mom muttered. “But apparently those cuffs also monitor the infection.”

  Wait. What? “He’s… monitoring me?” I said, my voice a little too sharp.

  “Trina.” Mom’s voice was suddenly calm again. “He’s a healer before anything else. If I don’t have my patient’s vitals, I don’t know how to help them. Is it really surprising?”

  When she put it that way, it wasn’t, but why didn’t he tell me?! What else could they tell him?

  Mom tightened her hug again. “Maybe that’s a discussion that the two of you should have later.”

  Oh, I would definitely bring it up later. I took a deep breath, but for now, I shoved the worry to the side. “Are you okay? The healing worked?”

  Mom pulled back from the hug. “Syrin says I’m fine, and I don’t feel anything that says otherwise.”

  She gave me a concerned look. “You seemed pretty… shocked when Syrin pulled you out. Do you want to talk about anything?”

  I shook my head. Not right now. Not until I’d had time to process it myself.

  “Well, I’m here if you need to,” Mom said softly.

  I gave a little nod, and for a minute, we just sat together on the couch in silence, Mom’s arm wrapped around me.

  “So, what now?” I finally asked.

  Mom’s arm tightened around my shoulders. “Now, we make a plan. Things are going to have to shift now that we know someone in Crithnon is involved. The Tower might not be as safe as I’d hoped.” She grimaced. “Still, going directly to the Tower is better than trekking across two countries while being hunted. We just need to find out if Syrin can manage it.”

  The plan settled between us, heavy and unfinished.

  Mom glanced at the hallway where Syrin had disappeared. “He’ll need a few minutes,” she said quietly. “Maybe more.”

  I nodded. I didn’t like it, but I understood it.

  She huffed out a short breath. “I got stuff for curry when I was out. Want to help me?”

  I leaned back and let the couch cushion envelope me for a moment as I tried to gather up the desire to do something normal.

  Mom just waited.

  Memories that I didn’t want to deal with kept brushing up against me. Darkness drowning me. No air. No nothing…

  Mom’s voice cut into my thoughts. “Doing something might help distract.”

  “Yeah,” I finally said.

  We extricated ourselves from the couch and drifted into the kitchen like we were moving through water. Everything felt slightly off, like the apartment had shifted an inch to the left and hadn’t quite settled back into place. Mom pulled ingredients from the fridge with methodical care, lining them up on the counter. I set a pot on the stove and turned the burner on, grateful for something simple and physical to focus on.

  We worked around each other without talking much. A quiet choreography we’d done a thousand times before. I chopped vegetables. Mom started the chicken.

  The familiar sounds helped. The knife against the cutting board. The clink of the spoon against the pot. Normal things. Safe things. But every so often, my attention flicked back toward the hallway, half-expecting Syrin to reappear and half-dreading it.

  “He’ll come back when he’s ready,” Mom said, not looking at me.

  “I know,” I muttered, even though my fingers tightened on the knife.

  By the time the curry was bubbling quietly, the edge of my anxiety had dulled into something more manageable. Not gone. Just… contained. That was when footsteps sounded in the hall.

  I looked up instantly.

  Syrin stood in the doorway, hands loosely clenched at his sides. His glow was muted, carefully leashed, but his eyes were copper streaked with gray. The combo made me ache a little inside. His expression wasn’t distant exactly, just focused, like something inside him had snapped into alignment.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  He took in the scene in a single glance. The pot on the stove. The cutting board. Me and Mom frozen mid-motion.

  “Lunch?” he asked. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I wouldn’t have noticed the slight tremor in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  I set the knife down. “You’re not interrupting.”

  His shoulders hunched slightly. “I might be. I… I want you to dye my hair.”

  Mom arched a brow. “Now?”

  “We can eat first, but yes.”

  I blinked. Syrin hadn’t wanted to dye his hair before. He’d been going along with it, yes, but earlier I could tell he hated the idea. What happened?

  Mom gave him a once-over. “Alright. Trina can finish up here, and I’ll prep the dye.”

  She grabbed the grocery bag with dye from the table and headed to the bathroom, brushing past Syrin.

  He just stood there in the doorway like he’d decided on dye and that was as far as he could manage.

  “You should go change back into Dad’s old t-shirt,” I said softly. “Dye has a way of ruining clothes.”

  He nodded.

  “You sure you want permanent hair dye?”

  He let out a long breath. “I can’t be recognized. Not now. Not if I don’t know who’s behind this.”

  I picked up the knife again, finishing the carrot that I was on, trying to pretend that this was all normal somehow. Trying to give him space.

  I pushed the contents of my cutting board into the pot, stirring before adding the lid. When I glanced up, Syrin was still there.

  I set it to simmer and made my way over, but stopped before reaching him. We’d decided we were dating, but… did he want to be touched right now?

  He hadn’t looked up at me yet. I shifted slightly closer, and his shoulders dropped a fraction, so I wrapped my arms around him. For a moment, he trembled slightly in my arms, then his arms wrapped around me, and he relaxed into the hold.

  “Thank you for healing my mom,” I murmured.

  He shuddered. “I’m sorry it caused you so much pain.”

  I stiffened. “How do you know it did?”

  He blinked, pulling back to see my face. “The shadow was attacking you? Common symptoms at that point are feeling like one is drowning or suffocating in shadow. From your reaction, it seemed like…” His brow furrowed. “Were you not?”

  “Oh,” I stood there for a moment, staring at his collar like that would somehow make things better. Maybe that was the truth. Maybe he hadn’t hidden anything.

  “Trina?” he said softly. “Did I do something wrong?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact. “Mom just said… that the cuffs were telling you things about the infection. About me.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah. You were… worried I could tell what you were feeling?”

  I hummed.

  And he laughed. Straight up laughed.

  I pulled back, glaring at him. “How is that funny?”

  He gave me a subdued smile. “Because you are worried about something I live with pretty much constantly.”

  I blinked, and then my cheeks were burning because it was true. When he put it that way, his glow was sort of invasive. “Right.”

  His arms tightened around me, pulling me close again. “Don’t worry. The cuffs just tell me if the infection is still present and whether you are alive. I might pick up on your heart rate if I concentrate, but nothing else.”

  I bit my lip. “You would tell me if something like that was monitoring my emotions, right?”

  Another chuckle rumbled through him. “Given that I’m particularly sensitive to such things, yes, most definitely.”

  I let out a long breath. “Good.”

  Syrin hummed. “But lucky you, you get a free pass to my feelings.”

  I snorted and gave him a playful shove away. “Go change.”

  He rolled his eyes at me, but obeyed, disappearing back into the hallway.

  I returned to the curry. We could leave it simmering while we dyed Syrin’s hair, then eat while we waited.

  I headed toward the bathroom to tell Mom my plan. My nose wrinkled as the smell in the hall hit. Nothing like the curry. It was sharp and chemical.

  Normally that would bug me, but it was weirdly comforting at the moment. Very Earth. Syrin had beaten me to the bathroom. He looked… resolved. Not calm, exactly, but set. Like the choice had snapped something into place, and he wouldn’t second-guess it now.

  Mom was already explaining the dyeing process to him.

  I picked up the hair color box and examined it. Warm auburn. The model on the front had hair that looked aggressively glossy and probably not real, but the color swatch on the side was reassuringly muted.

  “This is permanent dye,” Mom said as she wrapped up her explanation. “You sure?”

  Syrin didn’t flinch at that. If anything, his shoulders eased a fraction. “Yes.”

  Mom looked at me. “You want to do the dye?”

  “Me?” My voice squeaked.

  “Sure. It would be good for you to learn a new skill. I’ll instruct.”

  “Since when were you an expert in hair dye?” I muttered.

  Mom smiled. “Since I helped one of my friends in nursing school.”

  I looked at Syrin. He didn’t seem to mind either way. “Fine.”

  Syrin sat on the closed toilet lid, hands resting neatly on his knees. He was very still. Too still.

  I pulled the gloves on as Mom draped an old towel around Syrin’s shoulders with brisk efficiency, tucking it in like she’d done this a hundred times before. She added another on his lap.

  Mom passed me the squeeze bottle. “Squeeze it out, then work it into the hair.”

  “Okay.” I glanced at Syrin, suddenly nervous. “I’m going to start at the front.”

  “Do what you need to,” he replied quietly.

  I squeezed the bottle, adding some to his hair. The dye was thick and cold against my gloved fingers. His hair darkened as soon as I massaged the dye in; the auburn almost brown when wet. For a split second, panic flared.

  “It looks really dark,” I blurted.

  Mom peered closer. “It always does. It’ll lighten as it dries.”

  Syrin didn’t say anything. He just closed his eyes, like he was bracing himself.

  I started again, working slowly. It felt intimate in a way I hadn’t expected. I’d touched his hair before, but this was different. Deliberate. Transformative.

  Syrin’s hands just stayed tight on the towel on his knees. His glow didn’t even flicker, as if all his focus had gone to keeping it contained.

  “Make sure you really work it in,” Mom said, leaning against the counter. “Red shows unevenness if you miss spots.”

  “I’m trying,” I muttered, carefully massaging the dye through. Fortunately, Syrin’s hair was short, only a few inches in the longest sections.

  I kept going, working my way back. The dye coated my gloves, slick and heavy. An accidental brush left a streak near his temple. Mom wiped it away with a damp cloth.

  I froze.

  “Calm down, Trina,” Mom said. “You’re doing fine. Just keep going. Be careful near the nape of his neck.”

  Eventually, I got it worked through all his hair, and Mom directed me to patches she thought needed improvement. After another thorough inspection, I finally earned her approval.

  Mom checked the time. “Thirty minutes. No more, no less.”

  “It… tingles,” Syrin said nervously, looking up at us.

  “That’s normal,” Mom said. “If it burns, that’s when we worry.”

  Mom dug through the drawers and found a clip. She added it to the towel around Syrin’s neck. “There. Should hold things in place. We can eat now, just try to keep your head straight.”

  Syrin’s glow flashed silver, breaking through his careful control. He was far more nervous than he was letting us see. Was that why he’d kept his eyes shut the whole time? Or had looking just felt awkward? Maybe both.

  Mom cleaned up a few more things as I stripped the gloves, and we headed to the kitchen. Lunch was quiet. None of us were really in the mood for conversation, so Mom turned on some music and we educated Syrin in our current favorites from Bon Jovi to a Celtic folk group I’d been listening to on repeat last month.

  He seemed relieved to have something else to focus on. When the timer finally went off, Mom snapped into motion. “Rinse time. You can do it yourself, or we can help. What do you prefer?”

  Syrin glanced between us. Mom’s lips pulled up in a slight smile. “Given that you don’t have much practice with the shower, I’d recommend letting us help you.”

  Syrin gave a single nod.

  Mom went ahead to prep the shower, and I cleared dishes as Syrin watched, looking extremely nervous.

  “Regretting it?” I asked carefully.

  He gripped the table. “No. I’m just… not sure how it will look.”

  That was fair.

  I finished washing the pan, and we headed back to the bathroom. Syrin stood in the tub, and I used the detachable shower head to help him rinse. The dye ran out in rusty streams, swirling down the drain. Eventually, the water ran mostly clear.

  Mom handed him the conditioner. “You can rub this one in. Two minutes.”

  When we finally turned the water off and wrapped a towel around his head, my heart was pounding harder than it had any right to.

  Syrin stood in front of the mirror, towel still in place.

  “Ready?” I asked softly.

  He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then nodded. I pulled the towel away.

  His hair was still damp, darker than it would be dry, but the red was there. Not loud. Not artificial. Warm auburn threaded through the brown, catching the light when he moved.

  He stared at his reflection.

  For a long moment, he didn’t speak. “I’m not sure what to think,” he finally admitted.

  Mom’s reflection softened behind him. “I think that’s a common reaction.”

  Syrin exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since we’d walked back down the hall.

  I swallowed, my chest tight. “It suits you.”

  He glanced at me, and something like relief flickered across his face.

  “You were that worried I wouldn’t like it?” I teased.

  His glow immediately went pure silver. “No!”

  I hummed. “Sure.”

  “I—I just—”

  “It’s okay, Syrin. I’m glad you found something normal to worry about.”

  He glared at me, but there wasn’t any heat in it.

  “So, what now?” I asked.

  Syrin let out a long breath. “Now I figure out how to get us to Crithlinor.”

  Mom nodded. I shoved my hands into my pockets. How much more of this peace would we get? Was I a terrible person for hoping it took him a day or two? Probably.

  I just… we could all use a break. Traveling would have been that, at least a little. Now it was out of the frying pan and into the fire. I forced the thought away, shifting a little closer to Syrin instead. Carefully, I wrapped my hand around his.

  He took it without looking, but Mom noticed anyway. She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest.

  Now Syrin got to work, and I got to wait. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  The Enigma Protocol just released an Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfiction. It’s similar in tone to Daughter of Two Worlds, and you don’t need to have seen the show to enjoy it. See below for details.

  manifesto/preface if that sounds interesting.

  Featured Serial

  No prior knowledge of Avatar: The Last Airbender required.

  - Lev: chaos incarnate, jokes through every injury.

  - Teorin: calm, sharp, and maybe something more dangerous than an Airbender.

  - A cat. Just… Cat. Don’t ask.

  - Zuko, deciding one of them might be an Airbender.

  Don't let Lev's jokes fool you. He hides as much as he says.