Back in my POV, Hero History & Systems is… a lot of chairs.
Lecture Hall E is one of those tiered rooms designed to make you
feel small in a very educational way. Rows of seats curve around a central
podium; the walls are lined with holographic panels cycling images—old news
footage, battle maps, House crests. I pick a spot near the aisle again. Forge
navy, Veil black, Radiant red, Hearth green—everything's mixed here.
The professor, Dr. Rhee, is compact, sharp-eyed, and has the kind
of calm voice that somehow cuts through three hundred whispering students
without ever getting louder.
"Hero History & Systems," she says, tapping her band. Her name
and pronouns bloom over the front wall. "Not 'How Cool Were Old Heroes.' Not
'Greatest Hits of the League.' Systems. You are weapons. This class is about
who holds you, who points you, and what happens the day you decide you don't
like that anymore."
My pen starts moving almost on its own.
We speed through a whirlwind overview:
· How
pre-League supers were chaos: private armies, "hero-for-hire," colonial
nonsense.
· Why
the League was founded as a regulator first and a PR machine second.
· Where
Aeternum sits in the pipeline: "We do not exist to make you famous. We exist
to make you survivable. For you and everyone around you."
· Houses
as battle roles, not cliques: Radiant frontline, Veil specialist, Hearth
support, Forge systems.
She taps the House crests in turn; they glow above her head like a
HUD.
"Radiant," she says. "You are not the main characters. You are the
visible ones. There is a difference."
Some Radiants shift in their seats.
"Veil," she continues. "You are not 'the edgy ones.' You are force
multipliers. Know where your line is."
A few Veils smirk, but some look thoughtful.
"Hearth. You are not the soft option. You hold morale, logistics,
triage. If Hearth collapses, missions fail."
Emerald jackets sit straighter.
"Forge." Her gaze flicks briefly to me. "You will be told often
that you're 'support' or 'backline.' This is technically true. It is also
technically true that if the system fails, everyone dies. Build accordingly."
I underline that twice.
We skim case studies—New Manila, São Paulo Stormwall, the Old L.A.
Quake—each broken down not as "cool fight" but as what structures held, what
broke, what human decisions made the difference. By the end of the hour, my
hand aches, my brain is buzzing in a good way, and my band has three new
reading lists queued.
"Homework is in your feed," Dr. Rhee says. "Short response. One
page. Pick an incident, identify the weak point in the system, propose a
Forge-style fix. And remember, hindsight is easy. Design for real humans, not
idealized versions of yourselves."
Class dismisses in a wave of chairs and backpacks. I hang back
until the worst of the rush clears, then make my way out, schedule popping up
at the edge of my vision.
One more: Echo
Observation & Integration I – Med/Research Annex.
My stomach does a small nervous flip.
⸻
The Med/Research Annex feels different from the ward where I woke
up. That space was warm, soft, full of Hearth colors and beeping monitors. This
wing is… quieter. Cleaner, but not in a scary way. Glass walls, sound-dampening
panels, rooms labeled with neat little codes.
I pass a lab where someone is practicing growing crystal from
nothing. Another where a Hearth student is surrounded by plants and blinking
electrodes.
At the end of the hall: ECHO
OBSERVATION – ROOM 3B.
My band pings, unlocking the door when I get close.
Inside, the room is small, more exam room than lab. One reclining
chair. One wall of screens. One cabinet full of neatly labeled things. There's
a window into an observation booth next door, currently showing nothing but its
own empty chairs.
A woman looks up from the console as I enter.
"Sol Vega," she says, with a smile that actually reaches her eyes.
"Right on time."
She looks forties-ish, brown skin, tight curls pulled back into a
puff, House Hearth jacket with a Forge pin. Her comm band is wrapped in a soft
cover that looks like it was knitted by someone's grandparent.
"Hi," I say. "That's me. I think."
She chuckles.
"Dr. Imani Sato," she says. "Primary Healer–Research for Echo
physiology here at Aeternum. Hearth by power, Forge by temperament. You can
call me Dr. Sato, Dr. Imani, or 'hey, that's the lady who keeps making me
journal.'"
"Journal?" I repeat, wary but intrigued.
She gestures to the chair. "We'll get there. Today is simple:
baseline day. No new copies, no power stunts, no memory dives. Just seeing how
your system looks when it's not being electrocuted."
That… actually sounds almost nice.
I sit. The chair is more comfortable than it looks. She starts
attaching sensors with practiced gentleness—one near my temple, one at the base
of my neck, a few on my hands and forearms.
"The dampener stays on," she says. "We want your 'quiet' state, not
a stress test. Think of this as… a first page in a very weird medical file."
Once everything is connected, she taps her console. My vitals
appear on the screen: heart rate, neural activity, power field amplitude
(currently a low, steady glow), something labeled ECHO
SIGNATURE with a squiggly line.
"Looks better than yesterday," she says. "How do you feel?"
"Tired," I admit. "Less… buzzy. Less 'I might accidentally turn the
lights off with my emotions.'"
"Good." She nods. "That's our target for 'boringly stable.' All
right. Eyes open for now. I'm going to cycle through some stimuli. Nothing
intense—no power demonstrations, no recordings. Just images, sounds, a few
keywords. Your job is to notice what your Echo does when it's bored versus when
it gets interested."
My eyebrows go up. "Interested?"
She smiles. "Echoes are magpies. Most of them show a little spike
when something they could copy walks through their field. We want you to learn
the difference between 'oh, shiny' and 'I am about to accidentally take this.'
Ready?"
"As I'll ever be," I say.
The next twenty minutes are weirdly… gentle. First, she runs boring
stuff: static images of landscapes, traffic noise, white noise, cafeteria
clatter. My ECHO SIGNATURE line barely flutters.
Then she starts sprinkling in super-adjacent things: video of
Radiant flares (no sound), muted footage of a Veil stepping in and out of
shadow, a Forge blueprint overlay. Each time, my line bumps a little, then
settles.
"I'm not… taking anything, right?" I ask at one point, watching the
squiggle.
"With the dampener? Highly unlikely," she says. "You're showing
curiosity, not acquisition. Like a radar ping."
At the end, she kills the screen and just talks to me.
"Last part," she says. "No tech. Can you tell me, in your own
words, what 'about to Echo' feels like? Not what it does. What it feels like."
I chew the inside of my cheek.
"Um," I say slowly. "It's like… when you're at the top of a roller
coaster. That click-click-click before the drop. Except the drop is someone
else's power landing in my head. My vision goes a little gold around the edges.
My thoughts… sharpen? Narrow. Like I only see the ability and nothing else."
She nods, tapping notes into a tablet. "And today?" she asks. "Did
you get close to that?"
"Once," I admit. "In Power Control, watching a Forge kid spin a
ring. It felt like the first click. But I backed off. Forced it back down to
just… noticing."
"Good," she says. "That's the dial we're going to work on this
term. Zero to ten, with one being 'curious but hands in pockets.'"
She unhooks the sensors one by one.
"That's it?" I ask, surprised. "No… dramatic tests?"
"Not today," she says. "Today you did the hard thing: you showed up
after a traumatic event and let someone watch your numbers. That's more than
enough."
She hands me a small, sleek notebook—black cover, gold-edged pages,
a discreet Forge crest on the back.
"Echo Journal," she says. "Homework: every time you feel that
'click-click-click' in the next week, write down when, who, what you were
feeling, and how far up the dial it went. No judgment, no grades. Just data."
I run my thumb over the cover.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I can do data."
"I thought you might," she says, smiling. "Now go. You've had a
very long first day. Bed, food, and annoying twins await."
I huff a laugh. When I step back out into the hall, the building
feels less like a lab and more like… a place that might actually help.
⸻
On my way back to the tower, I flick my band awake again, more out
of habit than anything. Today's little row of green checkmarks is very smug:
MONDAY – COMPLETED ✅
• Opening Assembly ✅
• Hero Foundations I – Forge ✅
• Power Control & Safety I ✅
• Hero History & Systems I ✅
• Echo Observation & Integration I ✅
Curiosity pokes me. I swipe to TUESDAY.
The layout looks different—no little class blocks, just big solid
bars of color.
TUESDAY – TEAM TRAINING DAY
08:00–10:30 — Team Assessment & Field Drills (First-Year
Cohort)
11:00–12:30 — Tactical Review & Debrief
12:30–13:30 — Lunch
13:45–16:00 — Team Simulation Block – Closed Arena
Underneath, in smaller text:
First-year students have been
provisionally assigned to teams based on existing criteria (House balance,
power type, psychological profile, and training goals).
If you experience significant
conflict or safety concerns, please consult your House counselor and the Team
Placement Committee.
Minor drama is considered
a growth opportunity.
I snort.
"'Minor drama is considered a growth opportunity' is very 'we know
you're all disasters, please don't sue us,'" I mutter.
A new section unfolds when I tap TEAM ASSIGNMENT
– YR1.
My heart does a weird flip.
TEAM: FORGE-01
Role: Mixed-House, High-Potential Stream
· Vega,
Sol – House Forge – Echo-Blooded (Archive)
· Aranda-Navarro,
Lía – House Forge – Radiant/Forge Hybrid (S-class)
· Aranda-Navarro,
Leo – House Radiant – Radiant/Support Hybrid (S-class)
There's a little note under that:
This team has been flagged as High Monitoring Priority (Tier 1) for the duration of
the semester.
Additional support resources will be
available (counselors, PR staff, coaching).
Please do not panic; this is a good
thing.
I do panic. A little. Just on principle.
So it's official, I think. They didn't just joke about it at
breakfast. We're actually… a unit.
I scroll further.
WEDNESDAY – A-SCHEDULE
Basically Monday all over again: Foundations, Control, History,
Echo.
THURSDAY – TEAM TRAINING DAY
Morning – Scenario Lab (Forge-01, Veil-03, Radiant-05, Hearth-02)
Afternoon – Role Swap & Failure Drills
Role swap. Failure drills. My anxiety perks right back up.
And then FRIDAY.
The whole day is marked in bold red-gold:
FRIDAY – INTER-LEAGUE SCRIMMAGE DAY (YR1–YR4)
Week 1: Non-ranked mock scenarios (Rules Overview & Safety)
Weeks 2–13: Ranked inter-league matches (internal ladder)
Week 14: Qualifiers – Top 10 Teams (Round Robin)
Week 16: Finals – Top 4 → Top 2
Top 2 Aeternum teams qualify for the Global Collegiate Hero League
(World League) in second semester.
I stare at that last line.
Global. League. As in, teams from other hero schools. Other
countries. Broadcasts. Sponsorships. All the stuff I've only ever seen on
bootleg streams in our living room while my parents fell asleep on the couch.
The idea of me on that screen is so absurd my brain just throws up
static for a second.
"Okay," I murmur to myself, walking, band still hovering in my
peripheral vision. "So. Monday and Wednesday are brain days. Tuesday and
Thursday are 'try not to die as a team' days. Friday is 'try not to die on
camera.' Easy."
My band pings with a tiny add-on at the bottom of Friday's
schedule:
Week 1 Note: First Friday scrimmage
is RULES & MOCK SCENARIOS ONLY.
No public broadcast.
No official ranking.
Please ask questions. We would rather
you look foolish in Week 1 than hospitalized in Week 10.
That does help. A little.
Still, my stomach does a small dizzy swoop.
Team Forge-01. Me, Lía, Leo. High Monitoring Priority: Tier 1.
World League dangling way out there at the end of the semester like a boss
fight we're not supposed to think about yet.
I tuck my Echo Journal closer under my arm and let the schedule
collapse back into a neat little tile.
Tomorrow is team training. Not finals. Not world anything. Just…
first day out with my team.
My team.
"One day at a time," I tell my Echo, my OCD, my anxiety, my whole
shaken nervous system, as the Forge tower foyer doors slide open.
The band light pulses once, like it agrees.
⸻
When I make it back up to the tower, the door to my suite slides
open on… a whole small universe.
Leo is already sprawled on my couch like he owns it, long legs
stretched out, head tipped back, flipping something on his band. Lía is at the
big desk, tablet propped up, stylus moving in quick, precise strokes over a
schematic I don't understand yet but definitely want to later.
From the kitchen: the sound of oil sizzling and the smell of garlic
and onion. Alice and Diana are laughing about something, voices overlapping,
pans clinking.
It smells like… home, in four different languages.
My brain immediately does contamination math. I look straight at
Leo first.
"Um," I say, eyeing his clothes. "That's a new outfit, right? No
outside clothes on the furniture?"
He glances down at himself—soft house tee, loose joggers, socks—and
grins. With a lazy flick of his fingers, he sends a tiny harmless shooting star
arcing across the room; it bursts in a little sparkle above the coffee table.
"Yep," he says. "Fresh change. Lía's the same way about inside
clothes and outside clothes."
"Strongly enforced," Lía adds from the desk without looking up.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, shoulders
dropping.
"Okay," I say, sagging just a little with relief. "Good. Great."
I toe off my shoes carefully and line them up in the cabinet by the
door, closing it with a small, satisfying click. The faint hum of my dampener
band is the only buzz left in my nerves.
"I'm gonna—uh—change," I say, gesturing vaguely upstairs. "Be right
back."
"Take your time," Alice calls from the kitchen. "Dinner will be
ready when it's ready, and not a second sooner."
"Which is code for 'don't hover,'" Diana adds, amused. "We've got
this."
I nod, clutching my bag a little tighter, and head up the stairs to
my loft. Door closed, clothes swapped for soft inside-only stuff, hair braided
back with clumsy fingers—I finally feel the day start to slide off my skin.
Downstairs, the sounds of my… people drift up: sizzling, laughter,
Leo's exaggerated complaining about being banned from tasting, Lía's low,
steady voice asking Alice about one of the charts on her screen.
Tomorrow is team training. Global leagues are a distant nightmare.
Kenzie exists somewhere on campus—
—but right now, I have inside clothes, clean floors, and a family
orbit to step back into.
I take one deep breath, then another, and head back down.
⸻
When I come back downstairs, braid a little crooked but face
scrubbed clean, I'm already halfway to asking if I can help set the table.
Then I see her.
There's a new presence in the suite that changes the gravity of the
room. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark black hair falling in a glossy sheet over a
simple, fitted black blouse and slacks. No suit, no cape, no armor—just clean
lines and quiet confidence.
But the green eyes are exactly the same as in a thousand news
clips: bright, assessing, too sharp to ever really be soft, even when
she's trying.
I don't need the little League crest pin at her collar to recognize
her.
Luciana Aranda-Navarro. Aurora Prime. Director of the Global Hero
League. Leo and Lía's Mother.
Not on a screen. Not through a slightly grainy scholarship call.
In my living room.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs so fast my socks almost slip on
the last step.
Leo, still on the couch, spots my expression and winces a little.
"Uh. Surprise?" he offers.
Lía is up from the desk, standing a little too straight, stylus set
neatly down. Her House composure is dialed up to eleven. Alice and Diana are
still in the kitchen, but the air is different, quieter under the laughter,
aware.
Director Aranda turns toward me. The room doesn't get brighter, not
literally—but it feels like it. There's a warmth at the edge of my power
sense, like standing near a sun at a safe distance. Dampener or not, my Echo
ticks once, like, oh. That one.
"Sol Vega," she says. Her voice is lower than I expected, smooth,
with that faint accent that never quite matches any one country. "We finally
meet in person."
My mouth goes completely dry.
"D-Director Aranda," I manage. "I—um—sorry my jeans are—"
I glance down at my soft house shorts, realize I changed out of the
ripped jeans, lose my own sentence, and want to sink into the floor.
Her mouth curves, just a little.
"Luciana is fine," she says. "Or Mother, if you ever feel
comfortable with that. 'Director Aranda' makes me feel like I'm about to be
called into a disciplinary hearing."
"Same," Leo mutters.
Lía shoots him a look that's half scold, half you're not
helping.
Luciana steps away from the desk, hands visible, movements
unhurried—the kind of careful you use around skittish animals and overloaded
Echos.
"We have spoken before," she adds. "Though I was… not entirely
honest about who I was, then. I apologize for that."
It clicks, hard.
The "counselor" call. The warm voice walking me through every
scholarship line item, double-checking my parents' names, making sure I knew I
wasn't signing away my organs.
"You were—Ms. Luciana," I blurt. "On the scholarship call. The
placement officer."
Her eyes crinkle. "Guilty," she says. "I like to talk to promising
students myself when I can. It is one of the few perks of this job that does
not involve parliamentary procedure."
Alice snorts softly from the kitchen.
"She terrorizes the Board by day, and terrifies admissions by
night," she says. "They love her. Secretly."
Diana leans on the counter, chin in her hand, watching me like this
is the best episode of something.
"You're doing great," she stage-whispers.
I'm… not sure I agree, but I'm still upright, so that's something.
Luciana's gaze flicks, just briefly, to my hands, checking for
tremor, then to the faint mark just visible above my dampener band.
"I am sorry," she says, and the word lands heavy. "About what
happened in Garage B. That should not have been allowed to happen. We failed
you there—League, school, system. You did not fail us."
I swallow hard.
"Kenzie said—" I start, then stop, because repeating it feels like
giving it power.
She lifts a hand, small motion. "Kenzie will have consequences,"
she says. "Some public, some private. She is not a villain; she is a young
Radiant with too much pressure and too little sense. That is my problem to
address. Not yours to carry."
There's steel under the calm. I believe her.
"Okay," I say, a little hoarse.
She nods, as if that settles it for now.
"I watched the footage," she adds. "Both incidents, yesterday and
today. I am… very proud of you."
My head actually jerks.
"Proud?" I echo, small and stupid.
"For surviving," she says simply. "For listening when we asked you
to wear the dampener. For not accepting every spark your Echo offered you. For
asking Diana to send your sponsorship money to your parents instead of buying a
tower of shoes." There's a tiny pause. "And for bringing fries to my child."
Heat slams into my face so hard I'm surprised I don't flash to
steam.
"She—she told you?" I squeak.
"Of course she told her," Leo says, delighted. "You think Lía gets
a surprise burger and does not file an emotional incident report?"
Lía's ears go a little pink. "I did not—" she starts, then stops.
"I… mentioned it."
Luciana looks at the bag, now parked reverently on the counter.
"They were very good," she says. "The few bites I was permitted to
steal."
"You stole exactly one fry," Lía mutters.
"I counted two," Leo says.
"Three," Diana chimes in. "I was there. For science."
"See?" Luciana spreads her hands a little. "Consensus. Three fries.
A crime, but a forgivable one."
I laugh, helplessly, the tension finally cracking. The Director of
the Global League stole fries from my off-campus peace offering. And is joking
about it. In my kitchen.
Something in my chest unknots.
She sobers after a moment, looking back at me.
"I will not keep you long in business mode," she says. "This is
supposed to be family time, and your first day has already been… quite full. I
wanted only to say three things to you in person."
She holds up a finger.
"One," she says. "You belong here. Not as a favor, not as an
experiment, not as someone's charity case. Your admissions scores, your
assessment, your behavior under stress—all of it says you deserve to stand in
these halls. If anyone implies otherwise, send them to me."
My eyes sting. I blink fast.
She lifts a second finger.
"Two," she says. "We will talk more, when you are ready, about your
parents. About security, relocation, money. Nothing will be done without your
consent and theirs. My wife and I know what it is to be… proud and wary, both.
We will tread carefully."
Alice glances over at that, eyes soft, then goes back to stirring
something on the stove.
"And three," Luciana says, raising the last finger. "You are not an
obligation. Not to me. Not to my wife. Not to my kids. You are a person I am
glad is alive. I would like to get to know you as that person, not only as 'the
Archive.' That is… my selfish request."
My throat closes up completely. I can't get words out around the
knot. So, I nod. Probably a lot more intensely than I mean to.
She smiles, small and real.
"Good," she says. "Then we are in agreement."
From the kitchen, Alice claps her hands lightly.
"All right, enough making my mentee cry," she says. "Everyone to
the table. Food before feelings. Or at least during feelings."
Diana snaps her fingers.
"You heard the boss," she says. "Chairs, people. Leo, napkins. Lía,
drinks. Sol, you sit where you want. You've earned first pick."
I move almost on autopilot, sliding into a seat where I can see
everyone—the twins across from each other, Alice near the head, Diana wedged
between me and Leo, and Luciana at the other end, posture relaxed but never
really off-guard.
Bowls appear. Rice, beans, some kind of stir-fry that smells like
home and not-home at the same time. Alice bosses Leo into washing his hands
again when he tries to sneak a bite. Diana steals a piece of meat and yelps
when it's too hot. Lía carefully sets my glass down on a coaster like she's
been briefed on all my quirks. Luciana watches the whole thing with that small,
quiet smile, like a queen in exile who has decided that this, actually, is the
real throne room.
As plates fill and the table settles into the soft chaos of a
family meal, I catch her looking at me again. Not analyzing. Not assessing.
Just… seeing me.
I still don't know what tomorrow's team training will look like. I
still don't know what it means to be Echo-Blooded Archive with S-class twins as
my teammates.
But with my feet bare on my own clean floor, my house clothes on,
and the Director of the Global League happily eating food in my kitchen while
scolding her son for speaking with his mouth full—
For the first time, "belonging" doesn't feel like a hypothetical.
It feels like this.
⸻
I clear my throat and end up coughing a little, rice going down the
wrong way. Everyone glances at me; I take a sip of water, heart suddenly
hammering for a totally different reason.
There's an empty chair at the table. It's been there the whole
time, but now it's… there.
I stare at it for a second, then blurt, a little too fast, "Um.
Rafe. He should—he should be here too."
Silence drops over the table like somebody hit mute.
Leo actually stops mid-reach for the tortillas. Lía's chopsticks
pause halfway to her mouth. Diana's eyebrows go up so hard they practically hit
her hairline. Alice's eyes narrow in that processing ten things at once
way.
At the far end of the table, Luciana's gaze shifts to me, steady
and intent.
I immediately want to sink under my chair, but I've already said
it, so I push on.
"I mean," I add, fingers twisting in my napkin, "this is… family
dinner, right? And he's… family. And he already got yelled at and stuff, and he
looked really scared after, and I know what it feels like to be on the outside
of the door when everyone else is… here." My throat wobbles. "So. Um.
Logically, he should be here too."
Leo exhales slowly.
"You are," he says, "insanely forgiving."
Diana leans back, lips quirking.
"Nah," she says. "She's Forge. She's doing long-term systems math.
'Don't fracture the family unit over one idiot choice.'"
"It wasn't just one choice," Lía says quietly. She's looking at me,
not unkind, just very direct. "He hurt you. Physically and emotionally."
"I know," I say. My palms are damp; my dampener hums softly. "And
I'm still… mad. I think. I don't have words for it yet. But also—"
I gesture vaguely at all of them.
"You're all doing all this stuff for me, and I don't want to be the
reason your family feels like it has to… pick sides."
Another small silence.
Then Luciana sets her chopsticks down, very precisely.
"Sol," she says. "Look at me."
I do.
Her green eyes are softer than they were in any broadcast I've ever
seen, but they're still sharp enough to cut.
"First," she says, "thank you. That is… very generous. More
generous than many adults I have worked with. Second: your comfort and safety
come before any abstract idea of 'family unity.' If you did not want Rafe here,
that would be enough. We would not think less of you."
I swallow.
"I'm… not sure what I want," I admit. "Part of me wants him to trip
into a puddle of melted cheese. Part of me felt really bad seeing his face
after he realized what he'd done." I tug my braid. "Is there a setting between
'banished forever' and 'everything is fine now'?"
Alice huffs a quiet laugh.
"Yes," she says. "It's called 'supervised contact with clear
boundaries.'"
"Ah," Diana says. "The Latino eldest-child solution."
Leo snorts into his water.
Luciana's mouth twitches, but her tone stays serious.
"He is under restriction," she says. "He eats separately, attends
extra counseling, has lost certain privileges. That will not change because you
feel sorry for him. Actions have consequences. However…"
She tilts her head.
"If you are asking that he be included at this table, we can… try.
With conditions."
My heart thumps.
"Conditions like… no touching?" I ask. "No surprise contact. No
powers. And if I say I need him to leave, he leaves, no debate."
"Those seem reasonable," Lía says immediately.
"Non-negotiable," Alice adds.
Luciana nods once.
"Agreed," she says. Then, to me: "Are you certain you want to do
this tonight? You are allowed to change your mind."
I sit with it for a second. My stomach flips; my scraped palms
twinge. I picture Rafe's face outside the auditorium, shocked and guilty and
small. I picture the empty chair.
I take a slow breath. In for four, hold for two, out for six.
Diana glances at me like she sees the counting and gives the
tiniest nod.
"I'm… not certain," I say honestly. "But I think… I'd regret not
trying more than I'll regret trying and hating it."
Luciana studies me another long second.
"Very well," she says softly.
She taps her band, sending a short, tight message I can't see.
Several minutes later, there's a hesitant knock at the outer door.
Every power sense at the table shifts. Leo straightens. Lía's aura
tightens. Diana casually picks up a spoon like she can and will hit someone
with it if needed. Alice stands, walks to the door, and opens it.
Rafe stands there, hands empty. He looks… rough around the edges.
House Hearth jacket instead of Radiant today, hair slightly damp like he
recently threw water on his face in a sink. There are new smudges under his
eyes, like sleep has been optional.
He blinks at the room beyond Alice's shoulder, clearly expecting
just an adult, not the full ensemble.
"Uh," he says. "I got a ping. 'Come up. Don't argue.'" His gaze
skims past her and lands on me, then jerks away. "If this is about more
punishment, I—"
"It's dinner," Alice says. "With conditions. Come in."
He hesitates, then steps over the threshold like it might bite him.
When his eyes find the empty chair and then me again, his whole posture goes
weird—like he wants to shrink and straighten at the same time.
"I—" he starts, then shuts his mouth.
Luciana doesn't get up, but somehow the space tilts toward her
anyway.
"Ground rules," she says, before he can fumble it worse. "No
touching Sol. No power use. If she asks you to leave, you leave. You are here
because she requested it. Not because we think you 'deserve' a normal family
meal yet. Understood?"
He flinches like the words physically hit, but he nods.
"Yes, Mother." His voice cracks a little on the word.
My chest does something painful and complicated.
"Good," she says. She gestures to the empty chair—across from me,
diagonal, with the table between us. Safe distance. "Sit. Eat. Listen more than
you speak."
He obeys, movements careful. He keeps his hands visible on the
table, fingers laced, like he's afraid hiding them will be interpreted as a
threat.
No one says anything for a beat.
Then Diana, bless her chaotic soul, drops a tortilla onto his
plate.
"Eat, dumbass," she says. "You look like you've been living on
vending-machine coffee and guilt."
He huffs out something that might, in a different universe, be a
laugh.
"Guilt is zero-calorie," he mutters.
"Not sustainable fuel," Alice says dryly, loading his plate with
rice and beans before he can protest.
Conversation starts up again, halting at first, then smoothing
out—Leo telling a dramatic version of the In-N-Out heist, Diana inventing
increasingly ridiculous "World League" team names, Alice and Luciana trading
wry remarks about Board politics.
Rafe mostly stays quiet. He eats like someone who isn't used to
getting second helpings, and keeps glancing at me, then away, like his guilt
has gravity.
I focus on my own plate, on not spilling, on breathing. On the fact
that my heart is pounding but my skin is not crackling. The dampener hum stays
low and steady.
At one point, when there's a lull and everyone's mid-bite, he
finally speaks, voice low.
"Thank you," he says, eyes fixed on his plate.
It's not clear who he's talking to until he adds, even quieter,
"for… letting me be here."
My fork pauses.
"You're welcome," I say, because it feels rude not to. My voice
sounds small, but it doesn't shake. "We're… all working on things."
He risks looking up at me. There's a flash of something in his
expression—shame, fear, fierce protectiveness he completely misdirected.
"I'm working on 'don't be an asshole,'" he says, with a bitter
little half-smile. "Progress is… ongoing."
Leo snorts. "Growth arc unlocked."
"Level one," Diana says. "Apologize without making it about you.
Level two: stop starting fights in front of auditoriums."
"Level three," Lía adds calmly, "is learning to ask for help before
your fear makes you cruel."
Rafe flinches, but he nods.
"Copy that," he says.
The moment stretches, then breaks as Alice demands a story from Leo
about his first disastrous team scrimmage, and the focus moves away from me
again.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Rafe is here. At my table. At our table. Under watch, under
rules, under a mountain of consequences. But he's not alone in some corner
eating cold food while we pretend he doesn't exist.
It's messy. It hurts. It's absolutely not "fixed."
But as I sit there in my inside clothes, bare feet tucked on my
chair, surrounded by too many voices and clinking dishes and overlapping
powers—and as my skin stays blessedly, beautifully quiet—I realize something:
This is what Forge would call a working prototype.
Not perfect. Not finished.
But real.
⸻
The story about Leo's first scrimmage is so ridiculous—something
about misjudging a hard-light bridge, falling three stories, and being caught
by a very annoyed Hearth student—that it loosens everyone up again. By the time
we're done, the table looks like a minor battlefield: empty bowls, smeared
plates, a barren tortillero.
Alice claps once.
"All right," she says. "We have fed the disasters. Now: chores."
"Diana and I will do dishes," Leo says instantly, already halfway
out of his chair.
"You will help," Alice corrects, "but you are not putting
another glass near running water, Leonardo. You remember what happened last
time."
"That plate jumped—"
"It did not jump."
"It feared your aura of judgment."
"Sink. Now."
They shuffle off, bickering. Water runs, cupboards open and close.
Diana starts humming some soap opera theme at obnoxious volume.
At the table, it ends up just me, Lía, Rafe, and Luciana in a
little pocket of relative quiet.
I pick at a stray grain of rice with my fork, then clear my throat.
"Um," I say. "So. Tomorrow. Team training."
Rafe's head tilts. Lía's eyes sharpen a fraction.
"What would you like to know?" Luciana asks. There's no teasing in
it, just genuine invitation.
"Everything?" I say weakly. "But, like… the short version. We got
the schedule, but not the… vibe."
Lía sets her chopsticks down, folding her hands neatly on the
table.
"Morning block is first-year team assessment," she says. "Basic
drills, field navigation, communication tests. They will set simple
objectives—retrieve an item, defend a point, extract a 'civilian.' You will be
observed on how you coordinate; not just how strong you are individually."
"And afternoon?" I ask.
"Simulated missions in the closed arena," she says. "No live fire.
Mostly hard-light constructs and programmable terrain. They will push your
stress responses. The goal is to see how you handle… friction."
"Friction meaning 'things go wrong and someone yells'?" I say.
"Precisely," she says, almost pleased.
I glance at Rafe. He's been quiet, but he's listening hard, jaw
tight.
"You've done… all this already," I say to him. "Three years of it."
"Three and change," he mutters. "I started a year late. But yeah."
My fingers twist in my napkin.
"Any advice?" I ask before I can talk myself out of it. "Like, top
three 'don't die, don't puke, don't get kicked out of the arena' tips?"
His gaze flicks to Luciana, then to Lía, checking—for permission,
maybe. No one stops him.
He exhales.
"Okay," he says. "Rule one for day-one team drills: don't try to
prove you're the strongest. Everyone else is already trying that, and it makes
them stupid. Be the one who proves you're reliable."
I nod slowly. That… actually makes sense.
"Rule two," he continues, eyes on the table. "Say what you see.
Even if it feels obvious or dumb. Half the time, comms breakdowns happen
because someone assumed everyone knew something they didn't."
"Forge training agrees," Lía says quietly.
"And rule three," Rafe finishes, "pick one person on your team to
listen to when everything goes sideways. Not because they're better than you,
but because having one voice to follow in the chaos keeps you from freezing.
You can argue about it later in debrief. In the moment, commit."
There's a tiny silence.
"You're good at this," I say before I can stop myself.
He flinches like I poked a bruise.
"I'm good at knowing it," he says. "Not always at… doing
it."
"Knowing is step one," Luciana says. There's no softness in her
tone, but there's no scorn either. Just fact. "Application will come."
She turns back to me.
"For your team," she says, "it will be… tempting to default to my
children for leadership. They have experience. Rank. S-class aura. People will
expect it." Her mouth curves faintly. "Do not be afraid to disagree with them."
"Within reason," Lía adds.
"Yes, within reason," Luciana agrees. "But remember, you are Forge.
Your role is to see angles they do not, to ask 'why' when everyone else is
shouting 'go.' They will need that. You are not their mascot."
The word hits enough of the right and wrong places in my brain that
I almost physically jerk.
"I'll… try," I say. "To speak up. And not just… follow."
"Good," she says.
Water runs in the kitchen; Diana yelps, "Leo, I swear to God, that
was my foot," followed by the sound of a dish being rescued from doom.
Lía shifts slightly, turning more toward me.
"If it helps," she says, "we can establish roles before tomorrow.
Clear expectations lower anxiety."
I perk up a little.
"Yes," I say, maybe too fast. "Please."
"Very well." She ticks points off on her fingers. "You: battlefield
analysis, comms tracking, Echo calibration. You will not be expected to pull
abilities in team training until you and Dr. Sato agree you are ready. Your job
is information and support."
"Okay," I murmur, trying that shape on in my head. "Support. Info."
"Leo," she continues, "frontline engagement, distraction, damage
mitigation. He is very good at being loud."
From the kitchen: "I HEARD THAT."
"You were meant to," she replies calmly, then looks back at me. "I
will coordinate shielding, hard-light structures, and macro-tactics. Broad
strokes. You will handle fine detail."
"Macro and micro," I say. "Got it."
"We also may have a Hearth and a Veil rotated in for some drills,"
she adds. "Not fixed team members yet. You should expect variables."
"Forge nightmare," I mumble. "No stable dataset."
"Forge dream," she counters. "Plenty of samples."
I can't help it; I grin.
The knot in my chest eases another notch. Team training still
sounds terrifying, but now it's terrifying with bullet points.
That, I can work with.
Luciana glances at the clock projected on her band and sighs, a
little regretful.
"I must go soon," she says. "There is a briefing at dawn with Tokyo
and Nairobi, and I would prefer to sleep at least some hours before I argue
with three time zones."
"Coward," Alice mutters fondly from the sink.
Luciana rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blouse, and
the room shifts again—gravity reasserting itself. She moves around the table,
touching shoulders as she passes: a brief squeeze for Lía, a quick ruffle of
Leo's hair when he pokes his head out of the kitchen, a gentle tap on Diana's
arm.
When she reaches me, she pauses.
"Do I—" I start, half-standing, not sure if I'm supposed to bow or
shake hands or—
She settles it by simply resting her hand, very lightly, on my
shoulder. No pressure. No power spike. Just warm weight for the span of a
breath.
"Sleep well, Sol," she says. "Tomorrow is important. But it is not
a test you have to ace on the first attempt. It is practice. Nothing more."
My throat tightens.
"I'll… try to remember that," I say.
"Good." Her hand squeezes once, then lifts. "And if your brain
argues, tell it the Director of the League says it is wrong."
A laugh bubbles out, startled and real.
"Yes, ma'am."
There's the ghost of a smile.
"Luciana," she corrects gently. "Or Mother, if you ever wish."
With that, she moves to the door. Alice dries her hands and goes
with her; they disappear into the corridor in a low stream of murmured
logistics and shared glances that make it very obvious they've been doing this
dance for decades.
The suite feels… quieter when the door closes. Not empty—just less
charged.
Rafe clears his throat.
"I should—uh—go," he says, pushing his chair back. "Curfew
check-in. And I'm supposed to write three pages about 'why what I did was
wrong' like I'm in kindergarten."
"Because you are emotionally in kindergarten," Diana says sweetly.
"Don't worry, I'll grade it."
He makes a face, but there's no real heat in it.
On impulse, before he can bolt, I speak up.
"Rafe?"
He stops, hand on the back of his chair.
"Yeah?"
I fiddle with my braid, words tangling.
"Thank you. For what you said. About team training. It… helped."
He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing.
"Thanks for… letting me sit here," he says. "I know I don't…
deserve it. Yet."
"You don't have to deserve dinner," I say quietly. "Just… keep
doing the work."
His mouth twists in something halfway between a grimace and a
smile.
"Working on it," he says. "Night, Sol."
"Goodnight."
He raises a hand in a vague wave to the twins and Diana, then slips
out. The door closes behind him with a soft thunk.
Diana stretches, arms over her head, then flops dramatically into
the chair next to me.
"Whew," she says. "Emotional boss fight cleared. Proud of us."
Leo leans in from the kitchen doorway, dish towel over his
shoulder.
"So proud," he says. "Ten out of ten, would share trauma dinner
again."
Lía just exhales slowly, then looks at me.
"Pressure contact?" she asks, holding out a hand. "For… debrief
comfort."
Something in my chest flips.
I nod and slide my hand into hers under the table. Warm. Steady. No
sparks.
"Tomorrow," she says, with that careful precision of hers, "we will
attend team training. We will make mistakes. We will learn. We will come back
here. And we will eat again."
It sounds simple when she says it. Like a plan. Like a promise.
"Okay," I whisper. "Deal."
Diana grins.
"Welcome to Team Forge-01," she declares. "We're dysfunctional, but
we have snacks."
Leo tosses a dish towel at her.
"And an Echo," he says. "Don't forget the Echo."
I lean back in my chair, fingers curled around Lía's, the hum of
the dampener low and steady on my wrist and let their voices wash over me.
Tomorrow is team training.
Tonight, I'm home.
⸻
I think for a second, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
"Hey, Diana?" I say.
She's half-curled in the armchair now, one leg over the arm, stylus
tucked behind her ear, comm band blinking like a tiny, overworked city.
"Yeah, Archive?" she answers.
"Why aren't you on Team Twin?" I blurt. "I mean, you're only a year
ahead of them. You must've overlapped. You were already at Aeternum when they
got here. You could have joined them after first year… right?"
All three of them—Diana on the chair, Leo on the couch, Lía at the
desk—go still in the same weird, synchronized way.
Then, in unison:
"…Huh," Leo says.
"…That is a good question," Lía admits.
"…Why didn't I?" Diana mutters, tapping her chin.
She actually looks thrown for a second, like she's never had to say
it out loud.
"Okay, hang on," she says, sitting up a bit straighter. "We're
doing this Forge-style. Reasons in order."
She holds up one finger.
"Reason one: admin took one look at 'S-class Radiant, S-class
hybrid, Veil teleporter with truthveil, all children of the Director of the
Global League' and went, absolutely not." She puts on a prim Board voice.
"'Competitive stacking, conflict of interest, PR risk, blah blah blah.'"
Leo snorts.
"They called it 'excessive power density,'" he says. "I heard
Mother repeat it three times like it was personally offensive."
"It was personally offensive," Lía says mildly.
Diana holds up a second finger.
"Reason two: safety and optics," she says. "After… everything,
nobody wanted all of us in the same strike unit. Growing up we weren't even
allowed in the same training group half the time. 'Risk distribution.'" She
air-quotes. "If something goes wrong, you don't want all the Director's kids in
one blast radius."
That lands quiet and heavy. I don't know what "after everything"
means, but it seems significant.
Leo's mouth twists.
"Mother has a whole speech about not putting all your hearts in one
basket," he says. "We've heard it since we were shorter than the kitchen
counter."
"Reason three," Diana continues, tapping her knee now, "is… me."
She grimaces slightly. "When the twins started here as first-years, I was
already knee-deep in my own team stuff. Second-year Veil track, different
schedule, different tower. By the time we could have pushed for a formal team
switch, the assistant program opened up. I jumped."
"Why?" I ask. "You'd be good on their team. Teleport, field sense,
'bully Radiants into reading their schedules'—"
"Exactly," she cuts in, but she's smiling. "I like being the
off-field node. I like hovering between teams, doing logistics, handling PR,
making sure nobody forgets to eat or passes out in a corridor. If I'd joined
their roster, I'd be locked into just one unit. This way, I get to be useful to
lots of people."
Leo clicks his tongue.
"Also, be honest," he says. "Eighteen-year-old us on one
competitive team with you? We would have killed each other by midterms."
"Statistically inevitable," Diana agrees. "Two hyper-competitive
S-classes and one over-caffeinated Veil in the same bracket? The arena would
still be on fire."
"Mother's blood pressure would never recover," Lía adds, deadpan.
We all picture that for a beat—three younger, sharper versions of
them, no buffers, shoved into the same ranked team.
Yeah. Disaster.
"So, admin said no, safety said no, and you said… also no," I
summarize.
Diana shrugs.
"I said 'yes, but differently,'" she corrects. "I'm still on their
team, just not on the leaderboard. I'm the off-field slot—support, handler,
teleport-out-if-things-go-bad guy. It fits my powers and my brain better than
being just 'the third Aranda on the scoreboard.'"
Lía nods once.
"We asked, once," she admits. "First year. They said it would be…
unwise. Diana did not push. Neither did we."
"Because we're not actually trying to speed-run Mother's
stress-induced cardiac event," Leo says. "Anymore."
They all look at each other, and there's this quiet, shared oh
between them—like they've just realized, with me, that a choice they all
absorbed as "the way it is" was also a choice Diana made for herself.
"So now," Diana says, turning back to me, "Team Twin gets their
little murder squad. I get to be the responsible sister who shows up with
snacks, contracts, and exit portals. Everybody wins."
"And me?" I ask. "Where do I fit in that structure?"
Three sets of eyes swing back to me.
"You," Diana says, grinning, "are the variable no one planned for.
The extra node. Forge-01 is weird—third-year power bracket, first-year baby,
floating Veil support, Director parents, Echo wildcard. Admin's spreadsheets
hate you."
She pats my arm.
"I think that's beautiful."
"That sounds mildly cursed," I say.
"Welcome to Aeternum," Leo says. "If it's not mildly cursed, it's
not important."
"Functional curse," Lía says. "We will make it work."
⸻
Leo squints at me over the back of the couch.
"Diana said you're seventeen, right? Are you a January or February
baby like me and Lía? We started at seventeen too."
There it is. The inevitable question.
It is January now. And yeah, the usual thing makes
sense—elementary cut-off in February, kids starting kinder at
four-going-on-five. That's probably what happened with them.
Except… that's not how it went for me.
Heat creeps into my face. I suddenly become very interested in a
random gold accent line on the wall.
"Um," I say, tapping my fingers lightly against my knee. "My
birthday is actually in November."
I lock onto the shimmer of the gold trim like it's the most
fascinating thing I've ever seen.
There's a small silence while three Aranda-Navarro brains do the
math.
"…Wait," Leo says slowly. "November. Like. Last November?"
I nod, still staring at the wall.
"So, you turned seventeen in November," Diana says, counting on her
fingers. "It's January now. Which means when you started high school you were—"
"Normal," I cut in quickly. "Normal age. I just… finished early."
The words feel weird coming out. I don't talk about that much. Back
home it always sounded like bragging, or like I thought I was better than
everyone else.
"You graduated a year early," Lía says, voice soft but precise. Not
a question. Just… placing it. "You skipped."
I shrug, scratching at a nonexistent spot on my dampener band.
"Uh. Yeah. I did the last two years together. They… let me. I had
enough credits, and it was cheaper for my parents and—" I flap a hand. "It's
not a big deal."
Three stares pin me to the couch.
"That is literally the definition of a big deal," Leo says. "You
tiny goblin. You're not just a baby Forge, you're an accelerated baby Forge."
Diana claps once, delighted.
"Oh my God, you're a year-early grad? Of course you are. This
explains so much about your vibe."
"'Vibe'?" I squeak.
"Yeah," she says. "The 'I learned to color-code my trauma in AP
classes' vibe."
Lía's mouth curves in that almost-smile.
"It also explains why your foundational coursework is… unusually
solid for a first-year," she says. "Your file mentioned dual-enrollment
credits. I did not realize it corresponded to a compressed high school
timeline."
"You read my file?" I blurt.
She blinks.
"Of course," she says, like that's obvious. "You are my teammate.
And living in my tower. It would be negligent not to."
Leo groans.
"Oh my God, Lía, you can't just say 'I read your entire academic
history' like that, you're going to give her an aneurysm."
"It was only thirty-seven pages," she says.
"ONLY—" I squeak again, then abort the noise with a hand over my
face.
Diana leans toward me, bumping my knee with hers.
"Hey," she says. "For the record? You finishing high school early
isn't a weird thing you have to hide. It's context. It explains why your brain
is always three moves ahead and also why you panic when you don't have a plan."
"I do not panic," I mutter.
All three of them look at me.
"…All the time," I amend.
Leo grins.
"Don't worry about the age gap," he says. "We started at seventeen
too. You're just… compressed edition. Director's Cut."
"That's not how director's cuts work," I say weakly.
"Forge Edition, then," he amends. "Extra content, more charts."
Lía tilts her head, studying me.
"Being younger does not make you lesser," she says. "It only means
we must be more careful with pacing. You are not behind. In some areas, you
are… unpleasantly ahead."
"Unpleasantly?" I repeat, uneasy.
"In the ways you have had to work," she says simply. "And worry.
And carry things alone."
The words land somewhere deep and sore.
I duck my head, suddenly fascinated with the hem of my house shirt.
"I just… wanted to get here faster," I admit quietly. "Out. To
something else. I didn't want my parents to keep paying for supplies and bus
passes when I could be… doing something."
"Mission accomplished," Diana says, softer now. "You're here. And
now you get to be seventeen. Even if your transcript thinks you're thirty."
"Don't worry," Leo adds, swinging his feet up on the coffee table.
"We're excellent at forced fun. We will annoy you into acting your age at least
twice a week."
"At most twice," Lía says primly.
"No promises," Diana says.
I huff out a laugh despite myself. The knot of embarrassment
loosens a little.
"Okay," I say. "Fine. Yes. I'm a November baby. I finished high
school early. Please do not make a spreadsheet about it."
Lía doesn't answer.
Which, frankly, is more worrying than if she'd said yes.
⸻
"So, February birthday," I say later, doing the quick mental math
out loud. "So, you two will be turning twenty. And Diana, you're a fourth year,
so… twenty-one?"
Diana shakes her head, space-bun bobbles swaying.
"Nope," she says. "Rafe and I started kinder a year late. Mother
was still kinda worried about The Incident™, so she waited. I am actually
twenty-three. Rafe is twenty-two, birthday coming soon. December for me,
January for him."
My brain stutters.
"Wait, so I'm the baby-baby," I say slowly. "You two—" I point at
the twins "—are nineteen-going-on-twenty. And you and Rafe are twenty-three.
I'm literally the only one whose age starts with a one and stays there all
year."
Leo's grin goes wide.
"Tiny," he declares. "Pocket-sized Forge."
"I'm not pocket-sized," I protest on instinct. "I'm taller than
Lía."
"That is irrelevant," Lía says, blue eyes very serene. "You are
younger. Therefore: baby."
Diana snaps her fingers.
"Legally distinct from 'kid sidekick,' though," she adds.
"Important branding difference. You're a full hero-track student who just
happens to be our emotional support seventeen-year-old."
"That's not better," I mutter, but my cheeks are warm in a way that
isn't entirely embarrassment.
"So, you and Rafe started school a year late because… security." I
continue.
"Because Mother was still having night terrors about hospital wards
and custody battles," Diana says more gently. "She didn't want us anywhere near
big institutions until she'd triple-checked every exit. So, we stayed home
another year. By the time she trusted a school, we were six."
"And we started on time," Leo adds. "Which is why they're two years
below us on paper, three years below on the 'please act your age' scale."
"That is inaccurate," Lía says, offended in a very calm way.
"Okay, emotionally twenty-seven, my bad," he corrects.
I huff a laugh.
"So, to summarize," I say, counting off on my fingers, "I'm
seventeen with a rushed diploma. You two are nineteen-going-on-twenty with
normal diplomas and S-class stress. Diana and Rafe are twenty-three with
delayed kindergarten and a shared tragic backstory."
"Congratulations," Diana says. "You have unlocked: Family Level
Design."
Leo leans back, hands behind his head.
"And given all that," he says, smug, "we are now officially,
irrevocably, the older ones. Which means we get to say things like 'kiddo' and
'when I was your age' and—"
"If you 'when I was your age' me, I will Echo your light and turn
your hair into a highlighter," I threaten.
He looks genuinely delighted.
"God, I love her," he tells the ceiling.
"Noted," Diana says dryly, as if she really is taking minutes.
Lía watches me for a second, head tilted just so.
"Age differentials matter," she says, quieter. "For pacing.
Expectations. But they do not define… worth." She searches for the word, then
nods once, satisfied. "You are not 'behind.' You are simply at a different
coordinate on the timeline."
"Forge translation," Diana adds. "You're the youngest node in a
very weird network. That just means we route some things around you until
you're ready, not that you're less important."
Something in my chest loosens at that, slow and careful.
"Okay," I say. "So, I'm the baby. With a weird transcript. You're
the olds. With trauma and better health insurance."
"All facts," Leo says cheerfully.
"Debatable," Lía murmurs about the health insurance, but she
doesn't argue the rest.
Diana claps her hands once, decisive.
"All right, my underage Forge," she says. "Curfew. You have team
training in the morning, and as one of your many slightly older cousin siblings,
I am now contractually obligated to bully you into sleeping."
I make a face, but I'm already pushing up from the couch, dampener
band humming softly at my wrist.
"Yes, Tía Diana," I grumble.
Her eyes gleam.
"Careful," she says. "I will take that and run with it."
Leo snickers. "Do it. Collect nieces."
"You are on thin ice," she tells him. "Both of you. Go brush your
teeth, children."
Lía rises too, smoothing her House jacket. As I pass her on the way
to the stairs, she taps her knuckles lightly against my arm—her quiet version
of a goodnight hug.
"Sleep, Sol," she says. "Tomorrow, we train. Tonight, we rest."
"Copy that," I say, suddenly, stupidly glad that no matter what
numbers are on our birth certificates, we're all on the same day on the
schedule.
Same tower. Same table. Same weird, complicated, stitched-together
family.
Seventeen doesn't feel so small with that behind me.