I can’t breathe.

Brighton isn’t my brother anymore, and even though we aren’t twins and never shared a womb or the same blood, one look at his face, and I know we’ve at least been lied to together.

I struggle to find a word, any word. All I can manage is: “What?”

“We should’ve told you,” Ma says.

“So who . . . ? And how . . . ?”

“We don’t know who your biological parents are,” she says.

“Of course you don’t, wow. If you were going to kick me out the family like this, you could’ve gotten an address to send me to.”

How is this not a nightmare?

When someone discovers they’re special in a story, there’s usually some wise adult who tells the hero what’s what about their new life. But all I have is a group of young people who are wading through their own uncertainties. Everyone is throwing darts at a board and praying to the stars they hit their target.

“I don’t get it,” Brighton says. “If Emil wasn’t born with me, then when?”

“The same day you were born,” Ma says.

“My birthday isn’t a lie, phew. All good now.” I fake a fist bump with Brighton.

“As far as the doctors could tell, you were a newborn too.”

I picture Brighton being born without me and realize that my own birth certificate must’ve been forged; I would’ve never known the difference or questioned my parents.

I want to run a flaming fist straight through the wall.

“So what happened? Someone leave me in a basket and knock on your door?”

Every time Ma cries, Brighton and I drop everything we’re doing to keep her company. If she wants privacy, she cries alone in the bathroom with the shower running or locks herself in her bedroom. But usually she lets us hug her and remind her what an incredible mother she is, and how we’re the young men we are today because of her heart.

Tonight, we keep our distance.

“After I gave birth, Leonardo wanted to get me balloons, but the helium tank in the hospital’s gift shop was empty, so he went out to find some.” Ma wipes her tears on the back of her hand. “I always pictured myself holding my child in a room with yellow daffodils and balloons, and your father wanted to make that dream come true. He left the hospital, and you were crying on a street corner two blocks away, baking under the sun. No one was around. No note or blanket. Your father never hated a stranger the way he did whoever abandoned you. He carried you back into the hospital and doctors and nurses were all over you. So was he. He was so immediately protective of you, just like he was when he held Brighton for the first time. He kept running back and forth between checking on Brighton and you.”

The Spell Walkers and Prudencia are dead silent.

Here’s this absolutely wonderful memory of our father that our mother might have taken to her grave. Brighton looks like he may cry any second.

“I didn’t get to meet you until that evening,” Ma says. “The police arrived to investigate, but when I saw how innocent you were, my heart broke even more. We don’t know if your biological parents couldn’t afford to take care of you or what darkness possessed them to abandon you in the manner they did. But we knew you were coming home with us. Your father looked at you like he didn’t trust a single other person to take care of you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We wanted to give you an easy life and make sure you never felt out of place.”

The silence in the room is broken by a “Whoa” from Wesley.

Iris is typing away on her laptop. “Mrs. Rey, where did your husband find Emil?”

“A couple blocks behind the Grand Gibbous Stadium in the Bronx,” Ma says.

“That’s a few avenues from where Bautista died,” Iris says, staring at the map on her screen. “Doesn’t line up.”

No one here knows phoenixes like I do. “Gray suns never resurrect in the same spot where they died,” I say with no life in my voice. “Defense tactic. Their ashes float away and rebuild elsewhere so they’re not attacked upon returning.”

Eva’s head is sinking, and she snaps up. “Maybe our theory about the essence being reborn in a host is all wrong. Your mother said you were burning up. It’s possible it’s not because your father found you outside, but because . . .”

“I was born in fire,” I say.

“Reborn,” Maribelle corrects again.

“What are you going to tell me next, that this marks me as some chosen one who has to win this war?” I wait for an answer, but nothing. “Oh, come on.”

“There are no chosen ones, necessarily,” Maribelle says. “We choose to fight. But you do seem to belong in this battle more than most.”

“If you join us, we’ll train you to become a formidable weapon,” Iris says. “Like Bautista was.”

Throwing flames isn’t some passive power; I get that I can make a difference in any fight. But I don’t want to become some dagger to sharpen or wand to load. “This Bautista business doesn’t mean anything, okay? It’s a past life that I don’t remember. It’s great that he was a hero, but that doesn’t mean that I have to be.”

The Spell Walkers look like they disagree.

Iris lets out a deep breath. “Unless there’s a new alchemist out there who’s responsible for this wave of stronger specters, Luna Marnette and the Blood Casters are the safe bet. We have been trying to take down Luna for years, and ever since the Blackout, the government is focused on making celestial lives a living hell while she builds her army. It looks as if she’s even recruiting celestials to advance her causes. We need all hands on deck, Emil. We can relocate you and your family, but if the Blood Casters are after you, you’re going to be running for the rest of your life.”

“She’s right, for once,” Maribelle says. “Become a Spell Walker. Get your strength up and make them regret painting a target on your back.”

These can’t be my choices. I’m shaking. “I don’t want these powers.”

“Then stay here and figure out how to undo them,” Maribelle says, like she has no time for my resistance, as if we’re moments away from entering battle. “Bautista and Sera were working on a cure to expel a specter’s power, but Emil, you will never be able to save yourself from this cycle of war unless you help end the Blood Casters once and for all. It’s the least you can do since you technically created this evil.”

“I didn’t do this!”

I shoot for the door, and once I’m out in the hallway, I’m tempted to escape back onto the streets. But then what? I find the staircase that leads to the roof, where I press down onto the ledge so hard my wrists might snap. There aren’t enough deep breaths to escape the weight of the world crushing me, so I scream at the Crowned Dreamer as if the constellation is to blame for all of this misery.

“Hey,” Brighton calls from behind.

I hop onto a generator and stare out into the city, and Brighton joins me.

“Your powers can make a difference,” Brighton says after a stretch of silence. “This was Little Emil’s dream.”

“I didn’t know any better back then.”