As we move past the gate, the sounds of music immediately intensify. I once again take Germaine’s arm as she leads us into the crowd.

Most places have only trace, ambient levels of vital energy, but the winery is saturated with it. I sense vitality all around me, as plentiful as the partygoers. There is so much festivity and merriment that vitality is misting off of the crowd and saturating the air itself.

I could practically get drunk off of the vitality alone. I feel it ebb into me and fill my body, suffusing me with power. This kind of vital energy isn’t natural; is it possible the winery has a special life array it activates during private events?

I look over at Germaine as she jerks my arm in a new direction, having spotted some food.

“Appetizers...” she grumbles under her breath, weedling her way between other attendees.

Laughing at her determination, I ask, “How do you feel?”

“Good. Why?”

“This place is bursting with life. Literally bursting.” I laugh. “I never expected this,” I murmur furtively, with a grin. “I expected a gathering of conniving, politicking schemers. But instead...it’s a carefree, happy–”

“Hold on there,” Germaine says, raising an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“I’m fantastic.”

“Now I’m really concerned.” She inspects my face, as though trying to see if I’m showing signs of having been poisoned.

“I–for someone like me, this place is like pure energy. It’s incredible. And miraculous! I didn’t know so many people could actually be in such good spirits.”

“Uh-huh.” Germaine shakes her head. “You better watch yourself. You’re acting different,” she warns.

Different? Shouldn’t everyone be equally affected by whatever is causing such high levels of energy? I look around at the effervescent vitality, trying to get a sense of whether its flow is uniform.

While I’m distracted, Germaine leads me to a long table filled with all sorts of appetizers. She picks up a little plate and starts serving herself.

“Aren’t you going to get anything?”

I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

Germaine groans. “Your kind of energy is not this kind of energy,” she grumbles, pointing first at the sky and then at the food. “You need to eat. Free food, dummy.” She pats my arm and hands me an empty plate. “Don’t make me fill that plate up myself.”

I sigh and roll my eyes, looking skyward. That’s when I notice that a small, languid whirlpool of energy has gathered above me.

Y’jeni. Like this, I’m completely conspicuous. But I can’t think of anything that will help; my body naturally generates a small amount of Death energy. Death energy from little microorganisms and cells accumulate in my body, rather than exiting through the skin.

But why would that matter!? I wonder in exasperation. My passive energy generation has never been a problem before. It’s only when I’ve actively cycled external energy that people have noticed anything. Though technically, that’s not quite true, I think to myself, recalling the nurse in the school loop. She seemed to have noticed that something was off during my visit.

I decide to funnel accumulating death energy through my feet and into the ground.

I despondently grab a few bite-size pastries and follow Germaine to a table serving as a bar. Fifteen or so bartenders decant wine of all shades into glasses before passing them off. Despite the volume of guests, fifteen bartenders seems sufficient to prevent the formation of a line. Germaine and I step right up to the first open bartender, with Germaine ordering for the two of us.

“I’ll take a water for him, and your best red wine for myself.”

“I’m fine, Germaine,” I say in protest.

“Then order for yourself.”

“A glass of white wine, please.” Soon enough I’m holding a thin flute of water and a glass of wine, forcing Germaine to tug me around by my jacket’s sleeve. After walking around for a few minutes, she finally leads us over to an unoccupied chair that swings along a fixed path. It’s easily large enough to fit the two of us.

As a waitress passes by, we place our finished glasses and empty plates onto her serving platter. Having disposed of our trash, we lean back in contentment, listening to the strumming of music and indistinct chatter as the sun starts its descent.

“It’s been a lonely few years without you, Germ.”

Germaine snorts. “I’ll bet.” She pumps her legs forward, setting the swinging chair into motion.

“I wish you could remember this. When I leave, I’ll be the only one who’ll remember.”

Germaine remains silent for a moment. “When I paint, sometimes I spend weeks working on a piece that nobody understands but me. I often have to redo those pieces entirely, either throwing them out or painting over them. Anything my director doesn’t approve of gets cut.

“There was one piece that I’ve never forgotten. I drew it on a small canvas, as a practice, but as I continued to work on it, I decided that I would try to finish it. The more I painted, the more I felt as though enraptured, enlightened.

“When I completed it, the director then–I’ve since replaced her–sneered and threw it onto a candle flame.” Germaine fiddles with a napkin as she speaks.

“I’ve wanted to recreate that painting many times, but I’ve never done so. Why? Because it was perfect the way it was. I can’t even think about making it again. The painting was a beautiful and unique little flower in my heart.” She turns to me. “Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer truthfully.

She sighs. “Just because I’m the only one who remembers that painting doesn’t make it any less precious or beautiful. Doesn’t make it so that it never happened.”

We lay on the chair, rocking up and down, for a few minutes in companionable silence.

“Oh, it’s you two,” a voice says. I look up and notice that Matteo has found us again, though this time he’s accompanied by two others. “Funny running into you again.”

“Who are they?” one of his companions asks.

“Dunais,” Matteo says, giving us a knowing look. “C’mon, let’s find the bocce courts.”

“I can’t believe he called Aunt Julia a slut,” Germaine says after he’s gone. “Ridiculous.”

“Do we have any idea if Aunt Julia’s here?” I ask.

Aunt Julia is a seasoned Life and Beginning practitioner. She boasts one of the highest Beginning affinities of those present, something over 70% last I heard. Her Life affinity shouldn’t be too far behind. Therefore, if there was anyone who might notice anything off about me at this party, it would be her. Thankfully, though, the swirling vortex of energy above me has mostly gone away.

“Maybe we can find her,” Germaine says. “Seems like the entire family is here, so it wouldn’t surprise me to see her in the crowd.”

“We can ask one of the guards to check if she’s entered,” I propose. After sitting down for a little while, my limbs are thrumming with unspent energy.

“Now that’s a plan.” Germaine gets up and beelines for the closest guard, a young man who’s standing stiffly in front of a side entrance.

“Hello,” she begins, voice saccharine as she stands before him. “I was wondering if you could see if a guest has arrived yet.”

“Certainly, miss. What’s the guest’s name?”

“Julia Verina Dunai.”

The guard looks down at his glosspad. “She’s here, miss. Not sure if I can help you find her, given the volume of guests, but she’s somewhere.”

Germaine turns back toward me and heads off into the crowd with excitement. However, this time, she fails to grab my hand, forcing me to try and push through the crush of guests after her. After a minute of pushing, I lose her in the crowd.

I look up to the saffron sky, taking in a deep breath of vitality. Even though the whirlpool above me is gone, a barely-perceptible cloud of loose vitality clings to me like a stubborn odor.

“Y’jeni, the energy here is ridiculous,” I whisper under my breath. I’m not completely ignorant to the fact that the abundance of vital energy is influencing me more than others and impairing my judgment. Rather, I’m not sure what should be done about it–I’m already grounding my Death energy. What else can I do?

“And who’s this strapping, unfamiliar young man?”

I turn around. Me? “Pardon?”

A coterie of white-haired gentlemen chuckle. “Your name, son.”

I grin. “Julian Ignatius Dunai.” I study their reactions, finding nothing noteworthy.

“So it’s Demetrius’ son,” one of the men says, practically shouting to be heard over the background noise.

A few of them nod in remembrance. “He does look like Demetrius,” one of them says, squinting. “Sure has the same kind of swagger.”

Swagger? I’ve never heard myself described as having...swagger.

“Tell me a story about my father, then, if you knew him,” I say, giving the older gentlemen a small challenge.

One of them chuckles. “A story about Demetrius?” He elbows the man next to him. “Melvik, tell the kid a story about Demetrius!.”

Melvik takes a swig from a flask. “Y’jeni, need to be drunk before I can think that far back. Oh, Demetrius was a troublemaker.”

The gentlemen all clink their wine glasses together.

“But he was a fun brat to be around,” Melvik continues, chortling. “Recall, gentlemen, that Demetrius was a damn-well competent Beginning practitioner. Recall, also, that he liked to pretend that he had no affinity whatsoever and challenge people to all sorts of gambling games.”

I snort at the shamelessness of it all: Someone with a Beginning affinity would have no trouble analyzing and exploiting any kind of game or human behavior. In my native state of Solar, people with over 20% Beginning affinity are outright banned from gambling houses. I’m vaguely aware that my father had this kind of shameless hobby, though unsurprisingly haven’t heard many stories about it from Mother.

“So one night he challenged someone to a game of poker. Utterly destroyed them, took their money. Shameless, right?”

“Aye!”

“So the person he conned turned out to be a powerful fire elementalist, and the man challenged him to a duel. And guess what Demetrius did, when faced with a duel against an angry fire elementalist?” Melvik asks, looking around. “He said yes!”

“Oh, I remember this story,” one of the men says.

“Right. So Demetrius went onto the dueling ground and had his pick of the weapons, given that he was the one challenged. So he went over and asked for swords. Live swords, mind you, with sharp blades. Keep in mind that Demetrius had no talent for the blade.”

I have to admit, I’m curious where this story is going.

“So the fire elementalist entered the dueling plot, sword in hand, and faced Demetrius. As soon as the starting flag hit the ground, the fire elementalist wasted no time in conjuring up a ball of flame and sending it toward him. Demetrius moved forward and tripped over his own two feet, falling in a most spectacular manner. The fireball missed, of course.

“Demetrius scrambled to stand up, fumbling with his sword. The elementalist, meanwhile, sneered, and threw another ball of fire just as he began to move forward again. Demetrius made it three paces before he tripped yet again.” Melvik chuckles. “He tripped at least eight times before he got within a sword’s length of the elementalist and drew first blood.”

“It’s an apt metaphor for how he went about life,” another of the older gentlemen says wistfully. “But then one day, the joke was on him.” The man looks at me. “I hope that things turn out better for you than they did for your father.”

“I hope so, too.” I turn to the storyteller. “Thanks for sharing the memory, Melvik. I don’t have many of them that involve my father.”

“Ian!” a voice calls out, almost lost amongst the background noise.

I turn around. I see Germaine tugging our aunt through the crowd. Aunt Julia is attired in an azure dress composed of many pieces of thin, layered cloth. As she draws closer, her green eyes stare warmly into my own.

We embrace. “Aunt Julia,” I exclaim as we separate. “It’s been too long.”

“At least two years,” she says, nodding. “I heard from your Mother that you graduated top of your class. I am so very proud of you!”

“Thanks, Auntie.”

“It’s almost time for the main dinner. Let me introduce you to the better half of this side of the family...”

Aunt Julia thrusts us upon a tide of relatives, most of whom are complete strangers. Germaine seems to remember more of them than I do. Every time, whoever we meet greets us jubilantly, oftentimes insisting on embracing and clinking glasses. To be honest, I wouldn’t even recognize the bride; I’ve maybe seen the Adricaius family once before, and many years ago.

Aunt Julia is much more popular than I imagined. It seems like every time she turns around, more people are waiting to speak with her. Some of the guests have a kind of intensity in their gazes, as though they hope to get more out of the conversation than just exchanging warm regards. I have the feeling that she’s likely using the two of us as a diversion to avoid hearing requests for favors.

“Aunt Julia, why is it that everyone at this party seems so happy?” I ask. Maybe she can explain the abundance of vital energy.

“Marcus asked me for a favor, to set up a vital growth array. It’s an extravagance, but Y’jeni, I can feel my skin growing more rejuvenated with every passing moment,” she says, chortling. “Doesn’t it just feel wonderful?”

“It feels fantastic,” I reply.

“Nephew, you’re fairly sensitive to the array’s effects, aren’t you?” she says, giving me a scrutinizing look.

I shrug innocently. “I wouldn’t know.”

Germaine interrupts the conversation, exclaiming, “Oh, look, the dinner tables are ready.” She’s right, if the surging flux of human bodies is anything to go by. She gestures her head to the right. “Shall we all sit together?”

Aunt Julia takes one of our hands in each of her own as she strides toward the amassing crowd. “Of course.” Her warm hand squeezes down tightly, and I notice her sending a trickle of vitality into my fingers, as through probing for a reaction.

I’d better prepare an explanation for later.