Welcome to Find Your Colors the publication and podcast where we are discussing the Shards of Color Trilogy and more specifically the first book in that trilogy titled BLUSH BORN.

I am Jeff B. White and I am the writer and creator of this story. Find Your Colors allows me to share these stories with the world while also discussing the psychological concepts that are present within the narrative and breaking down exactly how I translated my own life experience into this dark fairy tale.

I would like to first take a moment to say thank you to all of the new subscribers who have come in in the past few weeks. While I normally make two posts a week where I share chapters, and often include random bonus content whenever it becomes available, I have been on a brief time out from writing, from Substack, and everything in general. But I've gained four subscribers during this time and that is highly meaningful to me.

Currently, my father is on hospice and I have gone back home to North Carolina to be with my family and help them during this time. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to come home and face this experience with my family. I’m also grateful for the support that I’ve gotten from a few people here on Substack, and to my friends who have been there during this time. Finally, I’m extremely grateful for legalized marijuana on the state level because I forget that that exists and I would not have survived this situation without it.

Hospice care is a monster of a life event to live through. If you’re interested in following along on my hospice journey with dad, please allow me to invite you to check me out on tiktok at @UncleJeffIsHere where I am documenting my experience from my perspective. It’s something that’s not often talked about and it should be because it’s a major part of life that we all end up having to face.

Today is the first time in over a week that I’m able to sit down in privacy and peace to bring this latest episode. So let’s get back to our regularly scheduled programming...

Recap

Previously on Find Your Colors we read through Chapter 15 which was an antagonist chapter which served as a villain showcase. We were able to see the Uncrowned King as he demoted Martier to janitor and ordered Collis, the Big Aught Medic, to be held in the Underprison where he would be fed pebbles for the rest of his days.

While I absolutely adore my antagonist chapters and I do and I love writing them, this story is about Jethran. So let’s not waste any more time, as we begin...

Chapter 16 Seeing Colors.

Outside the Grotto of Trust the world was alive with the humming symphony of new color. The citrine leaves of the trees rustled with the quiet truth of the wind. A teal chested robin hunted a little lavender worm that wiggled on the lilac branches. A periwinkle fox ran with his azure vixen, playing in the light of the gray sun. Hummingbirds that seemed to shimmer like golden sprites fluttered back and forth between roses of amber and mauve.

Inside, a deeper quiet had settled between Jethran and Fable. The raw vulnerability of the night before, of shared grief and confessed fear, had forged something new, something stronger than anything Jethran had ever known. Jethran awoke to the soft crackle of the cerulean embers, feeling, for the first time in his life, truly seen and truly safe. He looked at Fable, still asleep on his bed of moss, his colorful wings a reassuring presence. They were not alone. Not anymore.

This newfound clarity brought with it a shared sense of purpose, a silent agreement that the world outside the Grotto, with its vibrant beauty, awaited them. Fable stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet Jethran’s gaze.

“Well,” he boomed, his voice still a little raspy from sleep, “we can’t stay cooped up in here forever, can we!” He gestured vaguely towards the Grotto entrance, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not with all that... potential outside.”

“I wish all that... potential could tell us what the color means and why I have these powers,” Jethran answered.

“It means you’re special, dummy,” Fable said, rolling his eyes. “But we knew that. The question is, what do we do now? We need to find you a proper place, Jethran. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can figure out what to do with it.”

He tapped a finger against Jethran’s cheek, where the colors now pulsed with a steady rhythm.

“A place where the King’s shadows can’t reach. I always heard tales, old silvarii stories, about a hidden sanctuary. A place where the colors never faded, even in the Grayest of Ages. Some Silvarii have always said that it’s just a myth. But the thing is, silvarii stories are all based in truth.” He shook his head, a mixture of awe and determination in his eyes.

“Well, after what I saw yesterday, I belieave that this is one of those stories that needs to be sought out,” Fable rose, stretching his long, awkward limbs. “Let’s go find your legacy, Jethran. The real one.”

Their journey to the sanctuary was a two-day trek that began under a sky still holding the memory of Jethran’s thunderous rage, a bruised-gray canvas slowly softening to a gentler hue. The air, scrubbed clean by the recent storm, tasted of wet ground and growing things. As they ventured deeper, the landscape unfolded like a forgotten dream.

The lilac trunks of the ancient trees now held canopies of impossibly vibrant citrine leaves, each one rustling with a dry whisper that was almost a song. Below, the grass, once a dull gray, shimmered with a citrine so profound it hurt Jethran’s eyes. It was a living carpet that stretched to the horizon. Never before heard melodies drifted from the branches above, causing Jethran to pause.

“Are those... birds?” Jethran whispered.

In the Gray, the only birds he’d ever known were the drab pigeons, their calls were guttural and mundane. These sounds were unfamiliar and intricate. They were full of surprising joy. Fable nodded, his own ears tilting to catch the new symphonies.

“They are indeed,” he murmured, a rare solemnity in his voice. “They say the birds remember the old songs.”

The wind carried the scent of blossoms, a heady perfume that mingled with the damp richness of the soil, invigorating Jethran’s senses in a way they never had been. As well, to Jethran’s surprise, Fable proved to be an entertaining travel companion. He delighted Jethran with exaggerated tales of his own clumsy escapades.

“So there I was,” Fable began, gesturing grandly with one hand while the other clutched his satchel strap, “trying to show a few of the little Silvarii sprittens how to properly catch the silvery sunlight on a dewdrop. It’s a very delicate art, you understand. I had the perfect leaf, the angle was magnificent, the dewdrop was practically singing with light. I’m telling you, Jethran... oh, sugar, it was poetry.” He took a dramatic step, reenacting the moment.

“And then I met Aggravus. That’s what I’ve named him. A particularly spiteful tree root who had made it his life’s mission to ambush me. Well, Aggravus introduced my foot to the concept of terminal velocity. One second, I’m a portrait of Silvarii grace; the next, I am a pinwheeling disaster of limbs and wings. I tumbled head-over-wings right into a patch of the most ridiculously shiny flowers you’ve ever seen, with petals like polished pewter. I went in with a certain silvery dignity and came out looking like a walking, talking, utterly humiliated bouquet. There were pewter blossoms clinging to every part of my wings, stuck in my hair, two on one eyebrow... I think I even had one in my ear.”

Jethran couldn’t help but chuckle, even managing an accidental snort. Although he tried to hide it, it was a rare and welcome sound that felt light in the moment.

That’s it! Fable thought, his heart giving a joyous lurch. That sound. That’s his true color. Not the Blush, not the magic. That right there.

A fiercely protective ache, for which Fable had no true name, spread through his chest. The world could have its gray, its kings, its wars. Fable knew, in that instant, that his only quest was to protect that fragile, precious sound. It was the only song that mattered. He puffed up his chest with pride, relishing the moment that he finally got to hear his new friend laugh for the first time.

“With all these new emotions flying about,” Fable confessed. “I think I understand joy.”

“What do you mean?” Jethran stopped, smiling at Fable.

“The first time you see someone smile,” Fable answered. “That’s... that’s when you understand joy.”

They both stood, smiling. Then Fable looked away. “That’s stupid,” he laughed. “Nevermind, nevermind”

Jethran stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “No!” He commanded. “You truly felt that… what you just said. And if you feel it, it can’t be stupid, Fable.”

“Besides, I’ve seen you smile,” Jethran continued. He reached up with his injured arm and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I understand joy, Fabe.”

He then took the lead down the trail and Fable stood there watching him walk away. After a few hours, as the light faded, casting long gray shadows over the forest floor, Fable called out, “We should make camp here. The sanctuary can wait until morning.”

He found a sheltered hollow near a stream, its water flowing with a gentle sound. Soon, a small fire flickered to life between a circle of stones, casting cerulean flames. Fable produced a small fishing net, and with surprising agility, pulled out a few fish from the stream. Their scales sparkled with a pale almost translucence.

As they cooked the fish over the embers, the subtle scent filled the air. When Jethran took a bite, the pale blue flesh was surprisingly firm, with a clean taste. It was different from the fish that he had prepared after he left the Menders. He felt a pleasant warmth spread through him, a subtle vibrancy that was both unfamiliar and deeply satisfying.

“Not bad, eh?” Fable said, as he chewed thoughtfully. “A bit... bluer than I’m used to, but it is truly delicious.”

“Now, Jethran. You’ve spoken of meeting old gods. The Seven Songs. Have you... how many have you met... have you met any of the others?” Fable asked, his voice softer than usual.

Jethran nodded, and he began recounting his encounters, the stories flowing easily in the shared intimacy of the campfire.

“Crezwil,” Jethran said. “They taught me that a wound isn’t something to be ashamed of... but a story of survival that we should love and grow from.” As he said that he held out his hand, and from his palm an indigo light glowed, showing a flower blossoming in the air between them.

“And Muralis,” he continued, exhaling a faint, controlled wisp of cobalt mist. “She told me that the numbness can be a tool. A way to find a moment of quiet when the pain is overwhelming. That it’s a way to endure, not a surrender. It’s a tool, not a home.”

“And Rabb,” he explained. “He showed me there’s a difference between a storm that cleanses and a storm that just destroys.” A spark of aureolin light pulsed from his hand into a self-contained cloud above them.

“He helped me understand all that anger I told you about. At myself for my mother’s death, and even at her. He taught me that the hardest part isn’t just feeling the anger, it’s navigating it. Knowing which part is okay to feel, and which part needs to be transcended. It’s how I learned to swallow that storm.”

“Yeah, but... did you... really swallow it?” Fable whispered.

“Yeah, I did,” Jethran laughed. “I breathed it in and swallowed it down from the sky into my belly.”

“Jethran, that’s... that...” Fable stammered.

“I know!” Jethran replied with a tone that showed his own disbelief.

“But then there was Elba,” Jethran went on, as the red center of his Blush began to glow with crimson light. “She told me about my ancestry, about the power of my lineage and that my power was my own.”

As a crimson light showing the truth of Jethran’s lineage began to rise from his hand, Fable interrupted.

“What is your lineage though?” He asked, “Who do you come from?”

“I don’t know,” Jethran closed his hand and looked at Fable, the same questions burning within him. “I know my mother. That’s all.”

“But she didn’t tell you?” Fable pressed. “Elba. She told you that your power comes from your lineage but she didn’t tell you where your lineage comes from?”

“She said she forgot,” Jethran huffed. “She also said I forgot, but that I’m ‘the most beautiful song’ and that ‘no songs came before me’ whatever that even means.”

“That... sounds like she told you that you were the First Song,” Fable chuckled. “That would be the wackiest thing to ever be true. Here I am just eating fish with the First Song. The source of all Silvarii magic.”

“I don’t know,” Jethran sighed. “I don’t know what any of this means.”

“A wound as a story... I’d never considered that,” Fable mused, tracing a pattern in the dirt with a stick. “The King says a wound is a defect, a sign of weakness that must be hidden away.” His brow furrowed in thought. “And numbness... the King calls that weakness. A failure of order. He preaches that we must set aside personal pain for the sake of the Gray. That focusing on it is selfish, and numbness is just giving in to it.”

“But that’s just another way of being absent, Fable,” Jethran shook his head, his voice patient. “Muralis taught me that numbness can be a tool, a way to find a moment of peace when the pain is overwhelming. It’s not about avoiding the truth, it’s about surviving it. You can’t be paralyzed by the pain. It’s a way to endure, so you can come back... so you can actually be present in your own life.”

“But the King preaches balance through order,” Fable frowned, kicking at the dirt. “He says sorrow is just... a distraction. That balance comes from... sameness. From not feeling those extremes at all.”

“The Uncrowned says a lot of things,” Jethran felt a quiet sigh building in his chest. “He says a wound is a flaw, not a story. He says anger is destructive, not righteous. He says sameness is peace, when it’s really just silence.”

Jethran realized he was hitting against a wall of ingrained belief. Fable’s face, usually so open, had taken on a subtle, defensive rigidity. It was like trying to argue with the stone itself. There was no breaking through the layers of propaganda. He simply wasn’t ready to hear it. Jethran sighed, an indistinct sound that went unheard in the soft crackle of the embers.

“Look, Fable,” he said, deciding to shift tactics, “it’s getting late. We should get some rest if we want to reach the sanctuary tomorrow.”

Fable nodded, a hint of relief in his expression at the change of subject. Jethran settled into his bed of moss, the lingering frustration and the unsettling conversation swirling in his mind.

He eventually settled into a deep sleep, where he found himself dreaming. He stood among a large group of people all gathered around seeming to be waiting on something. He slowly realized they were all standing in line. He noticed the people standing nearby had begun humming. Finally the line meandered around the corner, and he noticed that they were all in line for mirrors. As far as the eye can see, a realm of mirrors.

It was at this moment that the hum raised, and all of the people from all around began to sing in a unified chorus.

Sung upon a once before...

Carved from twilight in the sky,

Mirrors wake the unlived day,

Hidden visions start to fly,

Watching chances slip away.

Digging past the shattered dream,

Shadows of another fate,

Unborn futures start to gleam.

Stepping to the fractured frame,

Witnessing the paths ignored,

Weeping for a different name,

Mourning what was unexplored.

Grieving versions left behind,

Standing at the mirrored gate,

Healing the divided mind.

Some will linger in the gaze,

Lost within the branching choice,

Fading in the mirrored maze,

Silencing the present voice.

Wisdom lets the phantom fade,

Turning from the unlived cost,

Stepping from the heavy shade.

Mourning mirror of Hun Gun,

Shows you how to love the one.

As he stepped up to the mirror, just before he was able to catch a glimpse of whatever the mirror offered, the vision was shattered by a nearby jaybird singing its morning song.

Jethran awoke with a jolt, the vivid images of the mirror still shimmering at the edge of his vision. Fable was already up, meticulously rolling his moss bed, humming a tuneless song as if nothing uncomfortable had transpired the night before. His face was a mask of serene normalcy, a deliberate avoidance of the sharp words exchanged.

Jethran felt a twinge of annoyance at Fable’s easy dismissal, but he let it go. There was no point in reopening a wound Fable clearly didn’t want to acknowledge. He simply rose, packed his meager belongings, and followed Fable out of the hollow.

After a few hours of quiet hiking, they stepped into a clearing where they caught a glimpse of Seven High Reach. Its peaks now held the undeniable vibrance of the world.

“Jethran, it's the same as your Blush,” Fable breathed.

Jethran looked down at the ground. “I don't want to change the world,” Jethran whispered. “I just wanted to be seen.”

“How could the world ever not see you?” Fable clarified. “Look at you. You are a sight to behold. Now more than ever. How could the world ever look away?”

Jethran had heard this before, but now it landed differently. He stared at Fable as something within him healed. Before he could process fully, the landscape abruptly changed. They came upon a vast chasm that suddenly cleaved the ground before them. Its dark, rocky walls plunged into an abyss shrouded in swirling mist. Fable, who had been leading the way with determined steps, stopped dead at the edge, his colorful wings drooping. A low whine escaped him, not just of fear, but of a deep, visceral pain. He backed away, his large frame trembling.

“Oh, sugar,” he whimpered, his voice barely a whisper, eyes wide with a crushing despair. “A chasm. A deep chasm. I... I can’t. My wings, Jethran. The Wing FADES. It’s... I can’t fly like I used to. Not over something like that. It’s too wide. It’s too far.”

He hugged himself, his vibrant wings pulling in tightly, his usual boisterous confidence utterly shattered. Jethran saw the deep terror etched on Fable’s face, the raw vulnerability of being confronted with his greatest fear in front of another. It was more than just an inability; it was a profound, daily reminder of loss. Jethran felt a surge of quiet empathy, and a certainty born from his own journey of self-acceptance. His tone was gentle, but laced with an unshakeable resolve.

“Don’t worry about the Wing FADES, Fable,” Jethran said, his voice calm, but with a power that surprised even himself. “I am not a Silvarii.”

Fable blinked, momentarily forgetting his fear, his head cocked to the side.

“Then what are you?” he asked, a flicker of curiosity pushing through the haze of despair.

Then, for the first time in Fable’s presence, Jethran unfurled his wings. Not the wings he’d manifested in the King’s throne room, but magnificent, feathery wings of pure light. Each feather was a shifting tapestry of indigo, cobalt, crimson, and a vibrant aureolin. They beat slowly, powerfully, against the air, stirring a gentle breeze. He reached out a hand to Fable, a faint, confident smile gracing his lips.

“I’m beautiful,” Jethran replied, his voice quiet with no arrogance, no boast. His eyes, fixed on Fable, held a playful glint, daring him to counter.

Fable stared, jaw literally dropped, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated awe and shock. He looked from the resplendent wings to Jethran’s calm face, then back again. Jethran was right; he was beautiful.

“I... I see,” Fable stammered, a dry chuckle escaping him. “Humility. Is it... is it one of the colors of your plethora?” His expression was a perfect blend of genuine amazement and his usual sarcastic wit.

Jethran’s smile widened. “I am actually very humble,” he told Fable, in a mock-serious tone. “Which is surprising considering how amazing I am.”

Fable burst out laughing, a joyous, uncontrolled sound that echoed across the chasm, a clear, unrestrained sound of pure delight. Jethran gently took Fable’s arm, pulling him close to his chest. Fable stopped laughing as they stood face to face. Fable could feel Jethran’s warmth. He took note of the fact that he never felt someone as warm as Jethran.

“Hold on tight,” Jethran whispered. With a single, powerful beat of his new wings, a surge of power that felt both natural and immensely impressive, Jethran lifted them both into the air. They soared across the chasm, the wind whipping past them, a glorious testament to his newfound power and purpose. Fable clutched Jethran’s tunic, his laughter replaced by a whoop of exhilarating joy.

“Oh sugar, Jethran! You truly are amazing!” he shouted over the wind, his face alight with a sillie wonder that banished all traces of fear. “You’re like... a flying sunset! A really fast, incredibly confident, flying sunset!”

Jethran only grinned, enjoying the sensation of effortless flight, the sheer freedom of it. They landed safely on the other side, Fable still trembling slightly, but now from exhilaration. Then Fable noticed Jethran’s tunic had risen substantially, showing that he too was... exhilarated.

“Well,” Fable said quietly as he gestured with his eyes towards the rise in Jethran's tunic. “What’s more surprising than your humility is the length of your tunic considering how large you are.”

Jethran’s blush nearly became its own light source as it brightened so deeply at the realization.

“Oh!” Jethran immediately covered himself with his satchel. “I didn’t mean to... that’s so embarrassing.”

Fable smiled. He didn’t say anything, but he thought to himself that with the height that Jethran’s tunic had achieved, embarrassment was the last thing that boy should be feeling.

They hiked for another few hours as the world bloomed into an impossible, audacious spectrum. The lilac trees grew taller, their citrine leaves brighter, and the air grew warmer, scented with sweet perfumes.

Bright blue monarchs darted past crimson lavender and green daffodils, the very ground seeming alive. Patches of soft, citrine moss spread like carpets over the lilac ground, and robins with vivid teal chests darted between trees, guarding nests of peach eggs.

Overhead, the gray sky, though still ever-present, was thinning, allowing glimpses of something vast and deep beyond. Every step brought them closer to something wilder, something more vibrant, a world that was shedding its muted past.

Jethran realized Fable had been right, at least about the possibility of finding answers here. They came up over a small hill, and at the top, the entrance to the sanctuary spread before them. Fable gasped, his eyes wide.

“There it is,” he whispered, a reverent awe in his voice. “It’s real.”

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The Breakdown

This chapter stands as one of my personal favorites because Fable steps into a truly vital role. Fable isn’t his best friend and he’s not his sidekick. He’s just someone Jethran met along the way who decided to walk with him. He’s less of a ride or die at this point and more of a ride while you’re interesting.

Fable initiates the conversation about the gods Jethran encountered, and while he believes in these beings, the lessons they offer go against everything he has ever learned. Those new trains of thought are incredibly difficult for someone raised in this world to accept. That friction causes their argument to end without any real resolution.

This dynamic draws direct inspiration from the real life relationship that shaped these characters. Jullian and I disagree on many things, particularly deeply held convictions. Fable is clearly a victim of propaganda in this story, and I would argue that both Jullian and I are victims of propaganda in reality. We are probably both wrong. If he were standing in front of me today, I would confidently tell you Jullian is wrong. Obviously.

Mourning Mirror

Throughout BLUSH BORN we experience small chapters featuring travel breaks. Travel sections in fantasy can become monotonous and offer little to the overarching plot. I honestly hate them. So I focused heavily on using these moments to progress the personal connection between the characters while advancing the storyline.

Jethran requires dreams and visions to move the narrative forward, and those moments demand scenes where he can actually rest for the night. Jethran experiences a dream where he stands in line with unknown people singing a song about mirrors. Later in the story we will uncover the true meaning of that vision.

Flying Sunset

Following their little dust up the night before, the story required a moment to prove to Fable that Jethran’s powers are useful and entirely safe. Flight is a vital part of existence for a creature like Fable, and losing that ability left a profound mark on him. Exposing his vulnerability became a necessary beat in the narrative. He wears a cheerful mask and carries intense bravado, so we needed to see how deeply his trauma affects him beneath that polished surface.

Landing on the other side of the chasm and experiencing the tunic tent provided necessary levity for this chapter while highlighting their shifting dynamic. Fable decides he wants to protect Jethran’s laughter, and Jethran then has to use his satchel to hide his physical exhilaration. The attraction between them is becoming impossible to ignore.

One fun fact I must share is that I wrote this entire chapter before I knew these two characters were in love. I will point out the exact moment I finally realized it later on, but I discovered their connection very late in the writing process. When I went back to reread the manuscript to look for areas to add foreshadowing, I found that all of these moments already existed organically in the text.

I have said it before and I will always claim it. This story wrote itself. I laced bits of imagination into it and placed portions of reality within the narrative, yet there still remained parts of this story entirely outside of my control.

The romance between Fable and Jethran was never part of my plan. Looking back through the text after reading it as many times as I have, they were always meant to fall in love. Changing that trajectory would have made the story read as disingenuous. I may be biased, but it is my true belief that denying these two characters their romance would have robbed the world of something beautiful.

Let’s Discuss

Jethran shares the wisdom of the Seven Songs, yet Fable struggles to accept it due to the Uncrowned King’s teachings.

* Have you ever had to unlearn deeply ingrained beliefs like Fable is being challenged to do here?

We get a glimpse into Jethran’s subconscious with the dream of the Mourning Mirror.

* Have you ever faced moments when you mourned the lives you never lived?

The chasm scene brings Fable’s deep trauma to the surface, it also gives the two a moment for banter and levity which foreshadow the deeper bond that is growing between the two.

* Have you ever written something that advanced its own plot in ways that you never intended?

What’s Next?

On the next episode we will read Chapter 17 Whispered Color where our two travelers stumble into a village that is unlike anything either one of them has ever experienced, and meet a new character who will influence them and their family for decades to come.

Thanks

As always, if you read this all the way to the end or if you listened to it all the way through, then you are absolutely my hero. I want to thank you for giving me the time out of your day and the space in your brain to share my story and to introduce Jethran to the world.

Hang in There

I'm so grateful to be able to have brought this episode to you today. While I might not be able to keep up my same schedule as before of two posts per week I will soon return full-time to my Substack and my writing. So just hang in there with me and thanks for being here.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit findyourcolors.substack.com/subscribe