Obsidian Prisim

Prologue

Darkness wasn't frightening to Celia.

It never had been.

What terrified her were the moments just before she woke — the quiet breath before the dream snapped apart — because in that heartbeat, she always knew she'd see him again.

Touya.

And tonight, like every night, the dream welcomed her back without mercy.

THE DREAM

Snow floated in slow spirals across the mountainside, melting the second it touched his overheated skin.

Touya was fifteen.

Celia was twelve.

But in dreams, age didn't matter. She could see him clearer than she ever managed in daylight memories — the sharp, stubborn shape of his jaw, the way white flakes clung to his dark hair, the faint curls of smoke slipping out from between his fingers even when he tried to hide it.

They sat together on the old metal pipes behind his house — the place no one else bothered to look. It had always felt like a secret world, full of rust and snow and warm hands brushing accidentally-then-not-accidentally.

She remembered the scrape of the cold pipe beneath her legs.

She remembered how close he sat.

She remembered his voice — low, rough, always pretending he didn't care when he cared too much.

"You shouldn't come here anymore," Touya muttered, kicking frost off a pipe. "If my old man finds out I've been hanging with you, he'll lose it."

Celia snorted, swinging her legs.
"Please. All Might himself could show up and I'd still be here."

Touya's lips twitched. "Idiot."

"Pyromaniac."

"Gremlin."

"Hothead."

He laughed then — short, startled, real. His breath puffed in the cold air like smoke.

God, she missed that sound.

The dream shifted.

It always did.

The snow was gone.

The heat came.

That horrible, suffocating heat.

The world blazed around them — orange, white, and blistering. Celia's lungs seized against the smoke. Shards of black obsidian burst from her palms without conscious command, slicing through falling beams and molten debris as she dragged herself across the burning forest floor toward him—

Touya, Touya, Touya—

He was on his knees, flames eating his clothes, skin cracking open under the blue inferno erupting from his body.

"Touya, look at me!" Celia screamed, voice tearing raw.

He lifted his head.

And even now — even in a nightmare — she could never forget the expression on his face.

Pain.

Fear.

Apology.

"Celia, run—" he tried to rasp.

"No!" She crawled faster, arm outstretched, shards of her quirk cutting paths through falling ash. The heat peeled at her skin, blistering with each movement, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. "You're not dying on me—!"

The fire swelled.

Blue swallowed the world.

Then there was nothing but the searing agony across her hip and ribs as the flames ripped into her...
and Touya's face — that last look — before he disappeared into light and smoke.

Before she lost him.

Before she lost everything.

The dream always ended with silence.

Not the soft kind.

The grave kind.

The kind people hear just before their heart breaks.

PRESENT DAY — 17 YEARS OLD

Celia bolted awake.

She didn't gasp. She didn't scream. Her body had learned better over the years. Instead, she sat upright in bed, fingers curled tightly into the sheets, letting the fragments of the nightmare cling to her for a moment before dissolving into the dim morning light.

Her apartment was quiet.

Safe.

Untouched by blue flames.

Untouched by ghosts.

She exhaled slowly and slid a shaking hand through her lovely brown hair — now longer, now curled at the ends, now something she controlled instead of something soaked in smoke.

Her green eyes were still damp.

She wiped them on her sleeve.

"Great start to the morning," she muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. "Fantastic."

A sliver of her quirk flickered — obsidian shards blooming momentarily over her knuckles like dark petals before sinking back beneath her skin. They always reacted to strong emotion. They always had.

At twelve, she learned to control them.

At seventeen, she mastered them.

But controlling her memories?
That was harder.

Celia swung her legs off the bed and forced herself to stand. Her left hip ached — a phantom burn that would never truly vanish, skin still marked beneath her shirt. It stretched across her side, up toward her ribs, a reminder of the day she reached for someone she loved and didn't grab fast enough.

Touya.

His name still hurt to think.

She padded into her small kitchen, filled a glass, and drank slowly. The cold water grounded her, pulled her back from smoke and fire and the feeling of losing him all over again.

Her phone buzzed on the bench.

She froze.

Aizawa.

Of course it was Aizawa.

He always knew when something was wrong.
(She hated how he knew. She loved how he cared.)

The message was short:

"Celia. My classroom. Now."

She rolled her eyes, even as the corner of her mouth twitched.

"A little dramatic for a morning summons, don't you think?" she murmured at her phone. "I could've still been asleep."

But he wouldn't have texted unless he felt she needed grounding. Or unless he needed her help dealing with someone else's mess. Or — worst case — unless something had happened overnight involving the League or heroes or anything that might spiral into danger.

Celia slipped into her black hoodie, pulled on boots, and grabbed her bag. Her shard-veil quirk hummed beneath her skin, calm now, steady.

She locked the door behind her.

In the hallway mirror, she paused.

Her reflection stared back:

Brown hair.
Green eyes like Seraphine Veylor — her mother.
Obsidian shimmer beneath her skin — like All For One intended but never forced.
A burn scar hidden under her clothes — like Touya left without choosing.

She squared her shoulders.

"Alright, Shota," she muttered. "Let's see what you want."

And for just a heartbeat — only a heartbeat — she wished Touya were alive to see her now.

Because maybe then, the nightmares would finally stop returning.