You study the array of clothes scattered about. You don’t want to wear any of the kaftans favored by the Titans, because she will be wearing one, and you don’t want her to think you’re imitating her. Encroaching on her. Thinking of her. Having handwoven a print to express your family’s roots, you sift through the rest for the proper accents. In the pit of your being, you still feel every bit the imposter. One wearing the print of a family you weren’t actually born into.

The door chimes.

<Camara Xola Adisa,> Maya intones.

“What’s he doing here?” you ask.

<You could let him in and find out,> Maya said. <Though it’s a statistical likelihood that he has some words of insight or encouragement to offer you before the ceremony.>

“Let him in.” You mutter the word smart-ass under your breath even though, one, Maya’s system still likely heard you and, two, they have no feelings—as you understand them—to hurt. Your hands fidget so much you reach for your chakram to twirl.

The door loses its color until it becomes a transparent window before a low hiss signals the material dissolving into an opening.

“I see you.” Camara Xola Adisa stoops slightly to enter. His skin—papery thin, well veined with pink undertones to his complexion—light enough to pass for wazungu. Tufts of gray-tinged, black hair rings the back of his head. His wife, Selamault, must not have been up yet. She would never let him out of their kraal looking like a disheveled shepherd.

“I see you,” you return his greeting. Behind him one of the Niyabinghi waits by the door entrance. The guard doesn’t enter.

“It’s almost time.” Lean as a reed, Xola moves with a slight tremble to his limbs. You believe he plays up this affect a bit, in order to make people attend him more closely. And underestimate him. He could have synthed new organs, but he proclaimed that would be treating the symptoms, not the root of his neurological degenerative disorder. Tracking any sound, his hazel eyes remain alert and sharp as his mind. Settling into a chair, he sniffs the air with an exaggerated snuffle, noting the not-quite-successfully cloaked smell of chiba with a knowing smirk crossing his lips.

“I’m almost ready.” You turn from him so that your idiotic grin doesn’t confirm your self-medication.

“Stacia should be here, helping you with your hair.”

Busying yourself by straightening up, you wince at the sound of her name. You wonder if he’s purposely being oblivious or inconsiderate, to gauge your reaction. There were so many expectations for the pair of you. Nearly the same age, she’s a captain now, while you are only now having your Naming Ceremony. “Her ship was over two weeks away, studying the Orun Gate, when I last received a message from her. She will barely make the ceremony.”