The panda line shuffled ahead with the grim determination of penguins on a cross-Antarctic trek (specifically the ones we’d seen about ten minutes ago, who absolutely had that vibe). Syrin stood on his toes, trying to peer ahead, but the crowd was too thick and too tall. After a few minutes, he kicked at a rock on the ground and asked, “These creatures are so cute that all these people will wait on their whims?”

  “I mean, it’s not exactly their whims,” I said. “The zookeepers’ whims, maybe?”

  Syrin frowned. “I cannot imagine such a creature.”

  I pulled out my phone. “Here. Watch this.”

  I pulled up a compilation of pandas doing cute and funny things. The first clip: a panda enthusiastically climbing a tiny slide and immediately rolling off it sideways.

  Syrin’s eyes flickered silver rimmed with bronze. “Is this creature cursed?”

  Second clip: a panda attempts to swing on its tire swing, succeeds in wiggling up, then immediately flips backward and the swing tilts, and crashes into another panda.

  “It does not seem to have very good balance,” Syrin said critically. “How does it survive?”

  “Shh. Just watch.”

  He quieted.

  Third clip: a panda climbs a small tree, reaches the top with triumph, then instantly falls out of it like gravity remembered it existed.

  Syrin clapped a hand over his mouth. “Does no one save it?!”

  “Keep watching.”

  The video continued. The panda simply got up, wandered off, and promptly got stuck in a plastic barrel.

  Syrin’s eyes changed to a silver that probably signaled something like existential distress. “This species should not be alive.”

  Mom leaned over his shoulder. “And yet somehow, they are.”

  He stared at the next clip where a panda rolled down a grassy hill like a very determined ball, unable—or unwilling—to stop.

  “This is your most beloved animal?”

  “One of them,” I said.

  “And we are waiting in line—” he gestured at the endless queue “—to see this creature?”

  “Yep.”

  He looked at the phone again just as a panda attempted to climb a pole, slipped, and gently bonked its head.

  He winced in sympathetic pain. “I feel… conflicted,” he admitted. “It’s adorable but also deeply concerning. I want to protect it. And also… stop it.”

  “That’s the panda effect,” Mom said, utterly serious.

  By the time we finally reached the front of the line, Syrin seemed braced for a fluffy disaster zone. The line curved into the enclosure, and we could finally see the hillside that it lived on. No panda yet.

  “Where is it?” Syrin asked.

  I pointed to the throng of people ahead with phones out snapping pictures. “There.”

  Syrin stepped forward eagerly.

  And froze. Because inside the habitat, a panda sat. Just… sat. Holding bamboo. Chewing at the slowest possible speed known to nature.

  It did not fall. It did not roll. It did not trip. It did not engage in any dramatic antics at all. It just… chewed.

  Syrin’s face collapsed into pure, bewildered betrayal. “Where is the chaos?” he whispered.

  Mom bit her lip.

  “This one,” I said softly, “is just vibing.”

  Syrin stared in heartbroken disbelief. “We waited… half an hour… for it to exist?”

  The panda paused chewing long enough to blink once. Slowly.

  Syrin made a tiny, strangled sound. “It is a fraud.”

  I burst out laughing. “It’s a panda, Syrin. They can’t be dramatic all the time.”

  The panda lifted its paw. Scratched its ear. Chewed once again. Then stretched and curled up.

  Syrin pressed both hands to the glass. “Show me even one sign of incompetence,” he begged softly. “Just one.”

  The panda stared blankly into the middle distance.

  “Nothing,” he whispered.

  Mom patted his shoulder. “Better luck next time.”

  He kept staring. “I do not understand Earth.”

  After the panda anticlimax, Syrin seemed emotionally drained in a way I didn’t know pandas could cause. His eyes were a faint bemused gold rimmed with silver, glow nonexistent, which was good. He’d had it under control most of the day, just his eyes shifting.

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  But at home… he’d glowed almost the entire day yesterday. I nudged him gently. “Syrin?”

  He hummed and looked over at me, eyes shifting to that gold streaked green.

  “Yesterday you glowed all day, but today…” I gestured vaguely at him.

  “It’s just my eyes?” he said with a smile.

  I nodded.

  He laughed softly. “The full-body glow is normal. But also… distracting. And here it’s dangerous. I can contain it. Keep it internal, then only my eyes change color.”

  “But when you first came through the portal…” I said.

  He let out a slow breath. “Stronger emotions are harder to contain, brighter. I can do it, but it’s exhausting. And sometimes it’s just too much to contain, even if I try. Back home, it’s not worth the effort. People are used to the Keepers glowing, so no one cares. But here?” He raised his eyebrows. “Glowing is bad. Hence…”

  “You’re keeping it to your eyes,” I finished.

  He nodded. “I’m getting a lot of practice. Everyone is going to be so impressed with how controlled I am if I ever make it back.” A wry little laugh escaped him.

  We came to the little panda cafe that sold food and was surrounded by souvenir stands. “Food break?” Mom suggested, stretching her shoulders. “Before we tackle the aviary?”

  “Yes,” Syrin said immediately, with the seriousness of someone accepting a diplomatic treaty. “Food would help.”

  Mom laughed. “Alright, we’ll find a spot.”

  Zoo lunchtime was another world entirely. The shady walkways and viewing windows were less crowded, but the panda cafe? Absolute chaos. Families everywhere. Strollers. Toddlers. Sandwiches flying dangerously close to the ground. And above all—eyes. Lots of them.

  And Syrin had it contained right now, but… I didn’t want to test our luck if something happened.

  “We need somewhere quieter,” I murmured.

  Syrin nodded. “If we found somewhere that I didn’t have to focus on not glowing that would be nice, just for a few minutes. But… I don’t wish to alarm anyone.”

  “That’s a very polite way to say you don’t want to be the lunchtime spectacle,” I said.

  He tilted his head. “Is that what would happen?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “This is peak people-watch hour.”

  Mom scanned the map. “There’s a side path near the aviary. Usually not crowded. Benches and a picnic table or two.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  We cut away from the main lunch plaza, ducking down a winding path lined with tall bamboo and flowering shrubs. The sounds of the crowd faded quickly: muffled laughter, distant conversations, the occasional shriek of a child who had probably seen a peacock.

  Syrin relaxed visibly, shoulders lowering a fraction.

  “This is better,” he murmured.

  Sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of green and gold. Syrin’s glow would blend in anyway, soft and natural, almost like the light belonged to the garden.

  Mom spotted a half-hidden wooden picnic table tucked between two large trees. “There,” she said. “Perfect.”

  Nobody else was around. Just the rustle of leaves and the murmur of a nearby fountain.

  We set down the backpack. Mom wiped the table with a napkin and brushed crumbs to the ground. “Alright. Sandwiches, chips, fruit. I’m going to run to the restroom. You can start without me, but my sandwich better be here when I get back.”

  She walked off toward the path, leaving Syrin and me in the soft, leafy quiet.

  Syrin glanced around as if double-checking for witnesses. “It is peaceful here,” he said, voice low.

  “Seriously,” I agreed. “You’d never guess there’s a ravenous lunchtime horde just down the hill.”

  He huffed a laugh, and let his glow out slightly, just slightly luminous, the color of sunlight through honey.

  I started unpacking the food. He watched with that same quiet curiosity he gave everything on Earth, but… softer. More focused. Less overwhelmed.

  There was a long moment where we just existed in the quiet together, the garden cocooning us in green and gold.

  Syrin set his hand on the edge of the table, fingers brushing mine by accident. Or… maybe not by accident? I wasn’t sure. His glow warmed, rose gold at the edges. Calm. Steady.

  He looked at me. Really looked. Like he was trying to see some nonexistent glow under my skin. My chest tightened, and then my breath caught before I could stop it.

  “Katrina,” he said softly.

  Oh. No one ever said my full name like that.

  I didn’t even think. I leaned forward, just a little, and he did too, like we were meeting in the middle of something delicate.

  “I…” his voice was soft. Like a breath. “Can I…”

  And then…

  It was the barest brush of our lips—soft, almost uncertain. Syrin pressed in just slightly, a whisper of warmth, and then it was over.

  His glow fluttered that soft rose gold, barely there, like an exhale, and he blinked slowly, as if he hadn’t quite processed it yet. My pulse tripped over itself. It wasn’t dramatic or sweeping or anything like the stories. Just a moment so quiet it felt like it might fade if I breathed too hard.

  Syrin blinked again, and his glow pulsed faintly, the soft rose gold flickering like a heartbeat trying to decide whether to speed up or slow down. He looked away, and I did too. I stared at the picnic table like it was suddenly fascinating. Syrin studied the zipper on the backpack with intense scholarly focus, as if it held ancient runes.

  My pulse was still tripping over itself, but I finally risked a glance. He was already looking. “I…” he whispered.

  It was the smallest sound. Barely a word. Barely anything. But it landed between us like a pebble dropped in still water.

  “Yeah?” I said, brilliantly eloquent.

  “I should have asked. I’m sorry. I just…” He trailed off, voice thin as paper. The rose gold deepened, warm and embarrassed and impossibly soft.

  “You did,” I muttered. “Sort of.”

  “Was that…” he started, then stopped, pressing his lips together.

  “It’s okay. I’m… I—” Idiot. I’d never been this tongue-tied after a kiss before. What was wrong with me?

  “You’re not upset?” he asked softly.

  “No! Definitely no. Just…” I waved a hand in a helpless circle, Mom’s words echoing in my head. Make sure you know what you want.

  Syrin’s glow faltered to a silver, and I hurried to correct again. “It was something. But also… it doesn’t have to be a big thing. It can just be—” My hand gave up, flailing vaguely. “—a moment.”

  Syrin exhaled shakily, like the word moment was trying to rearrange all his internal definitions. “A moment,” he repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  He nodded, slowly, too carefully. The silver deepened. “Right. Yes. That makes sense.”

  No. I was ruining it. Absolutely none of this made sense. “It doesn’t, but I just…”

  He hesitated again. “Katrina?”

  The way he said it, gentle and unsure, like he was worried the name might break, sent another little shock through me.

  “Trina,” I corrected automatically, because my brain had abandoned all higher function. I wanted this, but at the same time… And every word that came out of my mouth was wrong. What was I doing?

  “Trina,” he repeated, softer this time. “You don’t have to decide now. I just… I wanted you to know.”

  Oh. That was so sweet, and also… I didn’t even know what else. I bit my lip. “It’s not no. Just… later.”

  The rose gold flicked back, and he let out a long, relieved breath.

  Silence stretched, awkward, yes, but not uncomfortable. More like we were both standing on the edge of something neither of us had the vocabulary for yet.

  He cleared his throat. “We should… probably begin eating before your mother returns. She will notice if the food is untouched.”

  “Right,” I said, even though my hands felt like they’d forgotten how to sandwich.

  We both reached for the pile of food at the same time and immediately jerked our hands back like it was hot.

  “Sorry,” we said in unison.

  Before either of us could try to stand or speak or ruin it, footsteps echoed faintly from the path. I glanced back in a half panic, but it wasn’t Mom, just someone checking to see if the table was empty. Must be a long line at the bathroom.

  Syrin opened his mouth, maybe to say something else, maybe to undo the last five minutes, but I shook my head slightly.

  “Later,” I whispered.

  His eyes flickered, gold, then amber, then steadied at that soft rose gold that I still didn’t know the meaning of. “Later.”

  Starfarer

  But part of growing up is realising that some dreams just aren't meant to be.

  When Felix sets off on his first adventure, things don't go as planned. His long-cherished dream falls apart in front of his eyes as he realises his destined path lies with the staff instead of the sword.

  Felix will need to scramble to pick up the pieces, using his lacklustre talents to forge his dream anew, or his journey will end before it even begins.

  Can he find a way to accept his path as a mage and watch his closest friend soar to the heights he always dreamt of?

  Or will his rival manage to turn his shattered dreams into chains that bind him to the ground?

  There are no easy solutions, no shortcuts on the path to greatness.

  Only through the perseverance of an ordinary boy can his extraordinary dreams become a reality.