I’ve still got a few days before I go; maybe Prudencia and I can click into place before then. Find a way to make it work across the country.

We get deeper into Whisper Fields, named so in honor of Gunnar Whisper, a late-bloomer celestial who took charge in the Undying Battle of Fountain Stone against gangs of necromancers. The textbooks of course credit the win to ordinary soldiers who fought off those ghost-raising maniacs with wands, gem-grenades, and gauntlets—all man-made by celestials, though people are quick to forget that—but I’m not shy about making sure anyone and everyone knows about Gunnar’s glory and how proud I am to share Bronx roots with this hero who truly saved the day. The statue is erected by the lake where Gunnar first came into his power of clairvoyance at twenty-three years old, and I always feel this electricity in the air whenever I’m near it, like maybe I’m moments away from discovering I’m a celestial too, who will one day have a park named after me, or that Prudencia and I will take a step into a cooler future together.

But as I approach Gunnar’s bronze monument today, there’s this dread unlike I’ve ever had before. I expected to find dozens of Brightsiders waiting for me underneath the shade provided by Gunnar’s salute, but I can only make out . . . one, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven. Seven people.

“No one showed,” I say.

“There are fans literally waving at you,” Emil says.

“Seven people.”

“It’s still early.”

“And train traffic,” Prudencia says.

“Got any more excuses?” I point at the blue skies. “Should we blame the weather too?” I put on a smile and wave back at my fans. “Let’s knock this out.”

I chat with the six Brightsiders—turns out the seventh person is a friend tagging along—about their favorite videos. I grow more and more self-conscious as Emil films, my original vision for the video with big crowds surrounding me completely collapsing. Someone of Lore’s caliber—a successful YouTuber—would never have to learn their fans’ names or have lengthy conversations outside the comments sections, because of their high demand. I bottle those ugly feelings and put on a grateful face as a couple more people trickle in for quick hellos before the hour is up, and I’m left lounging by the lake with Prudencia and Emil, using the unsold T-shirts as a pillow.

“I know it’s not what you wanted,” Prudencia says, dipping her feet in the water. “But you made their days.”

“I’m a failure on every level. I had the superior video, and it didn’t go viral. I mean, come on, I was deep in the action. And now this meet-up was a bust, and . . . whatever.”

I shut up because complaining isn’t a good look in front of Prudencia; I’ll be a punk in front of Emil later. I gather all the swag and beeline toward the exit. Celestials are bravely playing beam-disc, which is basically Frisbee with someone’s conjured energy, but I’m not in the mood to watch other people show off their powers, so I keep it moving.

Hours pass, and I become more tightly wound, waiting for something extraordinary to happen. During my shower. When I’m changing. While we eat dinner with Ma at Emil’s favorite vegan diner in Brooklyn. After we get home, I spend time alone on the roof, staring up at the faint outline of the Crowned Dreamer, barely noticing when Emil climbs up the fire escape.

“You good?” Emil asks, tossing me my hoodie.

I’m freezing, but I can’t bring myself to put it on. “It’s not going to happen, is it?”

“No, but it’s okay. You’re already a hero because of all the stories you’re telling with Celestials of New York.”

“More like a sidekick,” I say. “Aren’t you bummed we’re not going to be the people’s champions?”

“We don’t have to be chosen ones or whatever to do good.”

We sit in silence as I pray to the Crowned Dreamer to change my life. But when midnight hits, I turn my back on the stars. We go down the fire escape, through our window, and straight into bed, where we fall asleep, as painfully ordinary as we’ve been the last eighteen years.

Five

A Cycle of Phoenixes

EMIL

The train’s air conditioner shutting down sucks in this September heat, but for once the train is getting me to the Museum of Natural Creatures early enough that I can linger a little before my shift begins. My back is sweating by the time I enter the cool indoors. It’s all good—my body is hidden thanks to the baggy work polo I ordered one size larger. I check my bag through security and throw on my name tag, stealing a second to marvel at the massive coal-black fossils of a primordial dragon suspended from the starlit ceiling. It sucks that I’ll never get to see a dragon in my lifetime, but it’s probably for the best they’re all extinct so we don’t have to worry about alchemists getting their hands on dragon blood. The way people are hunting down living creatures for power, it won’t be surprising if they’re all history soon.

I cut through the Ever-Changing Chamber, which doesn’t live up to its name anymore due to the museum’s budget being slashed, so I’m still caught up on July’s rotation of shifter art. I completely avoid the dark and chilly Hall of Basilisks, because no thanks. I had to brave it on my first day, and that was enough. I have not been about that serpent life since our sixth-grade field trip to the zoo, when this blind basilisk lunged at the barrier hoping to swallow me whole with its fanged mouth.

I reach the forked path where one stairwell leads downstairs and the other up, which during orientation I learned was intentional out of respect for the long-standing war between hydras and phoenixes, who seem magnetized to eliminate each other. The Hydra House downstairs starts off pretty innocent, with illustrations of hydras being tamed by fishermen to catch fish and ward off bigger sea animals, but it gets progressively scarier the deeper you venture. The last room shows footage of a territorial fight between a hydra horde and a cycle of phoenixes. I was speechless and heartbroken when I first saw the clip of a massive, seven-headed hydra biting phoenixes out of the sky and swallowing them whole.

Another room I haven’t returned to since.

I race up the spiral steps to my happy place, the Sunroom. Above the entrance is a stained-glass window of an egg and phoenix connected by a ring of fire. For our thirteenth birthday, Ma brought us to this exhibit. Brighton was into it just fine, but he got impatient quick as I stopped to read every card—I wasn’t a fast reader then, and I’m still not today—and I posed for pictures in front of every display in case I never got to come back.

The Sunroom has it all: flutes that mimic the music of a phoenix cry to train and communicate; wooden and iron crossbows shaped like wings; fans made from green and blue feathers; ceremonial candlesticks for believers praying to phoenix fire for renewal when loved ones pass; eggshells ranging in size and color and texture; an hourglass with ashes inside; clay masks with massive beaks and leather jackets with feathered sleeves, close to the ones still worn by the Halo Knights today; dried tears fossilized; a row of ender-blades with bone hilts that are charred black and serrated blades as yellow as the hydra blood they’ve been cruelly forged from, designed to snuff out a phoenix and keep it from ever resurrecting.