The wind kicked up dust on the hillside path. Zynara's golden palm brushed a dandelion's fluff. PUFF—white-gold light swallowed the whole sky.
He yanked his hand back and pressed it flat against his back. Where the dandelion grew, a ring of melted gold still shimmered in the dirt. He stared. He didn't move.
Inside the schoolhouse, wind whistled through the open window. Zynara folded his hands on his desk. Aa-CHOO! His elbow smacked the water cup. BLAM. A golden flash. The cup was gone.
The kids stamped, stamped, stamped to the far wall. Zynara slid under his desk, knees up, elbows in. Just hold still, he thought. The wind screamed outside.
In the wind-swept park, a small toddler squeezed a frozen juice box on the bench, red cheeks puffing, lip wobbling. Zynara stopped. He knelt, steady and quiet, one glowing palm reaching out.
His flat, glowing palm met the icy box. No burst. No flash. Just a soft golden drip, sliding into her cupped little hands. She blinked. The juice was warm.
The whole class tumbled out of the schoolhouse. They crowded round Zynara's knees, breathing fast. The toddler held out a second frozen box. Everyone leaned closer. Closer. Closer.
His palm touched the box. A gentle gold glow spread, no flash, no burst. The juice bubbled, warm and sweet. The toddler raised her cup and shouted, "YAY!"
Zynara sat on the bench, palm open on his knee, glowing steady and soft like a little lantern. The kids huddled close. One by one, they passed their frozen boxes to him.
The wind swept golden light in slow circles across the park grass. Every box melted, one drip at a time. Zynara's palm hummed, small and sure, under the open sky.