“Morgan! Come downstairs! Dinner is ready!”

  My mother’s voice carried up the stairs, familiar in a way that should have been comforting. It echoed down the hallway, bounced off the walls, and settled into my room like it always had. No distortion. No celestial weight. Just the same call I’d heard a thousand times before, wrapped in impatience and routine.

  “Yup… same old mother,” I muttered, leaning back in my chair with a long sigh.

  My eyes drifted around the room, and the contrast hit me all at once. My computer screen still glowed with its split personality. Assignments on one side, idle distractions on the other. Notes half-written. Tabs half-closed. The quiet evidence of a life that expected nothing more from me than deadlines and mediocre test scores.

  Along the bookcase, samples of cut and polished gemstones caught the light. Little projects. Little fascinations. Things I’d liked because they were pretty, because they refracted light in interesting ways, because they felt solid and real.

  Home.

  It was home.

  And yet something about it felt… hollow. Like a shell that had already been abandoned, even while I was still standing inside it. The walls felt thinner than they used to. The air flatter. As if reality itself had been downgraded while I wasn’t looking.

  That other place pressed in on my thoughts uninvited. The weight of it. The presence. The way things there had felt certain, even when they were terrifying. Here, everything suddenly seemed staged, like a set rebuilt too perfectly after a fire.

  Especially because—

  I clenched my right hand.

  The gemstone embedded into the back of it was unmistakable beneath my skin, cool and unmoving. Real. Anchored. No matter how many times I touched it, it refused to become a memory.

  “So,” I muttered, staring at it, thumb tracing the edges where flesh met opal. “There really is some kind of secret organization hiding magic.”

  The thought tasted strange in my mouth. Ridiculous and inevitable at the same time.

  “I guess White Wolf had it kind of right?” A weak laugh slipped out. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”

  I pictured shadowy councils, unwritten laws, and the kind of rules that only existed to be broken at the worst possible moment. The kind that punished ignorance just as harshly as defiance.

  “Please tell me this doesn’t mean I suddenly have to follow a thousand rules,” I said quietly. “I swear, if I have to start tracking paradox now…”

  Walking out of my room and down the stairs felt like crossing a border I hadn’t agreed to acknowledge. Each step creaked the way it always had, familiar and steady, but my sense of balance lagged half a beat behind, like my body and the house were no longer fully synchronized.

  The dining room lights were on.

  That, by itself, wasn’t strange.

  What was strange was who was sitting at the table.

  My mother sat at the head, posture straight, hands folded neatly in front of her plate. The table was fully set. Properly set. The good placemats. The ones she only used when something mattered.

  Across from her sat two men I didn’t recognize.

  And I knew immediately they weren’t the kind of guests she usually entertained.

  They didn’t fit the aesthetic. No flowing fabrics. No talismans. No carefully curated eccentricity. None of the soft, spiritual ambiguity my mother normally favored when she talked about energy, balance, or the universe listening if you listened back.

  These men were sharp.

  Black suits. White undershirts. Blue ties pulled tight and correct at their collars. Shoes polished to the point of reflection. One of them was tall and lean, all long lines and stillness. The other was shorter, broader through the shoulders, built like someone who understood leverage intimately.

  They looked like they belonged to institutions. To rules. To paperwork that came in triplicate.

  “Take a seat, Morgan,” my mother said gently.

  Her voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that only showed up when something had already gone very wrong.

  “We need to discuss your return.”

  I stopped halfway between the last stair and the table.

  “My… return?” I echoed. “Return from—”

  She waved me off before I could finish, sharp and immediate. Not angry. Certain.

  “Boy,” she said, and that single word carried more weight than the rest of the sentence combined. “I’m from Aeterna. I don’t need you to explain where you’ve been for the last two hours.”

  My stomach sank.

  “I can see the mana radiating off you,” she continued, eyes flicking briefly to my hand before returning to my face. “And so can Julian and Robert here.”

  She gestured toward the two men.

  The taller one took that as his cue. He rose smoothly from his chair, buttoning his jacket as he did.

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  “Good evening, Morgan,” he said, offering a polite nod rather than a handshake. “As your mother stated, my name is Julian. Julian Wheeler. CKCD. Cyberkinetic Civil Department.”

  I stared at him.

  “…Cyberkinetic Civil Department?”

  “Yes,” he said easily, as though that phrase belonged on a business card everyone owned. “You recently returned from Aeterna, which is a realm we at the CKCD are… well-acquainted with.”

  His eyes flicked to my mother, briefly respectful.

  “Largely thanks to your father,” he added, then continued without pausing. “And we are, of course, aware that Mrs. Barlow here is what we classify as an OR. An Original Resident.”

  My brain struggled to keep up.

  “You figured,” I said slowly, “that you’d just… be here?”

  Julian smiled faintly. Not unkindly. Not reassuringly either.

  “We figured,” he said, “that it would be better to explain things before misunderstandings occurred.”

  The shorter man, Robert, remained seated, arms crossed, watching me like he was assessing structural integrity rather than a person.

  Julian gestured lightly with one hand. “To be clear, you don’t need to worry about the metaphysical anvil of paradox being dropped on your head.”

  I felt my shoulders loosen despite myself.

  “But,” he continued smoothly, “that doesn’t mean there aren’t rules.”

  Of course there were.

  “We need to discuss,” Julian said, “magia, excellia, and public knowledge.”

  The words settled over the table like legal documents sliding into place.

  My mother finally spoke again, quieter now. “Eat first, Morgan.”

  Right.

  I looked down at my plate, letting the word settle like a paperweight on my thoughts. My mother’s place setting, of course, was entirely vegetarian. Steamed vegetables arranged with care, grains cooked just right, everything balanced the way she liked it. She had never forced that diet on me or anyone else, though. Belief, in her mind, only mattered if it was chosen.

  In front of me sat a bowl of French onion soup, a small stack of bread, and a slice of ham. Or, as she liked to call it, the Victory meal. A quiet celebration disguised as dinner. The soup’s aroma rose in gentle waves, rich and sweet, the caramelized onions cutting through the tension in the room better than any words could have.

  I took a spoonful.

  It was good. Comfortingly so. Familiar in a way that made my shoulders loosen before I could stop them.

  After a few bites, my mother looked up at me and nodded once, as if confirming something to herself.

  “What color were your apples?”

  I blinked and looked up, caught completely off guard.

  She giggled at my expression, a light, genuine sound that felt almost out of place given the men at the table and the conversation hanging over us.

  “Morgan,” she said warmly, “you’re my son. Biologically, you’re half Apple Sylvient. Or, as this world insists on calling it, a Half-Dryad.” She gestured vaguely with her fork. “So tell me. What color were they? It’ll help me put together a proper diet for your fungal colony.”

  I hesitated, then glanced toward the two men at the table. They were murmuring to one another now, their conversation slipping into something that sounded like a hybrid of Russian and Portuguese. I caught a few words here and there, mostly proper nouns that didn’t help much.

  “Should we be discussing this in front of them?” I asked quietly, motioning with my spoon.

  “It doesn’t matter, Morgan,” my mother said easily. “They felt your Cross-Over just like I did. I called them here, after all.” She smiled at me, patient but expectant. “So. What color?”

  “…An orangish red,” I said slowly. “Kind of like a peach, but with an apple’s texture.”

  She nodded, satisfied, pulling out her phone and tapping a quick note before slipping it back into her pocket as if we’d just discussed grocery preferences.

  “Forgive our rudeness, Young Mr. Barlow,” Robert said suddenly.

  His voice carried a heavy Germanic accent, broad enough that I couldn’t quite place it. Somewhere between Germany and the Nordic countries, if I had to guess. He inclined his head politely.

  “We were concerned that discussing our plans in detail might frighten you,” he continued, “but it is clear your mother does not share that concern.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Like most Gaia Twinworlders, you will almost certainly develop a cyberkinetic ability. I am sure you can already feel the aether.”

  I opened my mouth to deny it.

  Then paused.

  Because I could.

  I just hadn’t known what to call it.

  The mana in the other world had felt like a warm woolen blanket. Heavy, swaddling, safe. Something that wrapped around you and stayed. Here, though, the sensation was entirely different. The aether felt like thousands of fireflies, darting and flickering through the air. Constant motion. Endless exchange. Always moving from one place to another, never resting.

  “What is aether?” I asked, keeping my voice level, curious rather than overwhelmed.

  Julian answered this time. “Effectively,” he said, “it’s communication data, layered with the smallest, most minuscule amount of ambient mana Gaia still retains.”

  “So… aether is basically just data packets?” I asked, frowning slightly as I tried to line the idea up with everything I thought I understood about the world. “Like something from a phone or an internet modem that happened to catch a drop of mana on the way?”

  I needed to hear it again. Slowly. In plain language.

  “Yes,” Julian said, nodding once. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”

  He rested his hands lightly on the table, posture relaxed but deliberate. “At the CKCD, we identify individuals who awaken to the use of mana or aether and make certain they do not become a threat to society. That is our primary mandate.” His expression sharpened just a fraction. “The department itself was founded toward the end of the Second World War.”

  He let the sentence hang.

  “I don’t believe we need to explain much beyond that.”

  No. No, he didn’t.

  I nodded, the motion automatic, my appetite suddenly much smaller than it had been a moment ago. History had a way of filling in the blanks on its own, and none of the conclusions were comforting.

  Before Julian could continue, my mother set her fork down with a soft clink.

  “Morgan isn’t some tyrannical fascist,” she said briskly, waving one hand as if brushing dust off a shelf. “The most dangerous thing he’s ever done is spend too much time polishing and cutting gemstones.”

  Julian turned slightly toward her, attentive.

  “He’s in his third year at university,” she went on, “studying business. And after he finishes, he plans to go to New York to study at the Gemological Institute of America. The goal is to become a gemstone and jewelry appraiser.” She smiled at me, proud and utterly unashamed. “Hardly the profile of a revolutionary menace.”

  Then she waved him off again, sharper this time.

  “Besides,” she added, eyes glinting, “we all know the real reason the CKCD exists.”

  Julian didn’t interrupt.

  “It’s partly to ensure that people like myself,” she said calmly, “and by extension my son, have our assets properly protected.” She glanced pointedly at the two men. “Especially when we choose to sell them to you.”

  The room went quiet.

  I looked between them, suddenly aware that this conversation wasn’t just about rules or safety or oversight.

  It was about leverage.

  And now that I knew this dinner table was a bargaining table, it was time for the transactions to begin.