Kitai slumped into the chair, her limbs suddenly too heavy to carry the weight of what she’d just read. The letter slipped from her fingers and drifted to the floor, a small, fragile thing with the weight of a funeral bell.

  My mother’s name is Ocarinya, she thought, the name catching in her chest. It felt too big for her mouth, like saying it out loud might shatter something she’d only just found.

  Her vision blurred. Tears spilled over before she could stop them, hot tracks cooling quickly on her cheeks. A familiar instinct rose up, honed from years in the orphanage and in the Deshawns’ house:

  Don’t fall apart where anyone can see you.

  No one else was in the room, but the habit was a reflex. She swallowed hard, wiped her face with the heel of her palm, then reached for the peppermint tea her “brother” had left for her. The stasis on it broke with a soft crackle as her fingers closed around the cup. She blew across the surface; a few tears dropped in, salt and grief slipping into the sharp mint.

  She drank it anyway. It hurt going down. That felt appropriate.

  She took a few long, deliberate breaths. When she was sure her voice wouldn’t shake if she spoke, she clapped twice.

  The sound felt too loud in her ears.

  The door opened almost instantly.

  “Took you long enough,” her brother said, breezing back into the room like he’d only stepped away to grab a snack. He dropped into the seat across from her, picked up his own abandoned cup, and flicked a glyph into it with a lazy twist of his fingers. Steam rose again. His gaze flicked to her empty cup, then to her face. If he noticed the lingering redness around her eyes, he didn’t comment. He just smirked.

  “How’s the tea?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other in a practiced, relaxed pose.

  Kitai’s first impulse was to say I just read that my mother died for me or I didn’t know I wanted her until I lost her twice in one letter. The words climbed her throat, then slammed into the familiar wall she’d built around that kind of vulnerability.

  She swallowed them and reached for the only shield she trusted: humor.

  “It was a little salty,” she said, forcing a crooked half-smile, “but well brewed. You must be the greatest tea maker on this side of the plane.”

  Her voice was mostly steady. Mostly.

  “So, brother,” she added, leaning back and crossing her arms like she wasn’t desperately holding herself together, “what am I supposed to call you? Because I’m not calling you that until I actually know you. Or trust you. Or both.”

  He chuckled and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it without comment. “You can call me the Crypt-Keeper. Or the Hermit of the Forgotten.”

  Kitai took the handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with more care than she meant to show. “No ‘Unexalted King’? Isn’t that one of your titles too?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light. Her chest tightened around the word king. It made her think of thrones, of judgment, of someone else deciding her fate. Again.

  “You could call me that,” he said, lifting his cup. “If you’re comfortable calling your twin brother ‘king’ before you even know what he rules.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” Kitai said, folding the handkerchief in careful squares just to keep her hands busy. “Guessing we’re both stubborn by nature. I’ll stick with Hermit.”

  “That works. Most people do,” he said, rising to toss another log into the dying fire. Flames caught fast. “There’s a lot crowding your head, Kitai. Take your time. I’ll answer what I can before your journey begins. But we are running low on time, so do be quick about it.”

  There’s a lot crowding your head was an understatement. You were stolen by a god, you’re part key, your father broke himself to build you a body, your mother died, and you’re supposed to fix three planes crowded in like unwelcome guests.

  She nodded anyway, because what else was there to do.

  For a long stretch, they sat in silence, broken only by the soft clink of cups and the crackle of the fire. She focused on little things to stay grounded: the warmth of the ceramic in her hands, the flicker of light on the floor glyphs, the way his foot bounced once and then stilled.

  Finally, she felt like she could speak without her voice breaking.

  “Where are Mom and Dad?” she asked.

  Straight into the deep end. No point circling the drain.

  “Damn,” Hermit murmured, a wry twist to his mouth. “No warm-up questions.”

  He didn’t look away, and that surprised her more than his answer.

  “Mom is dead,” he said, cleanly. No euphemism. No soft edge. “And Dad sacrificed his Frame – and a few others – to forge a Soulframe strong enough to hold you. Your soul. Your past and future Fables. The whole overwhelming miracle.”

  The words hit harder than she expected. The room seemed to tilt for a second. She stared down at the surface of her tea so he wouldn’t see her eyes shine.

  Someone died for you had always been a hypothetical in stories, a dramatic reveal for other people. Now it wasn’t. It was hers. It sat in her chest like something too precious and too heavy at once.

  She latched onto a thought that hurt less.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “He does have a heart,” she thought faintly, noticing the flicker of something raw in his expression. It made him feel a little more human and a little more dangerous at the same time.

  “Who are Saon and the Singer?” she asked quickly, stacking questions like sandbags against the flood.

  “The Singer?” His lips curved. “Oh, you mean Adali. Yes, he does sing too much.”

  His gaze went distant for a moment, like he was watching someone else in some other time.

  “Saon’s true name belongs to me,” Hermit continued. “And Adali owed me a favor. He usually avoids people. You’re an exception.”

  “He seemed pretty sociable to me,” Kitai said, keeping her tone dry. Her instinct was to pick at him, to keep the conversation moving so he’d never have time to ask her how she was.

  Hermit twitched his fingers; a glyph glided neatly into her cup and refilled it with steaming tea.

  “Well, you’re the next head of the family.” He shrugged. “Politeness is an investment.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a scroll. “This is a Fable. You have one in your bag, somehow. I don’t know how you managed to get one after only being here a few weeks, but they’re rare. Valuable. They strengthen a Soulframe, and if the Fable is Mythic or higher, they can evolve one.”

  “A few weeks?” Kitai repeated. “I’ve only been here an hour or two. Tops.”

  Joking about time slipping was easier than thinking about the years she’d missed with Ocarinya.

  Hermit grinned and winked. “Not really. You arrived two weeks ago. After you fell through the portal, your soul bonded to the Frame Dad buried in the Graveyard. But you didn’t wake up. After a few days, Saon and Gemini went to check if everything was going according to plan.”

  “And you didn’t send them after the first day… why?” Kitai asked, brows knitting together. Her hand tightened around the cup until her knuckles paled.

  “Because learning about your family was supposed to be a choice,” Hermit said. “Adali told you to follow the lights and look for Lafiya, right?”

  “Right. He did say that,” Kitai answered, forcing her features back into something neutral. Inside, the word choice scraped down her ribs. The Creator hadn’t asked for her input. The planes hadn’t asked. No one had asked if she wanted any of this.

  “Then you were meant to wander into town asking about Saon and Lafiya. That would lead you to Gemini, then they’d tell you Saon is a child of Hermes, and then they’d ask for your help with the Tournament.” He made a little flourish with the scroll. “I planned it all. Little crumbs of truth for our little mouse.”

  He took another sip of tea, then sighed.

  “But after your three-week nap, we had to speed things up and focus on the main event.”

  “The Tournament,” she said softly. “And the Wish.”

  “Exactly.” His energy sharpened. He rose in one fluid motion, like standing had been the plan all along. “We have to get you ready. The Tournament is in a week, and we don’t know what shape it’ll take this cycle. So tell me: what did the Deshawns teach you while you were their ward?”

  Kitai stood as well, legs a little less steady than she wanted him to see. She made sure her voice came out level.

  “They hired tutors,” she said. “French, Latin, Italian, archery, ballroom and other dance forms, fencing.”

  Saon was waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall, thumb worrying his jade ring. When he saw them, he straightened and dropped his gaze to the floor, shoulders subtly tensing.

  “Ignore him,” Hermit said. “He’s still being broken in. Saon, be a dear and make us a Wind Carriage. Take us to the study.”

  The air thickened and lifted beneath Kitai’s feet. The floor fell away, replaced by currents of invisible wind.

  “Saon is a son of Hermes and a Venti,” Hermit added, conjuring a goblet of wine as he settled into an invisible seat. “Wind spirit. Convenient for shuttling people and goods.”

  Convenient. Like she was cargo.

  Kitai stayed standing, knees slightly bent, bag strap digging into her shoulder. The familiar bite of weight anchored her.

  “Fencing, archery, dance—those will be useful,” Hermit continued. “But French and Italian? Neither are spoken on the Forgotten Plane; they aren’t dead or forgotten languages. Your Frame will automatically translate whatever’s around you into whatever language you’re most comfortable with. Lafiyan perk.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Latin is really only for Exalted snobs. They cling to it so they can sound ancient and important.”

  “You enjoy listening to your own voice, don’t you?” Kitai said. The words came easier now, like pushing against him made her feel less like she was drowning. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  They drifted through the kitchen she’d seen before. It was quiet now. No singing, no clatter, no heat.

  “Why is it so empty?” she asked, grabbing an apple from a table mostly to have something to do with her hands. “It was packed when I came through earlier.”

  “They’re avoiding me and my schemes,” Hermit said, tossing his goblet toward a cabinet; it vanished before impact. “I don’t blame them. I enjoy the quiet. Only the smartest person in the room should be talking.” He smiled. “And that person is always me.”

  Kitai took an aggressive bite of the apple. “You’re very humble. It’s upsetting.”

  “I’m going to leave you in Adali’s care,” Hermit said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “He should be waiting in the study. I trust him to get you ready for the Tournament.”

  Kitai’s stomach tensed at the word “leave.” She disguised it by rolling her eyes.

  “I’m guessing this isn’t actually a choice?” she asked.

  “It isn’t,” Hermit said. “We need you trained, and he’s very good at making heroes out of unprepared material.”

  “What happened to ‘everything has to be a choice’?” she pressed. “Hypocrite much?”

  “Touche,” he said lightly. “But you don’t know anyone here. You can’t make a meaningful choice yet.”

  “I know Gemini,” she said. “And Saon. And the Deshawns. When I find them.”

  He brightened, pouncing on that. “Fine. Here’s a choice. Gemini or Saon. Pick one. Whoever you choose will be your companion with Adali. They’ll guide you through the social rules of this plane.”

  A familiar weight settled in her lap as he flicked his hand; her bag appeared there again.

  “And do try to stop abandoning your bag everywhere, sis. It’s getting hurtful.”

  Kitai wrapped an arm around it automatically. Don’t leave your things. Don’t leave your people. The thought came unbidden, raw. She shoved it down and focused on the question.

  Gemini’s soft patience. Saon’s sharp edges and wary eyes. Both had helped her. One had stabbed her. Both had saved her. The choice still felt oddly simple.

  “I pick Gemini,” she said. Saying it out loud felt like lighting a candle in a dark room. “They seemed easier to talk to. And interesting. Also—thanks for getting my bag.”

  “That can be arranged,” Hermit said. The carriage descended, depositing them near a branch in the corridor. Stairs led to the bedroom she’d woken up in, but he turned the other way. “For now, we go to the study. Full Soulframe inspection. We need to be sure there are no cracks. Then I’ll show you how to add new Fables to your Frame.”

  They stopped at a tall door with a brass handle that glinted like a waiting eye.

  “Ah. Here we are. Saon, be a dear and fetch Adali. Tell him I require him in the study. Off you go, mongrel.”

  Saon’s jaw clenched at the insult. Fury swept across his features for half a heartbeat before he turned away and flew down the hall, wind curling around his ankles.

  Kitai frowned. “Why did you call him a mongrel? That’s cruel and uncalled for.”

  Hermit pushed the door open without breaking stride. “He doesn’t mind,” he said. “So neither should you.”

  Kitai stayed in the doorway for a moment, the thought that had been pressing at the back of her mind finally stepping forward and taking a seat.

  My mother died for me. My father broke himself for me. The Deshawns lied to me. Gods are playing games with me. And my brother is a narcissist with a god complex.

  Her throat tightened. She could feel the ache of it rising. She wrapped a hand tighter around her bag and did what she’d always done when everything felt like too much.

  She put on a face. Rolled her shoulders back. Straightened her spine.

  If you can joke, you’re not falling apart. Not yet.

  She stepped into the study after him.

  The door clicked shut behind her.