Kael's Cold Shoulder

The great hall of the Gum Dynasty shimmered, not with the usual vibrant hues of joy and contentment, but with a dull, muted sheen. It was a reflection of the empire’s spirit, I supposed. Everywhere I looked, the magnificent gum sculptures that told our history, that were our very essence, were showing their age. Cracks spiderwebbed across the proud chest of the First King, his once supple jaw now brittle and grey. Even the joyful swirls of the festival gum, usually bouncing with life, seemed stiff, barely able to hold their shape. And me? I felt as stiff and out of place as a pebble in a pot of warm, sticky taffy.

My gaze had always been a peculiar thing. While others could sculpt with their hands, molding emotion into tangible form, I could… *look* at gum and make it shift. A soft sigh could make a sorrowful blue blob droop a little lower, or a burst of laughter could make a yellow sphere puff up just so. It wasn't sculpting, not really. It was more like… nudging. And lately, my nudges had felt weaker, less certain.

Prince Kael, however, saw my ability not as a curiosity, but as a danger. He was a man made of the sharpest angles and the most rigid lines, his own gum form a testament to his unwavering belief in tradition. He moved through the halls like a polished obsidian statue, his every gesture calculated, his voice a low, resonant rumble that brooked no argument. He saw my unpredictable glances as a threat to the carefully constructed order of the Dynasty.