The air in the Metropolis loft shifted, the static-charged atmosphere of the Hall estate in Smallville folding away to be replaced by the crisp, climate-controlled scent of ozone and luxury. Sage stepped through the pantry closet—the threshold rippling like a disturbed pond—and emerged into the third-floor workshop of The Luminous.
From here the city was a sprawling tapestry of steel and ambition. Down the block the golden globe of the Daily Planet stood as a silent spinning sentinel against the gray skyline. Sage did not linger. He descended the sweeping grand staircase, his boots clicking with hollow rhythmic authority against the polished mahogany as he moved from the private sanctuary of the third floor down into the heartbeat of the shop.
The main floor was alive with the hushed reverent murmur of the elite. Customers drifted between the reinforced glass display cases like ghosts in a museum, their eyes wide as they traced the lines of pieces that defied the limitations of human artistry.
Near the front Sam—hired two years ago, a woman whose obsession with the craft had driven her to badger Mama until she finally relented—was deep in a practiced low-toned conversation with a patron.
"The artisanship on this piece is unparalleled," the customer murmured, gesturing toward the Egyptian-inspired collar, a gold-spun relic they had launched five years ago. "But the price tag? It feels… heavy, even for Metropolis."
Sam leaned in, her smile professional but sharp. "Exclusivity is rarely cheap, sir. You're not just paying for the gold or the design. You're paying for the longevity. These pieces don't just sit on a shelf; they resonate. That price isn't a reflection of the material—it's a reflection of the permanence."
Across the aisle Joshua was obsessively polishing the glass of a case, his movements methodical and quiet, his focus absolute as he removed a microscopic smudge. Farther toward the rear Elizabeth, their top-selling jeweler this year, was holding court, her voice a soothing persuasive rhythm that had a way of convincing people to part with small fortunes.
Sage bypassed the floor entirely and headed for the back-room workshop. The door opened to a space thick with the scent of molten gold and the faint rhythmic thrum of active Mana. Aunt Region and Mama were there, heads bent over a workbench, locked in an intense low-voiced conversation.
"Hey," Sage said, his voice cutting through the hum of the room with deliberate casual weight.
Region looked up, her expression softening into a practiced cool mask. Mama followed, her gaze sharp, assessing—always calculating the next move on the board.
"Hey," they answered in unison.
Sage walked to the bench, the urgency in his chest tightening and turning the air around him slightly cold. He did not dance around the edges.
"Aunt Region," he began, his tone leaving no room for dismissive answers. "That Kryptonite—the stone that crashed into our backyard twelve years ago. It's here in the workshop vault, isn't it?"
Region's brow furrowed, her hands stilling over the gold she was etching. She exchanged a sharp glance with Mama before turning back to him. "It is. We moved it to the workshop for study years ago. Why bring it up now?"
Sage took a breath, the image of the school courtyard—the way Clark had collapsed, the way the light had drained from his eyes—burning in his mind. "Because today at school… Clark's crush Lana. She was wearing a necklace. It had a green stone in it, and it made him collapse. He was weak, Aunt Region. Completely defenseless. I need to see the one we have. I need to see if the frequency matches what she's wearing."
The workshop fell into a silence so absolute it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
The transition from the workshop floor to the inner sanctum was executed with the silent practiced efficiency of those who deal in secrets. Mama did not say a word, her expression a tightened mask of concern, while Aunt Region simply turned, her robes trailing across the polished mahogany like a dark omen. They did not need to discuss the protocol; they led Sage toward the rear, past the polished displays where Joshua continued his obsessive rhythmic cleaning of the cases and past Elizabeth, who was currently weaving a web of charm around a wealthy patron.
They reached the bulkhead—a heavy lead-lined door that stood as a scar against the refined elegance of The Luminous. Region pressed her palm against the reader. The mechanism did not click; it groaned, a deep resonant sound that vibrated in the soles of Sage's boots.
The vault opened.
The air inside was sterile, stripped of the scent of molten gold and replaced by the faint acrid smell of ozone and ancient dormant power. In the center of the chamber, encased in a shimmering stasis field of their own design, sat the meteorite. It was a jagged obsidian-colored claw, a piece of a world that had ceased to exist, pulled into their gravity twelve years ago. Embedded deep within its fissures were the green shards. They pulsed—a sickly rhythmic luminescence that felt like a migraine waiting to happen.
Sage stepped into the light of the field and the reaction was instantaneous.
His Mana did not just wake up; it roared. It began to flare off his skin in brilliant frantic ribbons of azure, identical to the surge he had felt on that day in the backyard a decade ago. The energy curled around his limbs, a protective defensive instinct lashing out against the dissonance of the stone.
He leaned in, his internal sight tearing through the surface. He traced the jagged chaotic lines of the crystals, the way their geometry defied every law of terrestrial physics. His breath hitched as the realization locked into place.
"Her gemstone is this," he said aloud, his voice echoing against the cold walls. "It's the same resonance. The exact same frequency."
He watched the green light pulse, a slow hypnotic beat. "But why? If this is the source, why would he feel such weakness from a piece that size? There's a discrepancy in the intensity—it's like hers is a focused needle and this is a blunt force."
Sage turned, his eyes still burning with that residual blue fire, looking from his mother to his aunt. The weight of the moment felt like it was crushing the air out of the room. He was not looking for a simple answer anymore. He stepped back, his aura flickering, agitated by the proximity. "I don't have the full picture. I need to ask Grandma Pandora."
He turned to his mother and his aunt, his eyes burning with the residual energy of the surge. "Mama, is Grandma Pandora on the planet today, by any chance? When I got home earlier I went to use the hallway closet to transit here, but I didn't see her. She wasn't in her room, and the house felt… empty."
Mama's gaze remained fixed on the stone, her expression unreadable, but Sage saw the slight tightening of her jaw—a telltale sign that the monarchy was keeping secrets behind the curtain.
"She has been moving between the folds because she has been feeding," Mama replied, her voice cooling, shedding its warmth for the iron-clad authority of a queen. "The stars have been calling to her lately, Sage. She has been consuming the celestial light to sustain her essence. That is why you didn't see her at the house."
Sage stood in the dim light of the corridor, the blue of his aura slowly fading, leaving him feeling cold and unmoored. The quiet of the shop, the mundane bustle of customers outside buying jewelry, felt like a fragile shell over a reality that was rapidly tearing itself apart.
"I need to talk to her," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Before the next time Clark walks into that courtyard. If she's feeding, she's tuned into the frequencies—she'll know why that stone is reacting to him this way."
"Then prepare yourself," Region whispered, her eyes catching the steady glow of his Mana. "Because if Pandora is feeding on the stars, her mind is light-years away from the concerns of a boy. You'll have to pull her back to Earth first."
The three of them stepped out of the vault, the heavy lead-lined door groaning shut behind them with a final metallic thud. The air of the workshop felt warmer, thick with the scent of soldering metal and the hum of the city outside. Sage adjusted his collar, the residual static of the containment chamber still prickling against his skin.
"Can you send a signal to her?" he asked, looking toward Mama. "If she's feeding, she's out there. She'll feel the ripple if you reach for her."
Mama did not get a chance to answer. Across the room the landline on the oak desk began to shrill, a sharp piercing ring that cut through the rhythmic thrum of the Mana-conductors. Rashandra moved with fluid grace, picking up the receiver on the third ring.
"The Luminous," she said, her voice shifting into its professional cool melody. Then her brow furrowed. "Jonathan? Slow down. No, I haven't seen him… we're in the city right now."
Sage went still, his eyes locking onto the phone. Aunt Region stopped her work, her hands hovering over a tray of raw opals.
"Is everything alright?" Mama asked into the receiver. She listened for a moment, her expression hardening. "An argument? Jonathan, he's a teenager, they do that… alright. We'll keep an eye out."
She hung up the phone with a deliberate click and turned to Sage. "That was Jonathan. He's looking for Clark."
"What happened?" Sage asked, already feeling the familiar weight of Smallville drama pulling at him.
"He and Clark had an argument. Clark ran off, and Jonathan hasn't been able to find him since."
Sage sighed, rubbing his temples. "Not again."
"What do you mean 'again'?" Region asked, her interest piqued. "Is this a regular occurrence?"
"The other morning it was football," Sage muttered, leaning against the workbench. "Jonathan told Clark he couldn't sign up for the team because of his uniqueness, and Clark wasn't having it. They went at it in the kitchen. Some words were said. I gave some advice to Jonathan and Martha said thanks."
"Really? An argument over football?" Region shook her head, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Human priorities are fascinatingly narrow."
Sage did not stay to chat. He closed his eyes, focusing on the copper-and-maple-leaf bracelet he had made for Clark the other day. It was not just jewelry; it was a tether. He felt the pulse of it—faint, steady, and vibrating with a somber quiet energy. Clark was not in the city. He was back home, surrounded by the smell of damp earth and old stone.
The Smallville Cemetery was draped in the long violet shadows of a Kansas sunset. The air was still, carrying the scent of mown grass and the cooling marble of the headstones. Sage walked through the iron gates, his boots silent on the overgrown path, following the pull of the tether.
He saw them before they saw him. Clark was sitting on a stone bench near a large weeping willow, his shoulders hunched. Beside him sat Lana Lang. She looked small against the backdrop of the towering monuments, her fairy-princess innocence replaced by a quiet haunting sadness.
"I come here to talk to them," Lana was saying, her voice a soft flutter in the breeze. "My parents. It's the only place where the silence doesn't feel lonely."
Clark looked at her, his expression mirroring her grief. "I get it," he murmured. "Being an orphan… it's like there's a part of you that's always reaching for a hand that isn't there."
Sage stopped a few yards back, leaning against a weathered Celtic cross. He watched them for a moment, letting the conversation breathe. It was the first time he had seen Clark actually talk to her without stuttering or falling over his own feet—mostly because Lana's necklace was nowhere to be seen.
Finally Sage stepped out from the shadow of the willow.
"There you are," he said, his voice cutting through the graveyard quiet with a casual grounded weight. "Everyone's been looking for you, Clark. Your father called my mom from the city saying you'd pulled a disappearing act. Don't tell me it's the same argument from the other morning."
Clark looked up, startled, but he did not move away from Lana. "No, Sage. It wasn't. It was… different. I'll tell you about it later."
"Fair enough," Sage said, giving him a knowing look. He turned to Lana, offering a small polite nod. "Hello again, Lana. Seeing a lot of you today, aren't we?"
"Hi, Sage," she said, her eyes drifting to his.
He noticed it immediately. The space around her neck was empty. The green stone, the one that had dropped his best friend like a sack of lead earlier today, was gone. Sage kept his face a mask of indifference, even as his mind started clicking through the possibilities.
"How have you been doing?" Lana asked, tilting her head. "With all the talk at school? About you… coming out?"
Sage shrugged, crossing his arms. "Honestly? I don't really care that they talk about it. People talk because they're bored, and they can't do anything about it anyway, right? I mean, you saw that day at school. I made your boyfriend look like a little bitch in front of the whole student body."
"Sage," Clark warned, his voice low. "Calm down a little. I can see you getting riled up again."
Sage laughed, a sharp cold sound. "Hey, he had it coming. You know me, Clark. I'm always down to throw hands if someone wants to test the waters."
"Yes, I know," Clark sighed, standing up. "And I also know you don't need to go to jail for assault."
"Please," Sage smirked. "You know I've got bail money. I'm a Prince, remember? Jewelry empire—that's what they're talking about anyway."
Lana looked down at her lap, her voice tiny. "I'm sorry about that day. Whitney… I don't know why I put up with him sometimes. He was out of line."
"Yeah, girl," Sage said, giving her a blunt searching look. "Why do you put up with him?"
Lana looked out toward the horizon, the orange light of the sun catching the gold in her hair. "I really don't know."
The silence that followed was awkward, the kind of quiet that makes you realize you're the third wheel in a very complicated bicycle. Sage stood there, watching the two of them share a look, and felt the sudden urge to be anywhere else. Why am I even here right now? he thought.
"Well," Clark said, breaking the tension. "We should probably get you home, Lana."
They walked her back toward the edge of town, the three of them moving in a slow rhythmic pace. The homecoming banners were already fluttering from the lampposts, a reminder of the dance that was looming over everyone's head.
"So," Clark asked, his voice hopeful but cautious. "Are you going to the dance?"
"I'm going with Whitney," Lana said, though she did not sound particularly excited about it. She looked at the two of them. "Are you guys going? Do you have dates?"
"I've had a lot of offers," Sage said, flashing a grin. "But I turned them down. I ran out of time to be dealing with all that foolishness. My schedule is a little full for high school drama."
Clark kicked a loose stone on the sidewalk. "I'm thinking of sitting this one out."
Sage nudged him with his elbow. "Even though I offered to let you take me? I already knew you wouldn't go, that's why I told you to think about it. And you did, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Clark chuckled. "I did."
"Actually," Sage said, looking at Lana. "I was speaking to Chloe and Pete. I told them we should all just go as a group. No dates, just a squad."
Lana's eyes brightened. "That actually sounds like fun. Going as a friend group. Maybe I should suggest that to my friends."
"Yeah," Sage laughed, leaning toward her. "I mean, look at us. Just me and you and no boys annoying us to go out with them. Am I right, Lana?"
Lana laughed with him, the sound bright and genuine. "You're right, Sage."
Clark looked at Sage, giving him the look—the one that meant he was being too loud and too much.
"What?" Sage asked, throwing his hands up. "Don't look at me like that."
Lana stopped at her front walk, turning back to Clark. A soft smile played on her lips. "Clark… if you change your mind about the dance, I'll save one for you."
She stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Clark froze, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the Kansas sunset. She waved at them and disappeared inside her house.
Sage waited until the door clicked shut before he turned to him. "Well, look at you, Mr. Big Luck Duck. I see you. I know your heart is over there pounding away. Is that your chest, Clark, or did a drum set move in?"
Clark blushed even deeper, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Sage, stop. Just come on."
"Hey now," Sage shouted as he started walking away. "Pete and Chloe owe me five dollars now! I called that kiss a week ago!"
"What? Sage, just come on!"
"Alright, I'm coming," Sage said, jogging to catch up. He threw an arm around Clark's shoulder, his voice dropping into a serious weighted tone. "But we do need to have a conversation now, Clark. For real."
In the shadows of the porch next door Whitney stood perfectly still. He had not been noticed, but his eyes were fixed on the two of them, his jaw set in a hard jealous line. He watched them walk away into the gathering dark, his hand tightening into a fist.
The walk back to the Kent farm was quiet, the rhythmic chirping of crickets filling the space between them until the silhouette of the yellow farmhouse rose against the starlit sky. They did not head for the front porch. Clark led the way toward the storm cellar, the heavy wooden doors slanted against the earth like a buried secret.
He pulled the doors open with a strength that still looked too easy for a boy his age, and they descended into the cool damp dark of the bunker. The air down here tasted of limestone and old dust. Clark sat on a wooden crate, his hands clasped between his knees, his face shadowed by the dim overhead light.
"My dad and I…" Clark began, his voice dropping into that heavy hollow tone he got when his world felt too small. "We went at it today. Right here. He showed me… he showed me the ship, Sage."
He looked toward the corner of the cellar where a tarp-covered bulk sat in the shadows.
"I came down in the meteor shower," Clark whispered, the words sounding like a confession. "Twelve years ago. He told me that's how I got here. That the shower wasn't just rocks… it was me."
Sage leaned against the cool stone wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not look surprised because he was not. He watched the way the light caught the tension in Clark's shoulders.
"I know you came from another planet, Clark," Sage said, his voice steady and grounded. "We've established what you are. That part hasn't been the mystery between us."
Clark looked up at him, his eyes searching Sage's, filled with a new kind of frustration. "You knew I was an alien, Sage. But did you know how? Dad told me I came down twelve years ago in that crash. He's been hiding the ship and the date since the day he found me. Why didn't you tell me that part? Why let me think I just… appeared?"
Sage took a breath, letting the weight of the secret settle in the room. He did not flinch under his gaze.
"Look, I should have told you that specific part. I should have told you that you came down twelve years ago during the shower. I'll take that—I skipped over that piece of the timeline when we talked. I told you what your race was, but I didn't give you the 'when.' I figured that was something for your parents to handle."
Sage stepped closer, his shadow stretching long across the cellar floor.
"But you have to understand something, Clark. The reason your father couldn't tell you everything—the reason he's been holding back—is because he doesn't actually know everything. Jonathan Kent is a good man, but he's a farmer with a spaceship in his basement. He doesn't have the map to your stars or the history of your people."
Clark rubbed his face, his voice tight. "Then who does? If he doesn't know, who's going to tell me the rest?"
"The only person who probably knows the whole truth, the deep history, is my grandmother Pandora," Sage said, his tone turning serious, authoritative. "And even she isn't going to hand it to you on a silver platter. She isn't going to tell you everything."
"Why not?" Clark pressed. "If she has the answers, why keep me guessing?"
"Because," Sage said, looking him dead in the eye, "she probably wants you to find that out for yourself. Some truths aren't meant to be taught, Clark. They're meant to be earned through your own journey. If she just gave you the full file, you wouldn't understand the weight of it."
The silence in the bunker grew heavy, the only sound being the distant hum of the wind over the cornfields above them. Clark looked back at the tarp-covered ship, realizing that even with the "how" answered the "why" was still light-years away.
"I just wanted to know the truth," he murmured.
"You're getting it," Sage replied. "Piece by piece. Just don't expect the whole picture to be clear tonight."