The Other Side of Tomorrow

The rain came down in half-light, tracing silver threads across the iron awnings of Melton Street.

Evita Avers sat underneath one of them, hood drawn, one boot pressed against the soot-streaked wall behind her. The scent of burned ink and fried root vegetables drifted from nearby stalls, but she didn’t move, blink, or breathe too deep.

Even now, especially now, she couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself.

She shifted her weight and pulled her notebook from her coat pocket. Leather-bound and water-stained. It was the only thing in her possession not designed for escape. Its pages held dreams she could no longer afford, and lessons she refused to forget.

Fire that does not ask. Eyes that do not see. I am not what the threads say I am.

The words trembled on the paper, ink reacting gently to her magic. Well, not her magic, exactly. It was just memory bleeding through the fabric. It had started a month ago. Now it wouldn’t stop.

A shadow passed near the corner of her vision, and she tensed. Melton Street was safe only if you knew its routine. The weavers called it a living artery; trade, whispers, rumour, blood, all running through at a steady beat. Step out of rhythm, and it noticed.

Evita stayed still. She was good at staying still.

“You’re burning your gaze, girl.”

The voice came from the merchant to her left. Old Mara, one of the unmarked, her face lined like tree bark and twice as dry. She sold wind chimes that sang even without wind. Most people thought she was mad. Evita knew better. The mad didn’t speak in paradoxes that later proved true.

“I’m not burning anything,” Evita muttered without looking up.

Mara snorted. “No flame stays hidden forever. Especially not when it sings through your blood.”

Evita snapped her notebook shut. “You want to tell the Colony that, or just get me executed yourself?”

“Execution’s too simple for you,” Mara said, eyes twinkling. “You’re meant for a different kind of end.”

The sound of footsteps came. It wasn't Mara's or any of the other traders. It felt like running. Heavy, and panicked.

Evita turned, just as the crowd parted in a haze of confusion and annoyance. A girl no older than twenty barrelled into the street, soaked in blood and mist. Her clothes were half-charred, her left arm limp. Around her neck hung a sparkling shard of something Evita couldn’t identify, until it pulsed.

A page from a Grimoire.

Their eyes met, and Evita felt the world bend.

It was instant recognition. As if her soul had tilted toward the girl and whispered, There. That’s the spark.

The girl stumbled, and the guards followed—three of them, robes slashed with Saffron red, steam rising from their palms. Elemental enforcers.

Evita didn’t think, she moved.

A single breath. A wordless push from somewhere deeper than instinct or thought. Stop

And time stopped.

It didn't exactly stop, though. It just slowed, like syrup dripping from a broken glass. The guards froze mid-step. The girl hung suspended in collapse. Even the rain hovered, drops forming glassy jewels in the air.

Evita moved through it like she was walking underwater, hand outstretched, palm brushing the girl’s shoulder.

She whispered: “Not yet.”

Her spell snapped. Noise returned in a gasp, and the rain pelted the ground. The girl collapsed fully into Evita’s arms.

The guards stumbled, blinking. Confused and disoriented. One of them swore under his breath and looked around, trying to trace the disturbance.

Evita held the girl tighter and turned her face toward the alley she pulled her into when time slowed. Mara was already gone. The chimes had stopped singing.

And Evita ran.