A sharp knock breaks the stillness and I freeze.
No one must see this.
Cloth wraps the bells in swift practiced motions. Bundles return to the trunk. Lid closes. Lock seals.
The knock comes again but lighter this time and less patient.
I open the door a careful distance and five children stare up at me as if confronting a festival attraction.The smallest boy beams through missing teeth. Mud coats his bare feet.
“You make the glowing birds again?”
I blink. “I did not make birds.”
“You made them yesterday,” a taller girl insists, clutching charcoal sticks. “They chirped.”
Ah. The illusion from the marketplace.
I had hoped the demonstration would discourage attention. It achieved the opposite.
The children stare without fear but with only curiosity and anticipation.
Strange creatures.
“I am busy,” I say carefully and they refuse to leave.
The muddy boy leans sideways, attempting to peer into the room. “What’s your name?”
“Khaivor.”
He repeats it loudly as though testing how it feels in his mouth. The others follow, turning the syllables into a chant.
I sigh. Resistance wastes more energy than compliance.
I kneel to their height. Magic gathers in the hollow space behind my ribs, sensitive to sound, waiting for direction.
“Briefly,” I say before I snap my fingers.
A soft tone ripples outward. Air bends. Five translucent fish form above the children’s heads, drifting in slow circles. Each flick of their tails releases tiny chiming notes.
Gasps erupt before laughter follows.
The girl with charcoal watches closest, eyes narrowed in intense study. Observant. Careful. She will remember details others forget.
“Do they bite?” the muddy boy asks.
“No.” I grunt.
“Can I keep one?” he shoots swiftly.
I heave “No.”
He considers this, then nods solemnly as though accepting a treaty.
The illusions fade after a few breaths. The children erupt into overlapping chatter before scattering down the hallway.
Silence returns. For several precious seconds.
Then the temple bell rings.
