The shadows in Roland's room seemed to pulse with lingering energy, like ripples in a dark pond. When Cole and Ian, who had some injuries and bruises on him that Roland did not fail to notice, walked in, those same shadows retreated to their natural places so quickly it was almost comical – like guilty children caught sneaking cookies. The movement wasn't lost on his friends, who exchanged glances loaded with unspoken questions.
Cole broke the tension first, holding up Roland's grimoire with an exaggerated flourish. "So," he drawled, signature smirk in place, "what's with the empty book? A memoir of bad fashion choices?" The joke fell flat against the room's heavy atmosphere.
Roland's eyes fixed on the grimoire in Cole's hands, his chest constricting as if something were squeezing his lungs. "Empty?" The word came out as barely more than a whisper. Then, louder, with an edge of desperation that surprised even him: "What do you mean, empty?!"
He snatched the book from Cole's grip, his movements frantic and uncontrolled – so unlike his usual calculated precision.
The grimoire's leather felt warm against his palms, but as he flipped through the pages, his world seemed to tilt on its axis. Page after page of pure darkness stared back at him, like windows into an endless void. Not blank – black. As if the pages had drunk in all the shadows he could now control.
"No, no, no..." Roland muttered, his fingers trembling as they traced the edge of each obsidian page. "There has to be something here. There has to be..."
His vision blurred as memories crashed over him like waves, each one carrying the weight of everything he'd lost. The scent of his mother's essence-infused tea, how it would fill their tiny apartment with warmth and the promise of safety. His father's deep laugh when Roland would try to mimic his essence-control gestures, tiny hands waving in determined concentration. The way they'd both kiss his forehead before leaving for missions, promising to return with stories of their adventures.
The last kiss. The last promise. The last goodbye.
Shadows writhed around Roland's feet, responding to his turbulent emotions. He could feel Cole and Ian's concerned gazes, but they felt distant, separated from him by years of buried grief suddenly breaking free.
"This book," Roland's voice cracked, "it's all I have left of them. Just this stupid, empty book and memories that get hazier every year."
He clutched the grimoire to his chest, where that familiar warmth seemed to seep into his very bones. "I can barely remember what color my mother's eyes were anymore. But I remembered her hands – how they looked holding me on that day, the last day I'd get to see her."
The shadows in the room grew deeper, more substantial, as if trying to embrace him. Roland let out a shaky breath, watching as it materialized in the suddenly cold air.
"Father used to say this book held our family's legacy. That one day, when the time was right, it would show me who I really am." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Guess he was wrong about that too. Just like he was wrong about coming home."
The grimoire's jewel flared briefly, its crimson light casting strange patterns across Roland's face. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw something in those black pages – fleeting images, like memories viewed through dark water. But they vanished before he could grasp them, leaving him with nothing but that steady, haunting pulse against his chest.
His knees gave out, and he sank onto his bed, still clutching the book like a lifeline. The memories kept coming, relentless now.
The taste of the cheap noodles he'd lived on after the Council's allowance proved insufficient. The whispers that followed him through school hallways – "Empty," they'd called him, not knowing how accurately the word described the hole his parents' death had left in his life.
Yet somehow, through all those years, this book had been his anchor. Empty or not, it was proof that his parents had existed, that they had loved him, that they had believed in something greater than themselves.
Now, staring at those black pages, Roland felt that anchor slipping, leaving him adrift in a sea of questions without answers.
The shadows around him shivered, and Roland realized his cheeks were wet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed himself to cry.
The tears fell onto the grimoire's cover, merging with the crystalline surface of its jewel, and for just a heartbeat, Roland thought he saw symbols flickering beneath its surface – ancient patterns that looked eerily similar to the ones that had appeared on his skin.
Then the moment passed, leaving him exhausted but somehow lighter, as if the tears had washed away years of carefully constructed barriers. The grimoire remained a mystery, its pages still black as night, but its warmth against his chest felt less like mockery now and more like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
Roland finally looked up at his friends, suddenly remembering their presence. The room's shadows retreated slightly, though they continued to pulse in rhythm with his gradually steadying heartbeat. "I suppose," he said, managing a weak smile, "this isn't exactly what any of us expected from an old book."
The decision crystallized in his mind – these were his friends, possibly the only real ones he'd ever had. They deserved the truth, or at least as much of it as he understood himself.
"Sit down," Roland said quietly. "It's... it's a long story."
Cole's smirk faded, replaced by genuine concern. He settled onto Roland's bed while Ian took the desk chair, his usual reserved expression tinged with curiosity.
"During Monstrosity's Dawn," Roland began, the words feeling strange in his mouth after years of keeping them locked away, "my parents were part of a TerraUnity Council mission. They were supposed to help contain a monster horde that had broken through the defensive line." He swallowed hard. "They never came back."
The silence that followed felt thick enough to cut. Cole's usually animated face was still, really listening.
"I was four," Roland continued. "The grimoire was the only thing they left behind.
"The Council?" Ian asked softly, surprising them both with his voice.
Roland let out a bitter laugh. "Gave me just enough of an allowance to not starve. Barely covered the basics, definitely not enough to by an ability book or for combat training. You know how it goes – no ability, no status, marked as an 'Empty' in the system. Pretty much invisible unless someone needed a convenient target."
Cole was quiet for a long moment. Then, with an uncharacteristically heavy sigh, he spoke. "You know what's funny? Being invisible sometimes sounds better than being constantly watched."
Roland and Ian both looked at him, startled by the raw honesty in his voice.
"The great Cindercrest heir," Cole said, his usual bravado completely absent. "Sounds amazing, right? All the money, all the power, all the expectations crushing you until you can barely breathe." He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for perhaps the first time in his life. "Father made sure I understood exactly what that meant from day one. Perfect grades, perfect essence control, perfect appearance. Anything less was... unacceptable."
"But your family–" Roland started.
"Family?" Cole's laugh held no humor. "You mean the relatives who see me as competition? The siblings who hate me because my mother was just a concubine? The only person who ever really cared was my mother, and she's as trapped as I am in that gilded cage we call home." He looked down at his hands. "Sometimes I wonder if all that wealth and status is worth feeling so damn empty inside."
The confession hung in the air, heavy with years of buried pain. Then, to everyone's surprise, Ian cleared his throat.
"My father went to get milk," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "Never came back."
Roland couldn't help himself. "Wait, you can actually talk?"
The unexpected question broke the tension, and all three boys found themselves laughing. Even Ian cracked a smile.
"Mom worked in a lab," Ian continued once the laughter died down. "Barely paid enough to feed me and my sisters. Ability books?" He shook his head. "Luxury items for people like us. You learn to run, to hide, to survive however you can."
Roland stared at his usually silent friend, seeing him in a completely new light. All this time, Ian had carried his own burdens in silence, watching and understanding more than any of them had realized.
"So," Cole said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, "we've got an orphan with a uncontrollable abilities and a book, a rich kid with family issues, and a guy with no dad. We sound like the setup to a really bad joke."
"Or a really good story," Roland replied, surprising himself with the warmth in his voice.
Ian nodded solemnly. "Better than being alone."
The shadows in the room seemed to dance slightly, responding to Roland's emotions. For once, he didn't try to hide it. These were his friends – his real friends – and they deserved to know all of him.
"About the shadows," he started, but Cole held up a hand.
"Let me guess – another exciting development from your definitely-not-empty book?" Cole grinned. "Whatever it is, we've got your back. Right, Ian?"
Ian gave a thumb's up, his small smile worth a thousand words.
Roland looked at his friends – really looked at them. Cole, who hid his pain behind perfect hair and sharp wit. Ian, who carried the weight of his family's struggles in dignified silence. And himself, no longer alone with his mysteries and shadows.
"Well," Roland said, a matching grin spreading across his face, "you're not going to believe what happened when I bled on the grimoire."
Cole groaned dramatically. "Of course you bled on the ancient artifact. Because that's totally normal behavior."
"Says the guy who sets his hair on fire to style it," Ian muttered.
"That was ONE TIME!" Cole protested, but he was laughing.
As the evening deepened into night, they talked, joked, and shared stories they'd never told anyone else. The shadows in Roland's room grew longer, but they felt less threatening now, more like a protective blanket wrapped around the three friends.
They all decide to go out and get something nice to eat. Cole and Ian got out the door, Roland, following behind, turned and looked at the grimoire on his desk. Its jewel pulsed gently, almost like a heartbeat, and the shadows in his room shifted in response. Whatever power was awakening in him, whatever mysteries the grimoire still held, he wouldn't have to face them alone.
For the first time since his parents' death, Roland felt truly seen. Not as an Empty, not as a mystery to be solved, but as himself – shadows, struggles, and all. He grabbed the grimoire and hugged it to his chest, feeling its warmth sync with his heartbeat.
"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was thanking the grimoire, his friends, or something else entirely. The shadows swirled gently around him in response, and Roland smiled, knowing that whatever came next, he had people he could truly count on.
With all this happening he had forgotten to ask Ian about the injuries that he sees on him occasionally.