“Then the Federation will disappear,” one of the advisors says incredulously.

“So be it,” I answer.

Mayor Elland listens carefully to me. I know she thinks some of these wishes are impossible, but even more so, I think she knows that they aren’t at all. That these are things they should have done a long time ago. One of the others on the council looks like he’s about to stand up and speak, but the mayor holds a hand up. He quiets, then settles back down.

“And what about you, Talin?” she asks. “What do you want your role to be in all this?”

I give her a soft, steady smile. “It is not my responsibility to undo the Federation’s crimes,” I answer. “I just want to go home.”

My words must hit something hidden deep in her, because she smiles some secret smile, and I wonder for a moment if it’s a smile that she used to share with Constantine’s mother, the queen who had once been a girl who lost everything. Whatever it is that goes through the mayor’s head, she doesn’t share it with me. But she bows her head anyway.

“We will do as you’ve said,” she answers.

And in that gesture, I feel something more genuine than anything a Karensan noble has ever done. There is grief in her movement, an acknowledgment. And a resolve.

A couple of the advisors seem to choke in surprise at the mayor’s reply. But others hold steady, as if acknowledging they will go along with her. In the half circle, I see Adena grin at me. Jeran and Aramin exchange a small smile. And my mother looks at me as she always has, with the unwavering assurance that she will always be here.

Red touches my hand beside me, as if it’s something he’s done all his life. You said you want to go home, he tells me through our bond. His eyes, soaked in that beautiful deep blue, turn down to me. Where’s home?

I think of the night when Red and I met each other in our dreams, when we connected through our unconscious minds. I think of Red telling me to envision a place that brings me peace, that can still the surface of my heart into contentment.

I think of that old avenue from my childhood, shaded by the wide-brimmed leaves of ancient trees, and of us sitting together in one of those branches, our lips sticky with watermelon juice. I picture windows letting in the light and the colors of flowering plants, the breeze dancing through the trees and showering our rooftop with curtains of dew. A butterfly chrysalis hanging on a twig, suspended in a glass jar under the light. My father’s deep chuckle. Then I think of the warfront in Mara, of the warmth of the Strikers’ mess hall, the arena where we used to train, the memories of sitting in a row on a wall with one another. I think of Red and me, each of us resting in a warm, hazy pool, separated but not separated at all.