Davo and Emma sat cross-legged on the floor of their small hideout, the space aglow with faint luminescence from a handful of shimmering orbs they'd created earlier. A handful of bland, white blocks of conjured food sat on a scrap of cloth between them, while a battered tin cup—freshly repaired with their newfound abilities—offered crisp water that soothed their throats. For a moment, neither spoke; the only sounds were the soft scraping of their makeshift utensils against the rough floor and the muffled din of the slum's nocturnal stirrings beyond their walls. Emma's brows knitted together in deep thought, her eyes gleaming with an excitement that was tempered by a palpable wariness. Each bite she took from the dull, block of food seemed to fuel the restless energy coursing through her.
"You noticed it too, right?" Emma asked, voice low yet charged with quiet urgency. Her gaze flicked to Davo, as though seeking confirmation of something both thrilling and unsettling. "It's like... we got better at this overnight. The more we use our creative powers, the easier it all becomes. It's not in my head, is it?"
Davo tore off another piece of his conjured meal, chewing methodically. He nodded, swallowing before speaking. "Now that you mention it, I guess I did feel something click. My control's smoother. I barely have to focus if I want to change the shape or size of something—it's almost like my mind is filling in the details on its own." He looked directly at Emma, noticing that telltale sparkle in her eyes that usually meant she had a plan brewing—an ambitious one. "All right, Em, out with it. I can practically see the gears turning in that head of yours."
Emma leaned in, lowering her voice as though walls made of reinforced energy might still harbor eavesdropping ears. "Davo, this power... it could be everything if the world stays like this," she explained, tapping a finger against the floor to punctuate each word. Her tone wavered between wonder and gravity. "If nobody's going to stop us—and if survival isn't our primary concern anymore—then mastering this ability could put us on top. Or at least," she added with a wry twist of her lips, "we won't be stuck at the bottom like we were in the old world."
Davo rolled his eyes, though the concern in his expression was genuine. "There you go again with the big words. Just say we'd be unstoppable if we figure this out first." His grin was playful, but behind it lay an acute awareness of the dangers that might lurk in a world where power could be fashioned from pure thought. "And let's not go shouting about it from the rooftops. The last thing we need is a crowd banging on our door for secrets we barely understand ourselves."
Emma's lips curved into a half-smile, the tension in her posture shifting into something more determined. "Scared?" she teased, though her question held a serious edge. "Think about it—no more scrounging for scraps, no more bribes to get safe passage through gang territory. We can finally level up in a way that isn't just talk."
Davo rocked back, resting his weight on his elbows, his eyes drifting to the patched walls around them. The old plaster bore the scars of years of neglect—a stark testament to how far they'd already come. "All right," he said slowly, "so what's your plan?"
Emma pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her posture snapping upright in that self-assured way Davo had grown to trust. "Practice," she announced. "We practice as much as possible. Every hour we can spare, we refine our control, experiment with shapes and forms, try to figure out the boundaries—if there even are any. Call it a hunch, but something tells me a little sweat now is going to pay off big later."
Davo responded with a wry grin, stretching his arms overhead until the joints popped. "Being better's never a bad idea," he agreed. "You know me—I've always wanted more than this slum can give." He gestured to the cracked ceiling, to the weather-beaten walls that wore layers of grime like an unwashed coat. "We've got nothing to lose, so let's go for it."
Emma's eyes lit with that mischievous spark he found both exciting and vaguely alarming. "Right! First things first, let's shore up this building. If we're going to stay here, let's do it properly."
"And if someone tries to claim it after we fix it up?"
Emma's smug expression was near incandescent. "That's the beauty of it," she said. "If we're constantly updating and reinforcing, the skills stay ours. The skills we develop will always be ours."
A slow grin spread across Davo's face. "I like the sound of that," he admitted. "For once, we can actually hold onto something we build."
They wasted no time setting their plan into motion. Emma, ever the taskmaster, started rattling off instructions. Together, they stood before a wall that seemed barely capable of standing without a stiff breeze to bring it down. Thin sheets of hardened light formed at Emma's fingertips, shifting in hue from translucent pearl to a gentle gold that reminded Davo of morning sunlight. With a focused gaze, Emma pressed these panels against the battered plaster, sealing them seamlessly. As she moved, soft arcs of luminescence trailed behind her, casting dancing shadows on the floor.
Davo took an eager step forward, conjuring what looked like malleable lumps of resin. He pressed them into the cracks, watching as the material fused with the battered surface, turning solid upon contact. The synergy between Emma's sheets of reinforced light and Davo's resin-like filler was mesmerizing: each patch melded effortlessly with the next, as though the building itself was drinking in their creations.
The musty stench that clung to the place seemed to dissipate with every inch of new material applied. Their footsteps echoed amid the quiet, occasionally interrupted by the rustle of small creatures or the muffled voices of neighbors drifting through the walls. Even those faint scraps of nighttime commotion beyond their space served as a reminder that life in the slum carried on. Yet here, in this pocket they were claiming for themselves, something extraordinary was unfolding.
The door came next. Emma showed no mercy in her ambition, insisting they build something that could withstand a battering ram. Davo, grinning at her intensity, layered slabs of energy that glowed faintly like tempered glass, bonding them with overlapping seams. The final product was thick and opaque, reminiscent of polished marble—he gave it a firm shove, and it refused to budge. A sense of pride swelled in his chest as he patted the barrier.
Emma quirked an eyebrow. "You're not done yet. Smack it with your shoulder. A few times."
Davo obliged, slamming into the door with enough force to bruise, but the only sound was a dull thud that barely reverberated. The door stood firm, unyielding. He winced, shaking out his shoulder, and then offered Emma a lopsided grin. "All right, Captain. I think we can call that a success."
In the span of a few hours, the battered structure seemed to come alive under their hands. Each section they touched glowed, mended, or transformed. Where the floors were riddled with holes and loose boards, they conjured flexible yet sturdy planks of shimmering material. Emma stood with her arms outstretched, a determined set to her features, guiding a radiant film over the pitted floor. Once in place, it hardened into a smooth, matte surface that no longer threatened to snag unsuspecting feet. Davo whistled appreciatively, tapping it with the tip of his shoe. Solid. Safe. A small miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.
The next step was filling the air with something fresher than mold and old sweat. Conjuring a gentle cross-breeze was trickier than either expected—wind was intangible, ephemeral—but by smoothing out cracks in the walls, they allowed a faint current of cooler night air to drift in. The stale odor that once overwhelmed them ebbed away, replaced with the subtle scents of the slum outside: fried street food, damp earth from recent rains, and the bittersweet tang of burning refuse. Normally, these smells were oppressive, but in moderation, they were almost comforting—evidence of life continuing beyond their safe haven.
They worked until Davo's arms shook from fatigue, and Emma's head ached from concentration. The synergy they discovered was addictive: each success led to more experimentation, every small improvement teasing them with the possibility of bigger, bolder achievements. While Emma sealed cracks in the ceiling, Davo refined the support beams along the edges, envisioning them as sleek pillars of reinforced material that could support thrice the building's weight. The synergy allowed them to correct small mistakes on the fly—if a patch of light began to waver, Davo would steady it with a quick addition of resin, or if a piece of resin showed signs of brittleness, Emma would overlay a new surface.
After a while, they stepped outside for a breath, carefully concealing the entry once again, and wandered through the slum's warren-like alleys. Curiosity burned in their chests: what else were people up to, now that everyone seemed capable of such wonders?
They soon found out. A man named Cairo, who once eked out a living as a black-market tinker, proudly showed off how he could conjure small mechanical parts with intricate gears that turned without any visible power source. "See that?" he boasted, a grin lighting up his weathered face. "No more scrounging for spare bits! I just picture the shape, focus on each tooth in the gear, and—poof—it's here." Emma and Davo nodded, impressed, before politely excusing themselves to see more of the transformations happening all around.
Close by, an elderly woman named Farrah had turned a cracked courtyard into her personal greenhouse, coaxing forth shimmering seed pods from the ground with gentle waves of her hands. The pods, once plucked, gave off a sweet floral scent and dissolved on the tongue like spun sugar. Children squealed in delight, dancing around her as she offered them each a glowing morsel. Emma took careful mental notes—creating food was something they had been working on, but never had they seen anything quite this delicate or flavorful.
Returning swiftly to their hideout, they brought back a fresh wave of ideas. Over the next few days, they poured these insights into practice, refining the material of their walls, floors, and door, making them denser, more resistant to outside interference. Emma developed a method for layering thin membranes of protective light, akin to invisible shutters, near the windows they'd punched into the structure for ventilation. Davo, on the other hand, discovered how to embed faint patterns in the resin that glowed in the dark, creating swirling designs across the walls that were both functional (providing low-level illumination at night) and a subtle expression of artistry.
The musty gloom that once defined their hideout gave way to a space that felt almost welcoming. Shadows no longer lurked menacingly in corners, but danced in playful shapes along the walls, teased by the softly glowing orbs and the swirl patterns. The air was lighter, carrying faint hints of cleanliness. For the first time since either of them could remember, they didn't dread returning to these four walls. Instead, they found satisfaction in each step forward—filling cracks, smoothing surfaces, layering materials, then stepping back to admire the transformation.
A full week passed in this fervor of improvement and experimentation. Every morning, Emma woke with new ideas brimming in her mind: how to shape water channels in the walls to keep the interior cool, how to harness small rivulets of conjured wind to expel stale air, or how to weave hidden compartments into the floor for storing valuables. Each concept led to more refinement, and Davo, though occasionally grumbling about her relentless pace, relished the sense of purpose that sharpened him. No longer was he a nameless figure scraping by in the slum's margin—he was a builder, shaping his environment with his own hands (and a bit of magic) to create something that lasted.