29 – Eli

It’s early afternoon when we get back to the house, the sun hanging high in a bright blue sky. The air here feels different than in Eden or Arcmire – cleaner somehow, as if the mountains themselves filter out the harshness of the world. Amari and Papa are already there, and I can tell by Papa’s barely contained excitement that he’s created something new.

“What is it?” I ask as he puts the disc-shaped object in my hand. It’s a little bigger than my hand and made of lightweight metal that catches the sunlight. Around its circumference, smaller pieces of metal protrude like fish fins breaking the surface of water. Papa’s best work always has this quality – both beautiful and deadly.

“Here, let me show you,” he says with the same look in his eyes that he gets whenever he’s about to make my world a little better. He takes the object and attaches it to my right thigh with a couple of screws. He taps one of the pieces sticking out from the side. “Now pull on that,” he says with a sly grin plastered across his face.

I pull it and a small throwing knife ejects into my hand, the metal cool against my palm.

“It’s a throwing knife dispenser!” he exclaims. “There’s eight of them in there!”

I’m not sure who is more excited over the invention, me or Papa. These moments remind me of when he used to present new toys to Eli and me, before everything changed. He had the same sparkle in his eyes then, the same pride in making something that would bring joy to his children.

After another of Lydia’s delicious meals – she has a way of making even simple food taste like it came from Fairebourne’s finest kitchens – she and Isaiah invite us on what they call a “post-meal constitutional.”

“My father always took one,” says Lydia, smiling. “He always said it leads to longevity. Who doesn’t want that?”

We walk across grassy plots near the vineyard, the ground soft beneath our feet. The sky stretches endlessly above us, white puffy clouds drifting like airships without purpose or destination. The children buzz around Isaiah playing some game with rules that seem to change every few minutes, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Papa walks with Amari, their heads close together as they discuss their new positions in the healing ward and tinker shop, sharing quiet laughs like they’ve known each other forever.

That’s when we hear it – music so beautiful it seems impossible in this broken world. The notes drift across the lake like something from one of Papa’s stories about the old world, when music wasn’t just something heard in taverns or chanted in Solomon’s ceremonies.

“What is that?” Amari asks, her voice filled with wonder.

“Lyra Mistvale,” Lydia explains, her own face softening at the sound. “She lives in a small cottage across the lake. A musical recluse who spends her days in nature, making the most beautiful music. Often you can hear it float across the lake like this, as if the water itself carries the sound.”

Maggie and Cornelius beg to play in the lake water, their eyes bright with the simple joy children still find in everything. Lydia gives her permission, and they splash and laugh, their happiness a counterpoint to Lyra’s haunting melody.

Amari and I decide to explore the foothills of the mountains that embrace the town like ancient guardians. As we climb, the terrain grows more challenging, but each step reveals new wonders. Wild flowers push through cracks in the rocks, their colors defying the desert’s attempts to bleach everything to dust. Gnarled trees reach for the sky like frozen dancers, their branches telling stories of survival against all odds.

“I noticed Asher watching you earlier,” Amari says as we navigate a particularly steep section. “When we were all sharing cloud cakes.”

I feel warmth creep into my cheeks that has nothing to do with the climb. “He’s… nice,” I admit. “But I don’t have time for boys right now. There are other things I need to do first.” Things like vengeance, like justice, like making sure no other siblings are torn apart by Solomon’s cruelty.

We find a large rock overlooking Graven Pointe and settle there to rest. The town spreads out below us like a map of possibility, the lake catching sunlight and throwing it back to the sky in diamond fragments.

“Amari,” I say carefully, watching a bird circle lazily above us, “will you ever tell me why you stay covered? You don’t have to, but…”

She touches her niqab with gentle fingers. “It hides scars I’m not ready to talk about yet. Maybe someday.” There’s something in her voice that makes me think her scars might be similar to mine – not all wounds are visible, after all.

She turns to me then with kind eyes. “What about you? Would you tell me about the day you lost your legs? And Eli?”

The name sends a wave of emotion through me so strong I have to close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I look out over the town, gathering my thoughts like picking up scattered pieces of myself.

“Papa found Eli wandering the edge of the Dread Wastes when he was only three years old,” I begin. “Just a tiny thing, Papa said, clutching a broken toy and walking straight toward certain death. Papa searched for months trying to find his family, asked every trader, checked with officials. But no one had lost a little boy with eyes like starlight and a laugh that could make flowers grow in the desert.”

Amari smiles and tilts her head toward me.

“So Papa took him in,” I continue, “Made him his son, loved him like he’d been ours all along. Eli was my brother in every way that mattered. He used to tell me stories about how he’d come from the stars, fallen right out of the sky into the Wastes. Papa never corrected him – said sometimes the stories we tell ourselves are as important as the truth.”

We lie back on the warm stone and look up at the sky. Lyra’s music still drifts up to us, fainter now but still beautiful, like a dream you can almost remember.

“When I was about nine years old and Eli was seven,” I say, the memories rising like birds taking flight, “all we ever wanted to do was sneak around. We loved the thrill of taking risks and not getting caught, and we did it all the time. We would sneak into pantries and grab sweet breads – Eli always gave his share to the younger kids in Coghaven. We would climb to the tops of towers and pretend we were rulers of all we could survey. He would stand there with his arms spread wide, making up grand proclamations about how in his kingdom, everyone would have enough to eat and no one would ever be alone.”

I sit up and swallow hard. The memories come faster now, sharper. “We were always looking for a new adventure. We were partners. Explorers. Eli used to say we were gathering stories to tell the stars when they came to take him home.”

“Tell me about that day,” Amari says softly, her hand finding mine on the warm stone.

“We knew all the entrances into Fairebourne,” I say, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “And we knew the best times to sneak in. They were usually guarded, but we were small enough and young enough to go unnoticed while we watched the movements of the guards. There is one part where the wall doesn’t separate Fairebourne from Vanvale. It’s where the Sacred Platform of the Holy Charter can be seen from most of Eden.”

“What’s the Sacred Platform of the Holy Charter?” Amari asks.

“It’s where Solomon showcases his so-called divinity. Part miracle, part crowd control device. It’s electrified with divine power, or so he says. He makes a big deal about defying death and being chosen by the Great Creator. Sometimes, he’ll throw a rat or a skitterer onto the electrified surface and it will sizzle and pop before disintegrating into a cloud of smoke. Then he’ll step onto it and address the masses.”

“Is he truly empowered by the Great Creator?”

“He says so.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

“What happened when you got into Fairebourne?”

“At first it was fine. We were snooping around like always. We found a merchant selling expensive jewelry and we took some bracelets and headbands. Eli put one on – leather, just a tiny bit too big for him. He looked so silly, standing there pretending to be a Royal, making proclamations about how in his kingdom, everyone would wear crowns.”

“Sounds like you two found joy in danger,” Amari says with a smile in her voice.

“We were spotted though. A protector saw us take the headbands and yelled. We took off running, but another protector cut off our escape route. The only path left was past the Sacred Platform, but there wasn’t enough room to get by without stepping on it.” My hands clench into fists at the memory. “As we ran across it, we were both thrown through the air like being blasted from a cannon. I remember the pain clearly, like my body was being split in half. My legs felt like heavy chunks of dead weight, like bags of bricks holding me down. And then… nothing. I lost my legs, and Eli…” My voice breaks. “Eli lost everything.”

“Neeka, I’m so sorry.”

“That day I became the only person to have ever survived the platform, other than Solomon, who does so freely. I guess it was a miracle,” I scoff.

“I think you’re a miracle.” Amari’s eyes shine with tears above her niqab.

“After that, I got some proths from the local distribution center, but Papa wasn’t having it. He made these babies and I’ve been a superhero ever since. But this is why I have to get back to Eden. I have to get rid of Solomon and his stupid platform. No more children playing at being kings should die for it.”

“I understand,” Amari says, “but do you have to do it right away? Maybe we could stay here a while first. It’s so nice here.”

Lyra’s music drifts up to us again, mixing with the sounds of Maggie and Cornelius laughing by the lake below. The sun touches the mountains, setting them ablaze with golden light. For a moment, I let myself imagine staying, letting this peace seep into my bones, healing what’s broken inside me.

But then I think of Eli’s too-big headband, of his laugh when we climbed those towers, of how Papa searched for months trying to find his family before making him our own. I think of his stories about falling from the stars, and how in the end, he returned to them in a flash of Solomon’s false divinity. Some things you can’t walk away from, even with mechanical legs that can outrun the wind.

“We’ll stay for a while,” I tell Amari. “Long enough to get stronger, to learn what Isaiah and his people know. But eventually, I have to go back. I have to finish this – for Eli, for Papa, for everyone Solomon has hurt.”

As if in answer, a final note from Lyra’s music carries across the lake, holding in the air like a promise, or maybe a warning. Below us, Graven Pointe begins to light its evening lamps, each one a tiny star calling us home. But somewhere out there, Eden waits, and with it, the platform that took my brother to the real stars he loved so much.

In the growing darkness, I swear I can almost hear Eli’s laugh on the wind, still making up stories about kingdoms where no one dies for daring to dream of something better.