Late-night shadows settled in soft, wavering pools across the makeshift carpets and pillows that lined the newly restored room. Beyond the curtained window, faint moonlight glinted off reinforced walls, a testament to the creative powers that had breathed life back into what was once a derelict husk of a building. The hush of the late hour wrapped around everything like a blanket, though an undercurrent of excitement pulsed quietly in the air—Davo's excitement.
He sat hunched over a low table, lamplight dancing over the pages of a thick tome propped against a pillow. The book looked ancient enough to have survived centuries, and the meticulous handwriting along its margins suggested the same. A few lines in the years had already made his head spin with talk of "Planck lengths," "quantum foam," and "the interplay of gravitational and quantum effects." But Davo wasn't daunted—he was enthralled.
He paused to rub tired eyes, then let his gaze drift across the space. Emma had turned in an hour ago, exhausted from an evening of conjuring practice. In the adjoining room, her soft breathing rose and fell. She'd left him to his new obsession: dissecting the subatomic realm with equal parts wonder and determination. He returned his attention to the paragraph he'd been studying:
"Below the Planck length, approximately 1.616×10^(-35) meters, space-time is hypothesized to become a turbulent foam, where quantum and gravitational phenomena interlace in incomprehensible ways. Traditional metrics of distance may lose meaning, and the classical geometry we rely upon simply collapses into a swirl of uncertainty."
A swirl of uncertainty, Davo thought. That phrase resonated with him, recalling the moment he'd first glimpsed that swirl—an experience he still couldn't fully explain. Earlier, he'd tried to push his conjuring power beyond the usual constraints of forming water or food. In a moment of reckless experimentation, he had let his focus drift so far inward that he'd tumbled into an ocean of subatomic chaos. Or at least, that was how it felt. Flickers of quarks danced in his mind, gravity bowed in unpredictable ways, and for a heartbeat, he'd sensed something like that quantum foam the book described.
He inhaled, steadying himself, and flipped to the next page. A bold heading read: Chapter 1: Beyond the Limits of Measurement: Below the Planck Length
His gaze swept across the carefully organized text. Max Planck... cosmic constants... 1.616×10^(-35) meters. Each sentence felt like a puzzle piece sliding into place, offering Davo glimpses of how science had attempted to define that ephemeral realm.
He closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. According to the text, at such incredibly tiny scales, the geometry of space-time would no longer be smooth but fractal, restless, prone to fluctuations so fierce that the notion of "distance" dissolved into probabilities. A "foam," they called it—John Wheeler's quantum foam. One day, maybe he'd have the vocabulary to describe what he'd seen during his subatomic dive. Right now, all he had were these borrowed terms and a swirl of vivid memories.
Shifting on his cushion, Davo decided to do what he did best when confronted with new knowledge: experiment. He set the book aside, took a calming breath, and closed his eyes. Over the past days, he'd perfected a form of introspection that let him direct his creative conjuring power inward, exploring matter at scales he'd once thought impossible. This time, though, he came armed with the text's insights—the mention of Planck length, quantum fluctuations, and the possibility that space might be quantized.
He let the room fade. The comforting glow of lamplight, the hush of Emma's breathing, the faint squeak of old floorboards—all melted into the background as he tuned his senses inward. A familiar warmth ignited behind his eyes, a sign that his conjuring sense had shifted gears from external creation to internal exploration.
At first, he simply viewed the molecules of the air swirling around him—a skill he'd developed well enough to see how oxygen and nitrogen flickered in and out of focus, bouncing and jostling each other in an endless dance. That was mesmerizing in its own right, but he wanted more. Encouraged by the new knowledge gleaned from the book, he pushed deeper, aiming for the subatomic.
The molecules dissolved into smaller fragments. He saw how electrons formed shimmering clouds around atomic nuclei, each nucleus a blur of protons and neutrons. It was a wondrous sight, these tiny solar systems multiplied by the countless billions in the space of a single breath. But still not enough.
He pushed further—beyond the realm of protons and neutrons, into that energetic chaos where quarks reigned. Immediately, his senses reeled. Quarks flared like motes of colored light, each with a "flavor" he couldn't quite name. Something akin to tiny elastic threads linked them, presumably the gluons holding it all together. He recognized it from a previous exploration: the swirling field that gave protons their mass, the frenetic environment described in the text.
Still deeper. His mental vantage point teetered on the cusp between rational observation and raw confusion, just as it had the last time. But now he had an anchor, the theoretical frameworks described in those chapters—Planck scale, quantum foam. He recalled a line from the book: "At distances smaller than the Planck length, space-time as we know it might vanish into a froth of gravitational and quantum phenomena." He let that idea guide him.
The environment distorted. The swirling quarks became a blur, overshadowed by something more fundamental. It was as though the space between quarks was unraveling, revealing a tapestry of uncountable threads, each flickering with raw, incomprehensible energy. Here was the edge of everything real, or at least real to conventional physics. He felt an odd sense of vertigo, as though stepping off a cliff into a sky turned upside down.
A wave of intense disorientation struck him. For a fraction of a second, he "saw" shimmering loops—fragments that might have been those hypothetical strings the book mentioned, or maybe the loops of loop quantum gravity. They twisted, vibrated, then collapsed back into a maelstrom of possibility. The mental image jolted him, a swirl of color and geometry that defied all normal sense of dimension.
He tried to conjure, to manipulate anything at this sub-Planck scale, to see if he could impose a shape or nudge a particle. But the moment he tried, he encountered a resounding failure. It felt as if his conjuring power struck a wall of scorching heat—a barrier of raw energy that dwarfed anything he could muster. If the lines in the text were right, these scales demanded energies beyond imagination, beyond what he or any mundane conjurer could generate.
A wave of frustration and awe washed over him simultaneously. He realized he was out of his depth. Even with the push of ephemeral knowledge gleaned from the pages, he simply lacked the power to alter that domain. There was a finality to it, as though the universe itself were telling him, Not yet. You're not prepared.
Panting, Davo eased back, allowing himself to float up through the layers of matter, across quarks and gluons, back into the realm of protons and neutrons, then atoms, until finally the swirl of molecules re-formed around him. He let out a shaky breath, opening his eyes to the lamplit room. Sweat beaded at his temples, and his limbs trembled from the mental exertion.
He sat there for a long moment, heart hammering in his chest. It was so quiet that he could hear the faint scuttling of a stray insect across the floor—a far cry from the cosmic roar in his mind mere seconds ago. The bag of borrowed books rested next to him, the edges of a new chapter peeking out from inside its depths. He let out a soft laugh, half delirious from the mental strain.
"That was... intense," he murmured aloud, though Emma was well out of earshot.
He recalled a section from the text about how direct manipulation at the Planck level or below would require energies beyond anything the known world could produce—some 10^19 gigaelectronvolts, if memory served. 'Trillions of times more powerful than the biggest accelerator we had,' the text had said. "No wonder," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing his temples.
Still, he'd glimpsed enough to feel certain that the theories in the book weren't mere speculation. They matched the ephemeral swirl he'd encountered, that boundary where quantum mechanics and gravity seemed to collide in a chaotic dance. The sensation had been both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing on the threshold of a colossal cosmic secret. The difference was now he had context, however fragmentary, to anchor that experience in something resembling scientific understanding.
He cast another glance at the dog-eared page describing the Planck length. The notion that space-time might become quantized—like pixels on a cosmic screen—fascinated him. Could it be that everything he touched, conjured, or perceived was built on discrete building blocks so small they defied belief? The thought sent a quiver of excitement through him.
He reached for a scrap of paper, scrawling a quick note: Planck scale conjure attempt—energy barrier?? Possibly entire new dimension aspect??
He paused, reading back the messy handwriting. It wasn't the best summary, but it would help him recall the raw sensation of that impenetrable boundary. He carefully folded the note and tucked it between the pages of the chapter. He would refine it later, maybe talk to Emma about it if she could stand the geeky details. Or even Liora—though he doubted the ex-teacher had ventured this deep into theoretical speculation. Then again, she might know more than she let on.
Davo sat cross-legged on a patchwork rug, lamplight spilling across pages of dog-eared books and half-scrawled notes. It was late—he could feel the weight of the hour in his eyelids, that fuzzy sense of time stretching thin. Yet there he was, still immersed in the mysteries of atomic bonds and the swirling ocean of possibilities offered by quantum theory.
He traced a finger across a paragraph from the next chapter— something about "The Molecular Scale: The Size and Structure of Organic Molecules." The text described carbon's remarkable versatility, branching chains, rings, functional groups, and how atoms merged into molecules that could shape entire ecosystems or form the heart of living cells. A far cry, he thought wryly, from the days he spent rummaging for scraps in the slum's back alleys. Now he was studying the building blocks of creation itself.
And ironically, he wasn't just reading about it. His newly honed conjuring sense—or "creative insight," let him do more than passively observe molecules. He could, with a surge of concentration, slip into that subatomic vantage point again. The text had guided him through the scale below the Planck length, but that domain was so alien it nearly broke his focus each time. So now, he had a different plan. He wanted to try something bold: rearranging the atoms themselves at the molecular level—actually forging or reshuffling bonds, if only in a small, experimental way.
A deep breath steadied him. The air carried hints of warm dust and the ghostly aroma of Emma's conjured stew, long since cooled. The lamp's glow cast flickering shadows on pillows that looked more like lumps of sculpted clay in the half-dark. Perfect. He needed quiet, calm, no distractions. Gently, he closed the thick volume on Planck-scale physics, letting the new chapter about molecular structures guide his thoughts.
The text had explained how organic chemistry thrived on carbon's four valences, branching structures, functional groups. With his conjuring sense, he had glimpsed subatomic phenomena, but molecules were a more tangible realm—large enough to manipulate with skill, small enough to challenge him. Let's see if I can coax these atoms into new shapes, he thought.
He centered himself again, the same way he did before diving below the Planck scale—closing his eyes, letting external senses fade. Slowly, the swirl of his conjuring sense awakened. He pictured the air molecules drifting around him, each a tiny cluster of oxygen or nitrogen. Then, with gentle mental "hands," he reached toward them, not to break them into quarks but to see them at the molecular level: the swirl of electrons around nuclei, the bonds linking atoms into stable configurations.
In earlier experiments, he'd managed to push atoms around a bit, maybe break a simple bond if he focused carefully. But now, armed with fresh knowledge, he wanted to reassemble them into something else—some small organic compound, perhaps. The notion made his pulse quicken. The text had hammered home how the shape and size of a molecule could define everything about it.
He chose a patch of air near him, focusing on a handful of stray carbon dioxide molecules (the residue, perhaps, of Emma's stew cooking). He visualized them as the book described: a linear arrangement of O=C=O. Then he let his mind drift to the concept of "molecular scale," recalling how carbon could link with hydrogen, how oxygen could form stable bonds in multiple ways. The text had shown that if you rearranged certain bonds, you could create brand-new molecules with distinct properties—like magic but grounded in science. Precisely what he was after.
He found a few stray water molecules floating near the carbon dioxide—H₂O, bent at about 104.5 degrees, the text would have said, thanks to electron repulsion. With careful, almost reverent concentration, he tried to bring some hydrogen atoms closer to the carbon, intending to form, well… maybe formaldehyde? Methanol? The chemistry knowledge was still fuzzy. He just wanted to see if he could coax them into a new arrangement. The memory of the text's diagrams guided him: carbon with single bonds, a double bond to oxygen, a leftover hydrogen. The shape needed to be stable if it was to remain intact.
His mental "grip" on these atoms was tenuous. He could feel their electron clouds bristling at the intrusion, a silent protest from quantum forces that insisted matter remain in its normal states. He carefully peeled away an oxygen from carbon dioxide, then attempted to rebind that oxygen to a hydrogen from water, coaxing the leftover carbon to pick up the remaining hydrogen atoms. It was like orchestrating a microscopic dance, each step requiring intense focus.
At first, the bonds snapped back to their original forms, stubborn as ever. The text had warned him about the energy required to break certain bonds. After a few tries, he mustered a sharper push of creative energy—enough to jolt the molecular structure. A flicker of success registered in his mind. For an instant, carbon was free, oxygen parted ways, hydrogen latched on. The ephemeral shape of a new molecule shimmered in his mental sight. Something akin to formaldehyde, perhaps.
And then, it collapsed. The moment he eased up, the structure snapped back—some atoms turned into water again, others forming carbon dioxide. The ephemeral "product" scattered, leaving him a little breathless. An echo of the text's warnings replayed in his head: rearranging molecules took energy, precise knowledge, stable intermediate steps. Heh, he thought with a self-directed grin, maybe I should've chosen an easier target.
Still, that fleeting success stoked his curiosity. He'd proven it was possible, at least in principle, to push atoms around with his conjuring sense. The problem was stability—and perhaps not fully understanding the reaction pathway, as the book had hinted. Real chemistry demanded method, not just brute force. He had to consider bond energies, electron configurations, whether the final arrangement was feasible. "Guess I'm not rewriting the laws of synthesis in one night," he murmured, half amused.
But that spark of synergy between knowledge and ability excited him. The same text explained how carbon could form single, double, or triple bonds, how functional groups changed everything about reactivity. He remembered reading about hydroxyl groups, amino groups, carboxyl groups—like keys that unlocked certain chemical behaviors. If he could incorporate them intentionally, perhaps he could craft molecules with specific properties: a small acid, an alcohol, maybe even the simplest amino acid, glycine. The possibilities were dizzying, a swirl of carbon skeletons and attached functionalities spinning in his mind.
He tried again, more systematically this time. Focusing on a miniature pocket of air, he singled out a few stray molecules, coaxing them to come together. He tried to form something simpler: maybe methanol. Carbon in the center, an OH group, three hydrogens. The text's discussion about bond angles came to mind—somewhere around 109.5 degrees for a tetrahedral arrangement, if sp³ hybridization was correct. He pictured that arrangement, nudged the electrons into place…
A fleeting success. The cluster coalesced, forming a single methanol molecule, if only for a heartbeat. He could sense the O–H bond, the carbon's four bonds, the shape. Yes… that's it. But the energy needed to keep it stable was more than he'd accounted for. The moment he relaxed, the fragile molecule drifted apart, recombining with the surrounding air. He hissed in mild frustration. "The text wasn't kidding about reaction conditions," he muttered under his breath.
Yet the attempt invigorated him. He wasn't entirely failing—he was glimpsing the path, just lacking the control to keep it stable. Perhaps, with practice, he could conjure an environment that "held" the new molecule, like how certain laboratory conditions or catalysts stabilized intermediate steps. The text had hammered home the importance of such conditions for successful reactions, referencing how molecules collided with correct orientation and energy to form stable products. Maybe he needed a conjured "reaction environment," but that was a project for another late-night session.
He reclined for a moment, the lamplight glinting off the dog-eared pages. That wave of mental fatigue was creeping in—a sure sign he'd pushed his creative sense to the limit. He recalled how, in the subatomic realm, he'd run into a wall requiring unimaginable energies. Here, at the molecular scale, it wasn't quite so extreme, but the challenge remained real: forging new compounds took more knowledge and finesse than he'd realized. The parallels to real chemistry were uncanny. He was basically performing reaction steps in his head, substituting conjuring energy for conventional catalysts or temperature changes.
The thought made him grin—he was dabbling in a personal brand of "alchemy meets quantum conjuring." The text's discussion of carbon skeletons, functional groups, and structural isomers all danced in his memory, fueling a thousand new ideas. Next time, perhaps he'd attempt assembling a ring structure, like cyclohexane or even benzene. The notion sent a thrill down his spine. But for now, he could almost hear Emma's voice in his head: Don't forget to breathe, Davo. Don't burn yourself out.
Yes, time to breathe. He picked up the book again, scanning the passages that explained how molecular geometry, size, and polarity governed interactions. The text mentioned how certain molecules recognized each other, how shape determined biological function. That synergy of structure and function tugged at him—like an echo of how this entire city's fate had shifted once people learned to conjure. A change in "structure" had changed the "function" of society. He felt a kinship with the molecules, forging new identities through rearranged bonds.
Outside, the hush of night pressed on. A gust of wind sent a stray draft through a gap in the door, stirring the lamp's flame. Shadows jerked, flickered, then stilled. He listened for any sign of Emma stirring in the next room, but all remained quiet. The city, too, slumbered—a city that had once been a pit of despair, now on the brink of renewal. And here he was, rewriting matter in the hush of midnight. Who would've guessed? he mused.
He closed the book, letting his hand rest on the cover. The references to countless new chapters beckoned, a promise of further wonders about proteins, lipids, nucleic acids—great macromolecules that formed life's tapestry. But for tonight, he'd done enough. He'd glimpsed the molecular scale, shaped it with fleeting success, proven to himself that atoms could be rearranged if he found just the right approach. True mastery would come with practice. Another day, he told himself.
He allowed himself a single, whispered remark: "Okay, molecules… we'll dance again tomorrow."
Then he turned off the lamp. Darkness enveloped the room, but he could still feel the hum of possibility, a quiet thrum in the walls that matched his heartbeat. The vision of subatomic chaos gave way to the wonder of molecular arrangement, and all of it stayed suspended in the liminal space of his imagination, incomplete but so full of promise.