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The butler followed her, jerking his head for us to do the same.

“When the fuck did Sariah get here?” the butler hissed as we walked past the table. “And whyisshe here?”

The woman’s gaze flicked to me before returning to the valet’s. “You know exactly why she’s here.”

The butler grunted an acknowledgment and entered through the same door that the woman— presumably Sariah— had disappeared. E.Z. and I exchanged a look and followed, his hand never leaving my upper arm.

The rebels had converted a bedroom into an office. A well-built man about Father's age was bent over a large table to the right of the room. Sariah was leaning into him, her eyes scanning the parchment as he wrote furiously.

Maps, quills, and papers were spread in complete disarray around the space. Tubes of parchment were laying haphazardly— some opened with the contents slipping onto the table, others leaning against the bookcase beside or just littering the floor. Even the bed was covered in unrolled maps.

It reminded me of Father's workspace at home. His workspace was always in complete shambles, covered in everything imaginable. He’d eventually clean it, and it would be worse the next day. “Busy minds equal messy desks,” he’d say, swearing there was “organization hidden in the apparent unmethodical placement.” Maybe there’s some logic to that.

The memory made me smile sadly. Though my chest still burned at the memory, love and affection eased some of the pain and grief that always accompanied a memory of Father. It was a memory I would always cherish, how I would always think of him.

“Milo, may I introduce Kaia Noelani and Ezra Wyndham,” the valet said, perching his butt on the desk in front of the windows. Smiling, he slouched, crossing his arms and ankles like he was settling in for a show.

Milo straightened, looking around a sneering Sariah with a smile. Deep laugh lines formed around his dark blue eyes.

“Kaia,” Milo exclaimed, crossing the room to us. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man.” Affection and sincerity were noticeable in Milo’s voice as he reached out a hand for mine to shake.

I experienced the strangest sensation when Milo’s hand engulfed mine, like I’d known and missed this man my whole life, and my soul was elated to see him. I pulled my hand back, my mouth slightly ajar.

I blinked away the moment. It wasn’t Milo’s looks that made me instinctively trust him. It was a familiarity I couldn’t begin to understand but felt wholeheartedly.

“Thank you,” I said, swallowing the lump of emotions clogging my throat. “And thank you for meeting with us.”

Milo nodded, turning to E.Z.. “Ezra? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Your reputation precedes you as well,” E.Z. replied pointedly, with more hostility than I’d heard from him before.

“And how do you know my father exactly?” I asked Milo.

“I’ve known Eryk for a long time.” Milo smiled broadly. “We actually met through Arianne, your mother. She and I were quite close long before she met Eryk and moved away to the capital.”

I didn’t know much about Mother’s early life and definitely hadn’t known of her connection to this man.

My Father told me stories about how he and my mother met, some grand love affair that was full of controversy— her being a lowly Earth User from the villages and him being an Air User of an elevated station. There was someone else she had considered marrying. Father was a soldier. They met on a mission and it was love at first sight and they bravely overcame all obstacles to be together. An epic love story that ended tragically about seven years ago when she passed away from an unknown sickness. He almost lost me the same way.

Her whole life seemed abstract to me, living on only in my far too few foggy memories and the stories Father used to tell.

“Maybe one day, if there’s time, you’d be kind enough to share stories about them in their youth?” I asked. “I don’t know much about my mother growing up. Just small stories Father told me here and there.”

“Your father told you stories about your mother.” It wasn’t a question, but there was one in his tone.

Was he surprised a father would tell his daughter about her deceased mother?

I nodded with a small laugh. “All of the time. Either Mother was a mischievous youth, or Father just liked to use her for his tales and bedtime stories. He did love her very much.”

Milo chuckled, his gaze reminiscent. “Shewasa mischievous troublemaker in her youth.”

“His tales were so outlandish. Stories of an otherworldly woman with superpowers to save the world. I loved them.”

I smiled, thinking about Warrior Goddess Arianne, one of the Father’s characters. He always casted her my mother. The warrior goddess was a big part of my childhood and one of the only ways I was able to cope with Mother’s passing. She’d become more than my mother. More than a story. She was a living figment of my imagination at times. Someone I talked to.

I was sure the warrior goddess was why I had survived when I was sick. When I eventually woke up, I convinced myself the warrior goddess had cared for me until Father could find a cure. It was all children’s fancy, but I loved those stories.

I clutched Father's tags around my neck and allowed the warmth of those memories to settle for a moment, then straightened my shoulders and asked the question I wanted answered the most.