A story had no owner ship. A story could break its bones, grow wings, soar out of reach and dive out of sight in the time it took just to draw breath. It meant we weren’t walking a cut path. We carved it into existence withevery step.

Guilt accretes. It builds and builds, whittling stairways and spires in the heart until a person can carry a city of hopelessness inside them.My guilt was building a universe.

But for the first time, I wanted to believe in the things that outlasted us: the stories that came to life in a child’s head, the fear of the dark, the hunger to live. Those were the footsteps that not even Time could discover and erase, because they lived far out of reach, in the song of blood coursing through veins and in the quiet threads that made up dreams. I wanted to hold the hope of those tales within me and follow it like a lure all the way back to myself.

But Vikram had seen through every facet, holding me against the light as if I truly were translucent, and instead of making me feel as if I had been looked through and found wanting, I felt . . . seen.

I never dared to hope for someone who challengedand respected me, knew me at my worst and still coaxed out my best. And yet I had found that in the unlikeliest of places and most inconvenient of people. Wasn’t that enough to fight for? Could I live with knowing that I’d left him standing in the shadows . . . waiting for me?I couldn’t. And that was all the answer I needed.

In Bharata, I guarded myself. Weakness was a privilege. It divided you, snipped out your secrets and gave every sliver power over you. I didn’t have parts to spare. Bharata called me their Jewel, and maybe I was like one. Not sparkling or precious. But a cold thing wearing a hundred faces. Like facets on a gem. One for every person.

I didn’t revel in death, but I didn’t hate it either. Death had raised me, like an older sibling. Amidst death, I had found my bearings as a soldier. Surrounded by death, I had found my place as a leader.

Before I left Alaka, I told Vikram I didn’t know myself. Now I wasstaring at the depths of what that meant. Heroine. Savior. Villain. What were those words but different fistfuls of a tale that all depended on who was doing the telling? You see, a story is not just a thing told to a child before sleep. A story is control. I saw it now. Felt the talons of that truth scrape through me.

You cannot break me with a tale, brother.”“You’re happy, aren’t you? You’re loved. You love others. I think people are convinced that if you asked the sun not to rise, it would stand down for you. But there’s only one story that people like better than a rise to fame—a fall from grace. And I can make it swift. And I can take all this away. You see, a story is not just a thing told to a child before sleep. A story is control.