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“Can you get me a thousand sheets of paper?” I said. “Send another letter to Megari too. Tell her she’s a genius.”

* * *

“We’re going to fold paper birds,” I announced to the small group that had gathered in my chamber. Takkan, my brothers, and Qinnia sat in a semicircle on the floor, stacks of paper laid out before each of them. “A thousand paper birds, to be precise.”

Qinnia peeled a page from her stack. “What are you going to do with all of these birds?” she asked. “Make a wish?”

She was referring to a legend we all knew. To honor Emuri’en and her cranes, the gods were said to grant a wish to anyone who sent a thousand birds to heaven. I’d spent an entire winter folding paper cranes, hoping to gain the gods’ ears and break my brothers’ curse.

But the gods had been silent for centuries. I no longer trusted them to listen.

“No wish,” I replied. “The birds will serve as my army against the priestesses—and the demons, if needed.”

From Benkai’s and Reiji’s frowns, their skepticism was clear: An army of paper birds?

Yes, my army. I’d need magic to counteract the curse upon Kiata. The Tears of Emuri’en were near the breach—I’d draw upon their power if my own magic wasn’t enough, and the birds would help me spread it.

“Trust me,” I said before going on to explain the plan.

Over the afternoon, I taught them the proper method for folding paper cranes. Wandei caught on the quickest, and then he started experimenting with the folds and made paper swallows and doves and eagles, even a phoenix. He taught the variations to Yotan and Reiji, who decided they were too complicated and stuck to making cranes. Meanwhile, Benkai, Andahai, and Takkan were furiously competing to see who could fold one hundred birds first.

Qinnia folded the smallest ones I’d ever seen. A dozen fit easily on her palm. “You’ll need soldiers of all sizes,” she explained.

In the corner, Hasho sat with a spool of black thread, knotting eyes that Qinnia would later sew onto the birds.

“So they might see,” he explained when he caught me looking. “Like Kiki.”

My paper bird beamed at him. All day she had flitted to and from his side, and it warmed me to see how close they had become.

Together we worked, and by evening we had a thousand birds.

A thousand and one, Kiki reminded me. Don’t forget, I’m the first.

“How could I forget? You’d never let me.”

True enough. She pinched me by my hair, dragging me to the nearest window. Look at all the stars. See the seven-pointed crane? I’ve been spreading rumors about it.

“What sort of rumors?” I said narrowly. “That constellation is Emuri’en’s sacred crane.”

Not anymore. Now it’s you and your brothers. You’ve one star each.

“That’s—”

I’m only making sure you’re remembered, Kiki interrupted. If you are, I will be too.

“Looking after your own interests as always, I see.”

I expected Kiki to harrumph, but she took on a serious tone I’d never heard before. I don’t want to be forgotten, she admitted. I don’t even know what it’s like to be a real bird.

Her earnestness caught me off guard. “I thought you didn’t want to be like other birds,” I said mildly. “Feathers molting, having to feel hot and cold, eating worms…”

A bird can change her mind. Not about the worms, though.

“Kiki…”

You should go back inside. Be with your family. Kiki waved her beak toward my family. Andahai opening a wine gourd to celebrate. Yotan playing familiar tunes from our childhood on the flute. Reiji and Benkai loudly complaining how sloppy their cranes looked compared to Takkan’s.

Keep a lantern on for me, she said.