THE PRICE OF FOREVER

Xavier jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The dream was back—sharp, blinding, impossible to forget.

A tall man with jet-black hair stepped into a grand room. On the moonlit balcony stood a beautiful woman—emerald eyes glowing, honey-brown hair cascading down her back.

Without warning, a red beam shot from his hand. It struck her chest. She screamed—then collapsed, her eyes frozen wide. Lifeless.

The black-haired man didn’t look back. His expression unreadable, he turned and began walking toward the next room—his footsteps heavy, deliberate.

A soft cry rose from within—a baby. He lay in a carved cradle, dressed finely, with soft blankets tucked around him. His hair was the same honey-brown as the woman’s. His eyes—though wet with tears—glowed a familiar, vivid green.

Then the door burst open.

Another man rushed in—blond hair tousled, half his face hidden by a dark cloth mask. His aquamarine eyes were wide with panic. He wore no armor, only plain travel-worn clothes. His hands trembled as he reached the cradle.

For a heartbeat, he stared down at the child, breath catching. Then he scooped up the baby—gently, protectively—and vanished in a blink of light.

The scene shifted. The blond man reappeared beneath a glowing street lamp, in a quiet, empty street. Night blanketed everything in stillness, and a single bench sat beneath the light—worn but clean. There were no signs, no buildings, only silence pressing in like fog. Something about the place felt oddly familiar to Xavier, though he couldn’t say why. The man gently placed the baby on the bench, tucking a folded note beneath the blanket. He lingered for a moment, his masked face solemn, aquamarine eyes filled with sorrow—like he was silently asking for forgiveness. From the shadows, a red-haired boy stepped forward. His crimson eyes shimmered—not just with light, but with something older, deeper. Sorrow. Hope. Purpose. He moved quietly, like a ghost in someone else’s memory. The blond man didn’t react. Perhaps… he couldn’t see him.

The boy knelt beside the bench where the baby lay. He leaned close, whispering something so softly the words barely touched the air.

“Prince… we need your help.”

The lamplight flickered.

A hush fell over the scene.

Then came the sounds.

Whispers that didn’t belong. Scratching, slithering, a distant hiss—like breath scraping against stone. They came from nowhere and everywhere, rising like a storm beneath Xavier’s skin.

His eyes darted, searching the shadows.

But there was nothing to see.

And then—the world tilted.

The ground vanished beneath him.

He fell.

Darkness swallowed everything. His chest seized. His breath caught. He reached for something—anything—but there was only cold, crushing black. His arms flailed. He tried to scream, but no sound came. His voice was gone.

He was weightless.

Terrified.

Falling.

Endlessly falling.

Then—his body jerked, as if pulled from the edge of a cliff.

Xavier snapped awake.

Chest heaving. Heart pounding. Moonlight spilled across the floor of his room like silver blood.

But the sounds were still there.

Low and ragged—almost... snorting?

He blinked, turned—and groaned.

“Seriously, David?”

David lay sprawled across the other bed, mouth wide open, snoring like a walrus gargling soup.

Xavier collapsed back into his pillow, rubbing his face with both hands.

“From royal mysteries to nasal disasters,” he muttered.

But no matter how ridiculous the wake-up was, the dream clung to him like smoke. Its whispers and shadows still curling in the corners of his mind.

Too vivid.

Too real.

And echoing in the silence—

“Prince, we need your help.”

*

Sunday came cold and clear.

Frost glazed the window panes of Rising Star Boys’ Home, and the wind bit at Xavier’s face the moment he stepped outside. He tugged his hoodie tighter, breath puffing out in pale clouds. Gracie trotted beside him, her tail wagging like a little flag.

“Today’s the day,” he said, smiling despite the chill. “Game shop run. You ready?”

“Am I ever,” Gracie barked. “You promised I could sniff the controller wall!”

*

She practically danced with excitement as they turned onto Maple Street, the heart of Rookford’s tiny market strip. The stalls were already open, old-fashioned and charming, their awnings flapping in the wind. Somewhere, someone was selling roasted chestnuts.

The local game shop stood at the end of the lane, warm light glowing through the window like a promise. The familiar scent of plastic cases and fried snacks drifted through the door as they stepped inside.

Gracie veered straight for the wall of controllers, tail wagging.

She pressed her nose against the cool surface, sniffing deeply. “Mmm. Gasoline. Shoe polish. Fresh paint... You like these smells too, right?”

Xavier wrinkled his nose, laughing. “Yeah, I do. I know they’re probably not great for you—but they just smell kinda nice, you know?”

Gracie gave a happy grunt and kept sniffing.

Just then, Xavier spotted a stall outside. A woman with prickly warts on her chin was arranging rows of shiny pet tags.

He crouched beside Gracie. “Stay here, girl. I’ll be right back. Going to get you that name tag we talked about.”

“Make sure it’s pink!” she barked, tongue out.

Xavier chuckled, gave her a quick pat, and ran off—unaware of the danger already ticking to life behind the shop.

Xavier weaved through the crowd toward the pet tag stall, scanning the glittery shapes—bones, hearts, stars. He picked up a soft pink one shaped like a paw and smiled. “This one’s you, Gracie.” She would love it. He reached into his pocket and carefully counted the coins he’d saved—every one of them earned through weeks of pet-sitting, teaching neighborhood kids to train their dogs, and helping them with their homework. It hadn’t been easy. But it was worth it. Gracie wasn’t just a dog. She was his best friend.

*

A few days earlier

*

The sun had been setting that day, casting long shadows across Mrs. Whitmore’s garden. The smell of grass, biscuits, and fur mixed in the air.

Gracie sat perfectly still, eyes locked on Xavier, ears perked like a soldier awaiting orders.

“Good girl,” Xavier said. Then he looked at the others. “Bandit. Fluffo. Do what Gracie’s doing.”

Bandit—chubby and full of energy—gave a confused bark, but sat. Fluffo, the nervous poodle, circled twice and slowly lowered his fluffy butt to the grass.

“Nice,” Xavier grinned. “We’re getting somewhere.”

That’s when Mrs. Whitmore stepped out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a floral towel. She paused to take in the scene—three obedient dogs, a boy with biscuit crumbs on his hoodie and a patience beyond his years.

“You’ve got magic in your bones, Xavier,” she said, walking over and pressing a few coins into his palm. “Dogs just listen to you.”

He smiled, weighing the coins in his hand. But when she slipped in a couple extra, he held them back out immediately.

“Three hours, not four,” he said. “This is too much.”

“You’re saving up for Gracie, aren’t you?”

He nodded once.

“Then take it,” she said. “It’s not a tip. It’s belief.”

*

The memory faded.

A chill crawled up Xavier’s spine.

Teach him a lesson. Thinks he’s better than everyone.

Xavier froze.

The thought sliced through his mind—hot, bitter, and horribly familiar.

Jake.

An image shot into his head: Jake behind the game shop, yanking wires with clumsy hands, eyes hard with anger.

Red wire… blue? Doesn’t matter. Just a blackout. Freak him out. He deserves it.

Xavier’s heart dropped.

“Gracie,” he whispered—and turned.

BOOM.

The explosion ripped the street apart.

A blast of heat knocked him back. Windows exploded—glass like razors. One shard sliced his cheek.Xavier cried out, stumbling backward. He tripped over the curb and crashed into a nearby lamppost. Metal slammed into his shoulder. His ears rang.

People screamed.

“Call 999!”

“Fire! Get the fire brigade!”

“Someone’s inside!”

“Call an ambulance!”

The small shop was on fire. Smoke poured out in thick, black waves. Plastic melted. Shelves burned. The street was chaos—screams, shouts, panicked footsteps.

Xavier staggered to his feet, one hand clutching his bleeding cheek, the other reaching toward the flames.

“Gracie!” he shouted. “She’s in there!”

He tried to run, but people surged around him, holding him back. A woman screamed as another stall collapsed nearby. A firefighter burst through the crowd, grabbing Xavier by the shoulders.

“Stay back! You’re hurt!”

“She’s in there!” he cried, voice cracking. “Tan fur, white paws—please!”

And then, across the road—Jake.

He was sprawled on the pavement, scraped and dazed, coughing through the smoke.

His thoughts were loud—panicked.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Just a power outage. Not—this.

His hands shook. His eyes were wide with horror.

What did I do?

And then—sirens.

An ambulance screeched to a halt. Paramedics rushed past Xavier.

On a stretcher: singed fur. A small, still form.

“Gracie!” he shouted, limping toward them, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the blood on his face. “Please—I need to be with her!”

A paramedic turned, eyeing his injury. “Kid, you’re bleeding.”

“I don’t care. She’s my best friend.”

The paramedic hesitated, then nodded.

“Come on.”

Xavier climbed into the ambulance, his heart pounding, hand trembling as he gently touched her paw.

“Hang on, Gracie,” he whispered, tears stinging the cut on his cheek. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

The sirens wailed in his ears, but all he could hear was Gracie’s labored breathing and the beep of the ambulance monitor. His vision blurred. The edges of the world closed in.

What if she doesn’t make it? What if it’s my fault?

“If I can’t help my friends,” he thought, “then this power is useless. It’s not a gift—it’s a curse.”

His thoughts spiraled—fire, blood, smoke, Jake’s face, Gracie’s still form. His chest tightened until it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

And then—darkness.

He fainted.

The next thing he knew, everything was quiet.

A soft beeping. The faint hum of fluorescent lights. A blanket tucked neatly over his legs. The air smelled of antiseptic and something vaguely like soap. A dull ache pulsed through his shoulder. His cheek stung. Something tugged at his hand.

He blinked, confused, and looked down.

Someone taped a bandage to his cheek. They attached a drip to his hand, the thin tube snaking into a bag beside the bed. Gauze tightly wrapped his shoulder. He wasn’t in the ambulance anymore.

He was in a hospital room—bright, sterile, still.

Then he saw her.

Mrs. Blackwood sat in one of those stiff plastic hospital chairs, wrapped in her thick grey cardigan like it was armor against the cold. She had a ball of yarn in her lap, knitting needles paused mid-stitch. When she noticed his eyes open, she let out a slow, relieved breath and lowered the needles.

“How’re you feeling?” she asked softly.

Xavier tried to sit up, winced, and gave a small nod. “Where… where’s Gracie?”

“She’s in surgery,” Mrs. Blackwood said gently. “They rushed her to the animal hospital across the road. The vet’s doing all he can—they promised to call as soon as there’s news.”

Xavier’s eyes filled with tears. He looked away, his throat tight.

Without a word, Mrs. Blackwood reached into her large handbag and pulled out an enormous bar of chocolate—his favorite kind—and a slightly worn paperback novel.

“I thought you might need these,” she said, placing them carefully on the blanket over his lap. “Something to keep your hands and your head busy.”

It was the book he’d been eyeing back at the orphanage library. He hadn’t said anything about it. Somehow, she’d just known.

He looked at her, stunned by the simple kindness.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She gave him a small, warm smile and tucked the blanket a little closer around his arm. “No need to thank me, love. Just rest. You’ve had a day no one your age should ever face.”

The beeping of the monitor filled the silence, soft and steady.

Outside, the fire was out.

Inside Xavier, it still burned.