The world tasted different. Not literally, of course. The bland, meticulously crafted organic purée designed to maximize nutritional intake for a growing three-year-old still tasted… well, like pureed everything. But the air felt different. It thrummed with a low-frequency hum, a constant vibration that resonated deep within Lucian, or rather, Ethan inhabiting Lucian.

He sat in his high chair, a miniature throne crafted from polished cherrywood, and dutifully shovelled the green sludge into his mouth. His personal chef, a burly, red-faced man named Gustav, beamed nervously. Gustav, like everyone else in the Thorne mansion, seemed acutely aware of Lucian’s every move, his every utterance. They treated him like a fragile Faberge egg, terrified of cracking the precious thing.

But the precious thing felt anything but fragile.

The previous day, while staring at a wilting rose in the conservatory, a strange compulsion had washed over him. An urge, not to water it or cut it, but to… reach for its vitality. He hadn't understood it then, but the memory now resonated with a sickening clarity. He had focused, almost instinctively, on the fragile bloom, picturing it vibrant and alive. And, for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a faint shimmer around the petals. The rose, previously drooping mournfully, had momentarily perked up.