Velmorra woke up determined to be loud.
Morning bells clanged.
Vendors shouted at half-awake humans.
Spells misfired in legally acceptable amounts.
And somewhere, Aiden declared a challenge to fate without realizing it.
"Today," he said confidently, "is going to be normal."
Senior tilted his head slowly.
"Aiden," he replied gently, "please do not antagonize existence."
Nothing happened.
Which meant everything was already happening and simply hadn't arrived yet.
Then screaming began.
There was a parade.
No one ordered a parade.
There had never been scheduled mention of a parade.
Yet here it was.
A marching band of bards with questionable talent enthusiasm-blasted through the street. People waved flags that absolutely belonged to unrelated businesses. A woman proudly twirled a bakery sign like it was a national symbol.
Children wore capes made from curtains.
And the ducks…
The ducks were bald.
Painted bald.
Painted enthusiastic bald.
"Why are they GREEN!?" a civilian shouted.
"BECAUSE THEY ARE CONFIDENT!" an artist replied, deeply convicted.
A goose strutted by wearing a ceremonial ribbon.
"This might be my fault," Aiden whispered.
"Yes," Senior nodded pleasantly.
"How!?"
"You encouraged hope. Hope… scales."
A city guard assessed the situation, reconsidered his career, and walked away.
They tried to leave.
They could not.
Someone recognized Aiden.
And suddenly gratitude attacked him.
Someone thanked him.
Someone hugged him.
Someone gave him bread.
Someone placed a hat on him.
Someone handed him a baby.
"I didn't ASK FOR A BABY!"
"Mortals redistribute responsibility when overwhelmed," Senior said calmly.
The baby drooled wisdom.
Aiden wilted.
He was pulled onto a fountain and demanded to say something inspirational.
He desperately tried not to.
He caved.
"…Do your best?"
Silence fell.
Then thunderous applause.
A bard immediately began composing an anthem.
Six people cried.
Three life choices were made irrevocably.
Senior observed the phenomenon academically.
"Yes. Catastrophic."
And then the pies came.
Pie cart.
Downhill.
Chicken coop collision.
Physics wept.
Destiny sharpened a fork.
Pies flew like artillery of joy.
Aiden panicked.
Cast wind-control.
Good execution.
Good spell discipline.
Fate disagreed.
Every pie corrected trajectory…
…and struck the mayor.
Velmorra froze.
Pastry dripped.
The mayor tasted strawberry thoughtfully.
"…Approved."
Festival declared.
Applause resumed.
Someone lit fireworks.
Aiden stared into the distance questioning humanity.
Senior patted his shoulder.
"Excellent contribution."
"I AM NOT CONTRIBUTING I AM SURVIVING."
"Yes. Loudly."
By sunset Velmorra had experienced:
unexpected parade
generalized affection
organized emotional breakdowns
duck confidence revolution
pie assault
and civic joy
The universe wrote something down about this, Aiden was sure of it.
They ended the day at the overlook again.
Velmorra glowed.
Aiden slumped forward.
"I didn't mean any of this."
"I know," Senior replied gently.
"Was it bad?"
"No," Senior said. "It was simply… part of whatever you are."
"That sounds awful."
"It is descriptive."
Aiden groaned softly.
Senior smiled faintly.
Meanwhile, on a rooftop…
Seris Valen stared at the city that should not be functioning this happily.
She had watched:
a bakery swell to life,
probability politely misbehave,
a starving child succeed,
a festival erupt from accident,
and pies crown the mayor.
She rubbed her forehead.
If she were the kind of person to believe in myth-labels, she'd say it:
Natural Jinx.
People who bent probability into absurd spirals simply by existing.
But she didn't believe in that kind of rule.
Superstition.
Lazy thinking.
Apocalypse gossip for bored mages.
No.
She catalogued.
Objectively.
He uses normal magic correctly.
He pays personal cost each time like every practitioner.
Cause relationships check out.
Yet chaos clusters near him with comedic persistence.
Outcome frequency skews impossibly.
Events snowball.
Adverse events lose teeth.
Disasters refuse to be lethal.
Reality… softens around him.
Not magic.
Not divine.
Behavioral pattern of surrounding reality.
That was worse.
Because it meant there is a pattern she cannot explain yet.
Her eyes stayed on him far longer than regulation sympathy allowed.
"…you're not cursed," she whispered. "You're… statistically rude."
An anomaly.
A walking improbability generator.
Something she needs data for.
Not faith.
Just proof.
She wasn't done watching him.
Not out of fear.
Out of responsibility.
Out of curiosity.
Out of a quiet, reluctant concern she did not want to admit existed.
Velmorra slept.
Happy.
Confused.
Preparing subconsciously for whatever tomorrow would become…
because, apparently, happiness had decided it liked following him around.
And patterns like that?
Never stay harmless forever.