He Who Watches Time Burn

It was midafternoon when Michael found Elliot crouched beside the garden wall, one hand cradling the other, lip swollen and eye watering. No sobbing, just soft hiccups, like the boy was trying not to disturb the ants.

Daniel had been the first to reach him, crouching low. "Who did this?"

Elliot didn't answer, just buried his face against Daniel's jacket.

Michael's hands curled into fists. Something burned at the edge of his vision—not fire, but pressure. Like the inside of his skull was cracking.

He stepped forward. Each step heavier than the last. His presence darkened the air. The temperature didn't drop, but everyone felt colder. Even the laughter from inside the orphanage stopped.

From the balcony above, Sir Edward stood watching, a cup of steaming tea in hand. His gaze tightened as he saw the boy's posture, the tension that radiated off Michael like a ripple in still water.

Daniel stood up slowly, his voice shaky. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, his usual confidence hollowed out by something primal. "Michael… what are you—"

Elliot clung to his injured arm, shoulders hunched and shaking, trying to hold back tears that still brimmed in his eyes. The smaller boy's fear amplified the dread in the air.

Michael's eyes flicked toward Daniel. His face was pale, his jaw clenched, legs unmoving. Fear—not of some external bully, but of the friend standing too close to the edge.

Mia appeared, breathless, her voice sharp with panic. She grabbed Michael's sleeve, pulling at him.

"Michael, stop! Look at me! Even Daniel is scared!"

He turned his head, eyes distant, and saw Daniel—his friend—standing frozen in fear.

The memory of that first bruise. The silence of Sir Edward's shout. The rising tension. It all surged back in one violent ripple.

Then, the voice that broke the haze.

"MICHAEL!"

Sir Edward's voice cut like thunder. Authoritative. Final.

And in that moment, the world truly froze.

But something was different. Unlike Michael's previous time-stops—this wasn't cold, mechanical stillness. This was a moment suspended in weight. Not held by time, but pressed by gravity. The pressure bore down not on the world, but on him.

Michael's magic faltered. Cracked. And broke.

Birds fluttered again. Leaves rustled. Breath returned to every chest—except his.

Michael halted, mid-step. Like a puppet whose strings had been yanked.

His eyes, wide and shaken, turned upward. Sir Edward's gaze locked with his.

And Michael couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He stood, suspended—not by time, not by fear—but by command.

Sir Edward descended the stairs without hurry, the weight of his presence parting the tense air like a blade through silk.

He walked past the stunned children, gave a slight nod to Mia and Daniel, then stopped in front of Michael.

"Michael," he said evenly. "Come to my office. Now."

Then, addressing the rest: "Mia, Daniel—take Elliot to the infirmary. Get him cleaned up and try to get him talking. The rest of you—back to your routines. The show's over."

The tension broke like glass underfoot. The kids scattered, whispering.

As Michael walked behind Sir Edward, the crowd split to let him pass. No one spoke. No one met his eyes. Their fear wasn't hidden—just quietly acknowledged.

Daniel tried to say something, his mouth half-open, but the words faltered before reaching his lips. His face was pale, eyes wide, shoulders tense.

Mia bit her bottom lip, watching Michael disappear up the stairs, her fists clenched at her sides. Her stomach twisted with the certainty that Michael would be punished—and the uncertainty of whether he even cared.

Halfway up the staircase, Sir Edward spoke without turning. "It's going to be alright."

He didn't say it as a warning but as comfort.

Later, in the east wing's unused study, dust hung in the air like secrets.

"You froze," Sir Edward said, setting down a cup of untouched tea.

Michael didn't answer. He stared at the cracks in the floor.

Sir Edward knelt to meet his eyes. "There is strength in you. I won't ask how. But strength without control is just destruction in waiting."

A silence stretched between them.

"I didn't want to hurt them," Michael finally said.

"I believe you."

Dust hung in the study's stale air, catching the late afternoon light like ash. Michael sat stiffly in the leather chair across from Sir Edward, hands folded in his lap, shoulders tight.

Sir Edward remained crouched in front of him, eyes level, calm but firm.

"You didn't want to hurt them," he repeated. "But you almost did."

Michael's gaze dropped to the floor.

"I felt it," he said. "I didn't mean to—"

"You didn't lose control," Sir Edward interrupted. "You gave it away."

Michael blinked.

"There's a difference," Edward continued. "One is a mistake. The other is a choice, even if you don't see it that way yet."

Michael looked up, jaw tight. "I was angry."

"You were right to be angry," Edward said. "But being right is not the same as being careful."

A silence fell between them.

Outside, a bird called once, distant and shrill. Inside, the quiet pressed close.

"I scared them," Michael said finally.

"Yes."

He winced, like the word had struck him.

Edward didn't look away. "Fear is a weapon. That's why you must never use it by accident."

Michael looked down at his hands. His fingers curled inward, gripping the fabric of his sleeves.

"What if it happens again?"

Edward stood, brushing dust from his knees. He walked to the window and looked out, arms behind his back.

"Then next time, you stop before it starts."

Michael didn't answer.

Edward turned back toward him.

"Tell me what you felt. Not just the anger. All of it."

Michael hesitated. His throat tightened.

"Pressure," he said quietly. "Like something was trying to get out. Like I had to let it happen, or it would… break me."

Edward nodded once.

"And now?"

Michael paused.

"I feel tired."

Edward moved back to the table and picked up the untouched cup of tea. He held it for a moment, then set it down again.

"You will learn control," he said. "Not because someone forces you. Because you choose it."

Michael raised his eyes, unsure. "And if I can't?"

Edward met his gaze.

"Then you'll become exactly what they fear you already are."

Michael flinched at the words, but didn't look away.

"And if I try?"

"Then I'll teach you," Edward said simply.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of understanding.

Michael gave a small nod—barely more than a twitch. But it was the first sign of agreement he had offered since stepping into the room.

Edward didn't press. He turned and walked toward the door.

"You're dismissed. Eat something. Rest. Tomorrow will be harder."

Michael didn't rise immediately. He remained in the chair long after Edward left the room, staring at the cold tea and the dust still floating in the sun.