Chapter 10: Chapter 10: The Breaking

As Peter let his arms drop in frustration, the silence around them seemed to grow heavier. They both stood still for a moment, the tension thick in the air. Then, suddenly, a low, rhythmic clicking noise cut through the quiet. At first, it was faint, almost like a distant echo. But it quickly grew louder, more insistent—sharp, like nails scratching against glass.

Alexa froze, her eyes scanning the surroundings. "Peter..." she whispered, her voice tight with fear. "Do you hear that?"

Peter turned his head, listening. The sound grew more pronounced with each passing second, now unmistakably the skittering of multiple legs against the glass. But it wasn’t just the usual subtle scurrying. This sound was deeper, more menacing, as though something far larger was moving through the mirrored trees.

Suddenly, they both saw it. Emerging from the shadows of the tower, descending slowly from above, was a massive spider. Its translucent legs glimmered like shards of broken glass in the dim light, and its body, easily the size of a large dog, crawled down with an eerie grace. The sheer size of it was enough to stop them both in their tracks. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent light, the reflection of the surrounding glassy world reflecting in its terrifying gaze.

"That thing... it's huge," Alexa whispered, taking a step back without realizing it, her voice trembling.

Peter gripped his bat tighter, his jaw set in determination, but his heart was pounding louder than the clicking sound of the spider's legs. "Stay calm, Lex. We’ve got this."

But the closer the creature got, the more they could hear its wet, sticky footsteps as it moved down from the tower, its huge form eclipsing the light. With every step, it seemed to grow bigger, more imposing, its legs almost brushing the edges of the surrounding glass trees.

The silence of the place was broken only by the steady, frightening scrape of the spider’s body sliding across the mirror-like surface. Then, in a split second, it leapt forward, its monstrous legs stretching out as if it meant to pounce.

Peter and Alexa barely had time to react before the enormous spider launched itself toward them with horrifying speed.

Peter raised his bat just in time, blocking the deadly leg aimed straight at his head. But this time, the spider's limb didn’t shatter like the others—it held. The sheer force of the blow made him stumble back a few steps, clearly surprised. Alexa, watching with wide eyes, could still see the fierce determination burning in his face.

The spider was massive—far bigger than the others—but also slower. Peter deflected and blocked with practiced fluidity, each hit of the Spider-Slayer reverberating through the air. With each agile leap backward, he tried to draw the creature further from Alexa. That’s when she noticed the grimace of pain flicker across his face with every step—his injured leg was slowing him down. Yet still, he fought, giving everything to keep the creature’s focus on him.

“Run, Lex! Get to the house!” he shouted between attacks. Another leg came down like a guillotine, and again he raised the bat to deflect it. “I’ll hold it off as long as I can!”

Alexa stood frozen, watching this strange dance between her best friend and the towering glass nightmare. Peter moved like water—flowing between attacks, responding with strikes of his own—but with every dodge, every swing, he was losing strength. And then, one of the spider’s razor-sharp limbs made it past his guard and struck him in the chest.

Alexa gasped.

But the leg didn’t pierce him—it scraped uselessly across the metallic surface of the hoodie he had taken from Luke’s room.

That spark of hope ignited something in her.

Magic, she thought. The room. The hoodie. The sketchbook.

Her eyes dropped to the sketchbook in her hands, and her grip tightened.

Without hesitating, she flipped it open, took a breath, and began to draw. She sketched Peter in motion, dodging, blocking, striking. She captured the rhythm of the fight, his defiant stance, the spider's looming limbs. But soon, she moved beyond what she saw.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

She began to draw what she wanted to see.

On the next page, Peter’s bat connected cleanly with one of the spider's legs—and it shattered. Then another. And another. On the final sketch, Peter stood triumphant, panting, with one foot planted on the crushed head of the spider, the Spider-Slayer raised like a banner.

As she closed the sketchbook, something strange began to happen.

A warm, glowing light—soft, pulsing, and colorful—wrapped itself around her fingers, her hand, and the tip of her pencil.

When she looked up—

—it was all happening.

Exactly as she had drawn it.

Peter:

The moment Alexa snapped the sketchbook shut, a tremor ran through the air—as if the world itself had taken a breath.

The spider lunged again, its serrated limbs slashing the air in a blur of silvery motion. But Peter, as if guided by some unseen rhythm, moved with sudden precision. His tired limbs surged with new strength. His stance firmed. His eyes locked onto the creature with razor-sharp focus.

He sidestepped one strike, then another, spinning low and rising with the Spider-Slayer gripped tightly in both hands.

Crack!

The bat collided with one of the spider’s forelegs. A brilliant flash of light burst out from the point of contact, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. The limb exploded into a spray of shimmering shards, each piece catching the reflection of the strange mirrored sky.

The creature shrieked—a high, piercing sound like a violin string snapping under too much tension. It staggered, but Peter didn’t stop. He moved forward with renewed fury, dancing around the monster’s flailing limbs.

Crack! Crack!

Two more legs shattered beneath the weight of his strikes. The spider reeled, off balance now, swiping desperately, but Peter ducked beneath it, spun, and drove the bat upward—

Boom!

The Spider-Slayer smashed into the creature’s central body. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like thunder trapped inside a crystal dome, the entire torso cracked open, a web of fractures spreading outward like lightning.

The spider seemed to freeze mid-screech, light pulsing wildly inside its body—

—and then it exploded.

Glass rained in every direction, a glittering storm of shards and refracted light. A wave of silver energy surged upward into the mirrored sky, racing back toward the tower like a retreating tide.

In the stillness that followed, Peter stood amidst the wreckage, chest heaving, the Spider-Slayer resting on his shoulder like a champion’s sword. Shards of the spider glimmered around him, catching the light in a thousand tiny reflections—each one a victory.

Peter lowered the Spider-Slayer slowly, still catching his breath, the echoes of shattered glass fading into the strange, mirrored silence around them. As his eyes met Alexa’s, something shifted—something he hadn’t noticed before, something new.

The air around her shimmered.

It started softly, like morning mist catching the sun, then grew brighter, fuller—ribbons of color, soft and flowing, began to unfurl around her. They drifted lazily in the air, undulating like silk underwater. Hues of deep violet, warm gold, burning crimson, and electric teal spiraled from her fingertips, coiling gently around her wrists and up her arms. Faint lines of that same light trickled from the corners of her eyes like glowing tears—not of sorrow, but of awakening.

It wasn’t just light. It was something alive, something full of intention. It pulsed and moved with her breath, responding to her heartbeat, her presence. As if the magic itself had always been within her, waiting for this exact moment to show itself.

Peter stood in stunned silence, bat lowering completely as he took a half step toward her.

“Lex…” he whispered, voice caught between awe and disbelief. “You’re glowing.”

The ribbons curled around her shoulders, then fanned out behind her like slow-motion wings of paintbrush strokes across reality, casting a dim, radiant aura around her body. Her eyes shimmered with the same swirling color, wide and blinking, as if she hadn’t realized what was happening until now.

“I… I feel it,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “Something opened.”

Peter stared at her, breathless—not from the fight, but from what he was seeing now. Not from the glass spider’s remains, but from the quiet storm of beauty unraveling before him.

Peter’s voice was barely a whisper. “What did you do?”

Alexa looked down, opened the sketchbook slowly, and turned it toward him.

“I drew what I wished would happen,” she said quietly. Her voice was steady, but there was disbelief there too, as if saying it out loud made it even more surreal. “And then… it happened.”

Peter stepped closer, eyes scanning the drawings: the spider, towering over him… his dodges, the parries… the final blow, the shattering of glass, the victorious stance. Each frame as vivid as a memory already lived.

He looked back at her. “You made it happen.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “I think I did.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment—thick, uncertain, filled with shifting possibility. Then Peter smiled, a slow, proud grin curling at the edge of his lips.

“Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “remind me never to get on your bad side.” They both brightened up and burst into laughter.l. Her form blurred between the buildings, rabbit-light on her feet, the cool air rushing past her cheeks. The wind bit at her scarf, but her body was warmed by purpose.

Alexa landed lightly behind a thick chimney, the old bricks damp with evening dew. She crouched there for a moment, watching Peter from a distance. The soft glow of streetlamps barely reached the pond’s edge, letting the night hug him like a shadow. He looked small out there, hunched over, his broad shoulders drawn tight, like even his body didn’t know how to carry the weight it suddenly held.

He was throwing rocks—small, flat ones—one after another, each splash too quick to follow. They made no rhythm, no pattern. Just chaos, like his thoughts probably were.

She felt the cold edge of dread slip into her stomach. This wasn’t the Peter she knew. Not the golden swimmer. Not the soft-spoken, wide-shouldered optimist who always smiled at her when she walked into the room. This Peter was cracked open. And cracks, she knew, could turn into breaks if left alone long enough.

She moved closer—quiet, careful steps across the grass until her boots crunched faintly on the gravel.

He didn’t turn.

“Hey,” she said gently, voice not quite her normal Alexa tone. Softer. More real.

He turned his head slightly, eyes red-rimmed but dry. “You came.”

“Of course I did.” She walked up beside him and sat, her feet dangling off the edge of the pier next to his. “You scared me.”

He didn’t answer right away. A frog croaked somewhere near the reeds. The water rippled again from another tossed stone.

“I thought she was different,” he finally said, barely above a whisper. “Zoe. She made me feel like I wasn’t just some dumb jock with a smile. Like I mattered. And then today she just... ended it. Said I wasn’t enough.”

“Is that what she really said?” Alexa asked softly, her fingers tightening in her lap. “Tell me what happened.”

He turned to her, eyes narrowing, and recounted the entire encounter in as much detail as he could remember.

“I talked to her yesterday. Enough to know that she doesn’t think you’re not enough, Peter. I guess she’s scared. Maybe of how much she likes you. Maybe of herself.”

He looked away again. “Then why push me out?”

“Because some people run when things get real,” Alexa said, her voice steady. “Because it’s easier to break something yourself than wait for it to break on its own.”

He sat with that for a moment. His hand rested on the wooden plank between them, close to hers but not quite touching. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, dense with what was left unsaid.

“You ever feel like no matter what you do, you’re always just playing catch-up with who you’re supposed to be?” he asked.

“Every day,” she said. “But sometimes you stop following the current.”

He looked at her.

“And you swim against it,” she added, meeting his eyes.

“I tried that today. In the pool,” he said. “Felt like the water was testing me. Like it wasn’t sure I deserved to lead.”

“Did you pass the test?”

He gave a half-smile. “I don’t know. But I didn’t drown.”

“Then that’s a start.”

“Lex, cancel any plans you had for tomorrow. I’m not in the mood for parties.”

“Sure thing, Pere.”

“Will you take me into Ideworld instead? I want to smash some things.”

“Yes, I will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind rustled the trees and the stars blinked above the still water.

“You wanna stay here a bit?” Peter asked. “Not talk. Just… stay.”

Alexa nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

They sat there, side by side, the moonlight dancing across the pond. Two people who didn’t have all the answers, but for now, at least, had each other.

----------------------------------------

Phillip:

Phillip moved silently down the corridor carved into the bowels of the Castle of Knowledge, far below the shining halls and glass-domed libraries that housed the Spiral Archive above. This was a different place—a forgotten vein of the institution, a place that preferred shadows to insight, repetition to revelation. The path to the basement wasn’t marked on the usual maps, and its access required a token granted only to a trusted few.

He didn’t like running errands for Penrose—or anyone, for that matter—but he was curious. Knowledge is rarely pure, Penrose had once said. Sometimes you have to dig into the rot to find the roots.

The ride through the service tunnel was long and silent. He sat in the rickety iron traincar as it traced a spiral path around the underbelly of the Castle. Were it visible from above, it would resemble a snail’s shell—an ironic shape for a place obsessed with forward-thinking progress, and yet buried in recursive suffering. Phillip noted that irony. He liked irony.

Eventually, the car shuddered to a stop with a hiss of aged steam and the quiet lurch of old mechanisms. Phillip stepped out into cold, unwelcoming air. The smell of recycled dampness and sterile iron hung here like a permanent curtain. He passed through thick doors, their sigils barely glowing now, as if reluctant to participate in what lay beyond.

The prison zone opened before him like a forgotten tomb. Dozens of pitch-black cubes floated slightly above the floor in neat rows, each humming with a low, unpleasant vibration. Phillip stood at the top of the entry stair, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. There were at least forty cubes in sight, each a perfect prison, hermetically sealed in containment fields born from Domains specialized in stillness and control.

He descended the stairs without a word. As he reached the floor, he spotted the man he had come to see.

Gayvier stood at the far end of the hall, tall and built like a man who never skipped his ritual—day in, day out. His lab coat was white, but it bore the signs of wear from repetitive, precise movements. His scalp shone under the dim lights, clean-shaven, unadorned. His expression was neutral, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a master of the Cyclebrand, a Domain built on the power of repetition, habit, and mental loops. He was also the castle’s chief interrogator—torturer, if you asked without tact.

Phillip approached.

“Welcome shadow. Welcome shadow,” Gayvier intoned without turning, voice flat, cold. “Penrose is impatient. Penrose is impatient.”

Phillip’s eyebrow twitched, but his voice remained composed. “Is he? Why?”

Gayvier finally turned his head slightly, his eyes glassy and distant, as if he were only half-present—perhaps stuck in his own minor loop, or simply modeling the cycle he imposed. “Prisoner is still in his loop, watching his family die one by one. Prisoner is still in his loop, watching his family die one by one. He will be ready for questioning in an hour. He will be ready for questioning in an hour.”

Phillip folded his arms, glancing toward the cube in question. A single pulse of dull light flickered from its base. He could feel the weight of the moment trapped within it—a moment that had played out thousands of times. Fifteen minutes of regret, Penrose had said. Over and over, for three years. Ten minutes of lucidity each week, just long enough to test the edges of the prisoner’s mind for cracks.

It was an art. It was horrifying.

“I will wait, as per Professor Penrose’s request,” Phillip said, steady, even. He wouldn’t show his unease. Not here. Not to this man.

Gayvier nodded once, then turned back to the cube.

And somewhere behind the black surface, a man screamed for the hundred thousandth time.