Nadir & Bubbles

It was strange, sometimes, what one might find on their doorstep. That morning, upon opening it, there was a freshly killed field mouse. Most likely the work of the gray neighborhood cat, who had gotten into the habit of bringing him regular offerings. Surely in thanks for the bowl of scraps he unfailingly set out each evening, not far from the gutter. Which, in cat language, might have meant some form of affection—or perhaps a complaint that his hunting skills, and maybe the quality of the food, left something to be desired. Far above, a balloon burst in the sky—the one in the shape of an overfed chick—before crumpling down like a shriveled egg yolk onto a rooftop. The unwrappers were going to have a lot on their plate, clearing away the deflated skin and folding the silk taffeta back together for repair.

Wayfarer was a crooked, whimsical city, with winding cobblestone streets. Every house had its own personality—and people even whispered some had real ones. There was the prankster, the stubborn one, the one too cheerful at times, the one that only wanted peace and quiet, and so on. Theirs was capricious. In truth, one might even have called it temperamental. The sliding door of the workshop that jammed whenever there was plastering or painting to be done. The stove that refused to work when the house disliked the smell of the evening meal. The bathroom that played hide-and-seek when it felt too much water had been used that day. This was the kind of mischief the family dealt with on a daily basis, and it wasn’t always easy to manage.

Luckily, today its mood seemed steady enough: neither openly irritable nor ostentatiously fussy; neither grouchy nor outlandish. Perhaps a little melancholic, though. Which was why the workshop door slid open smoothly when he went in. Inside, of course, lingered the sharp smells of solvents, as well as the heady, almost intoxicating scent of paint. But there was also an accumulation of light, emphasizing the texture of the canvases, highlighting the ridges of sculpted pigments. It streamed in through the large bay window, diffusing through the space like water steeped with tea. Kinta was already busy brushing her canvases, immortalizing the landscape unfurling beyond the glass. Nadir, meanwhile, was cleaning his brushes, occasionally glancing over at what his mother was doing.

In the end, they had been lucky. Outrageously lucky, even. The child, as he grew, could easily have taken up hobbies far removed from theirs. He might have become a mime, or preferred juggling, acrobatics—or worse, painted his face and donned a red nose to become a clown. But spending his earliest years trailing through their studio had conditioned him to carry on the torch. As a little boy, he had filled notebooks with pastel and wax-crayon scribbles. Later he borrowed charcoal, colored pencils, gouache, watercolor. Gradually his palette grew wider, as did his talent for sketching. From simple doodles, he quickly moved on to more elaborate studies: portraits, still lifes, landscapes. Where his classmates dared each other to pull off stunts, antics, or outrageous pranks, he preferred to sit quietly in a corner, sketching. His fingers were always stained with pigment or charcoal.

Truth be told, Ghamam had first been worried to see him always lost in thought, paying no attention to the other children. He avoided them, showing no interest in their banter, so much so that teachers, concerned about his solitude, often summoned his parents to voice their worries. But Kinta always laughed heartily, saying that was simply who he was, and he only needed to be accepted as such. Even so, Ghamam couldn’t help but worry. His son’s isolation—especially in crowds and noise—along with his quiet, detached demeanor, was a constant source of anxiety. Was he bullied? Did he suffer under the jests of the other children? He never showed it, but more than once Ghamam thought he glimpsed, behind that impassive face, a pain as fierce as it was unspoken.

He considered leaving Wayfarer for the safety of another Sahanka, so his son would no longer have to endure the clowning around that was the Clan Tisdhera’s trademark. But Kinta always insisted that moving would be even worse. Had they been right to stay, in the end? The question still gnawed at him sometimes. Yet as Nadir finished putting away his painting supplies, Bubbles came floating around him. Their young son had first introduced him as his imaginary friend, surprised that they could see him too. And though Ghamam and Kinta had no idea where the boy had found him, they knew at once he was a Chimera. At first the creature appeared daily, slipping inside the house unannounced to play with him. Then, as days, weeks, and months passed, the fish came to live with them permanently.

Of course, the household was thrown into turmoil, and the house itself was openly displeased. Welcoming a carp that size was bound to cause damage: a vase here, a shelf there, and worst of all, the family’s porcelain collection. Its tail and fins caused no end of havoc. Around the same time, Nadir began to display his natural gift for Alteration. Paper and canvas were no longer enough. He was now painting directly onto reality. One evening, returning from the Painthouse, they found the house in shock: the boy had transformed the living room into a pool of paint so Bubbles could have a swim. Whenever he could, he used his powers to reshape his surroundings, sometimes for his own amusement, sometimes at the request of other children suddenly fascinated by his extraordinary abilities.

In a single afternoon, he conjured an entire playground on Dali Square, much to the Clan elders’ dismay: slides, merry-go-rounds, swings, candy-apple stalls, and carnival rides. A few weeks later, he turned the school into a zoo, bringing to life and setting free every animal his classmates had sketched for him on paper. Another time he manifested, in the middle of the street, a pirate ship crewed entirely by sailor anteaters. Ghamam and Kinta were often reprimanded, but despite the scolding, Ghamam was reassured to see his son suddenly become the darling and center of attention at school.

And each time, it was the same routine: Ghamam and Kinta sat him down to talk about manners and propriety. Nadir would furrow his brow, eyes cast to the floor or off to the side. Not from shame, nor defiance, but as though he simply didn’t understand these rules or why they mattered. He listened attentively, though, as if making a mental note of what he could and couldn’t do. The lectures never lasted long; his parents were too disarmed by the candor of his remarks. After all, every Lyra knew that Ignescence was not something to be silenced or suppressed. One only had to find a canvas broad enough for it to express itself without causing chaos or scandal.

It was while the flying city of the Tisdhera drifted over the sea, on the edge of the Terra Cognita, that the answer revealed itself. The Tumult blew like a storm: black, thunderous clouds. The Sahanka lurched from side to side as the city shifted shape in frantic, uncontrolled spasms. Safely tucked inside a neighborhood bunker, Nadir and his parents waited for the mutagenic currents to pass. The alarms had sounded, and like many times before during evacuation drills, they had hurried to the refuge. The heavy hatch closed behind them like the door of an Isura vault. Even as the Tumult raged outside, Ghamam and Kinta eventually dozed off, hours drifting by.

They woke with a start to cries of alarm. In their sleep, Nadir had gone to the armored hatch and was trying to open it, heedless of the danger. The other adults hadn’t seen him in time to stop him. When the bolts slid back and the Tumult surged in, it engulfed Nadir and Bubbles in its currents. Yet as everyone thought their end had come, the winds did not flood inside. Nadir still stood on the threshold, his figure wrapped in moiré, rose-colored streams, breathing the Tumult deeply. And though his form shifted ceaselessly, it always returned to its original shape. Inexplicably, the gales died away, the cyclone dissolved into the calmest silence. Then, with an explosion of colors, a powerful wave burst from Nadir, radiating across the entire city.

Later, as they emerged from the shelter, Ghamam and Kinta saw the city unchanged, save in a few places transformed into paint. Trees made of pigment, fountains flowing with watercolor, buildings turned into woodblock prints. But aside from this, the Sahanka was intact, untouched by the Tumult. Inevitably, the Tisdhera Matriarch learned of Nadir’s reckless act, and the family was summoned by her Shepherd. After a long wait in the antechamber of the Big Top, the representative of Thalia received them in her quarters. Kinta and Ghamam expected a severe scolding, but instead of blame, the Matriarch offered them cakes and tea, with surprising kindness.

Without removing her mask, she studied the young boy intently, as if he were a prodigy or a curiosity. She spoke with him at length, asking countless questions about what he had felt facing the pure Tumult, or whether he had heard its call. At the end of the long interrogation, her shoulders relaxed, and she told his parents what they had begun to suspect all along: Nadir and Bubbles would become an Exalt. She herself would ensure they received the education and training needed to join the vanguard of the Expeditionary Corps. At this chilling news, Ghamam leapt to his feet, protesting that a child could not be sent to face the perils of the Rediscovery Endeavor. But the Matriarch remained firm, unmoved by their pleas. Nadir was no ordinary boy: his demiurgic abilities would only grow, and they had to be channeled accordingly.

Ghamam held his tongue after that. He and his wife had sworn to keep the secret. For nearly nine years earlier, when the Lyra metropolis had collided with a Tumult singularity, a newborn had been left on their doorstep. Naked, but silent, gazing at them with wide, innocent eyes. Kinta had taken him in her arms to warm him, wrapping him in cloth and blanket. They hadn’t needed to soothe him; he already seemed at home. Explaining the baby’s sudden arrival to the neighbors had been difficult, and they lied shamelessly. As he grew, they had to invent increasingly far-fetched excuses for the bizarre phenomena that followed in his wake. Somehow, they managed—thankfully, the Lyra were long accustomed to the strange. When the call of their Matriarch finally came, and Wayfarer set out toward the unknown, they knew the time had come for Nadir to step out of his bubble—and reveal himself to the world.