“Only we whites have achieved the most perfect symmetry in the forms of the body…”

Something cold wound its way up his ribs. The words rooted him to the spot. Enrique put the book down when Lombroso blamed criminal tendencies on the residual “blackness” of white communities.

Now, Séverin’s words flitted through his head.

If you could change the course of history and lift up those who had been downtrodden in its path … wouldn’t you?

That had always been Enrique’s dream.

He wanted to be like his heroes, to light a path to revolution, to carve out a space for himself in a world where people told him he was not wanted. He yearned to do grand things—brandish a sword (though preferably not a heavy one) and sweep someone off their feet, to utter deadly one-liners and swish a cape behind him. More than anything … Enrique wanted to believe in something better. And he wanted to believe that he could be part of bringing that vision to life. That he could stand at the front instead of in the shadows.

In that second, he made a decision.

He would not merely want … he would do. Even if it meant opening himself up to hurt once more.

On the other side of the door, someone rapped lightly. “Enrique?”

Zofia.

When Enrique opened the door, he found himself face-to-face with Hypnos and Zofia. Of course, he’d spoken to and seen both of them earlier, but it only dawned on him at this second that he was staring at the two people he’d most enjoyed kissing in the entirety of his existence. And he had never noticed until now how similar and yet different their eyes were. Two shades of blue: one like the heart of a candle flame, the other the hue of winter.

“Are you … done?” asked Zofia.

The blunt question knocked the whimsy out of him. He sighed, nodding. “I’m ready.”

“Thank every pantheon,” said Hypnos. “This much responsibility ages me.”

WHEN THEY ENTERED the salon, Séverin practically leapt out of his chair. Enrique’s old hurts roared back at him, but he couldn’t ignore the painful hope in the other boy’s eyes.

“Growth and remorse are rather like stars … the surrounding dark makes them vivid enough to notice,” said Enrique, before arching an eyebrow. “Which is to say that I expect a damn constellation out of you in the future, Séverin.”

Séverin’s eyes widened. A fragile smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and although it felt like an unsteady step in the dark to Enrique, it was a step forward all the same.

“And you will have it,” said Séverin quietly.

“Where did Laila go?” asked Hypnos.

“She said she needed to get something, and that we should feel free to start examining the map without her,” said Zofia.

Enrique looked to the long, wooden table strewn with his research. The world cinched around the lyre and the small, gold-filigreed box beside it which held the mind Forged map. Enrique didn’t blame Laila for not wanting to be here. He couldn’t imagine staring so closely at his last hope.