I read the thing three times over. It was almost unnerving, the way the writing broke down into loose chicken-scratch at times, then tightened back up into cleaner, more organic lines. Just like mine. An artifact of the way I slipped in and out of focus on the act of writing as I was swept up in the thoughts and emotions I was trying to convey. And then there were the places where the ink smudged, almost certainly from tears.

Somehow, before, I’d been able to largely avoid thoughts of my body’s previous occupant. After all, she’d been a murderer, and in a way…she was me. Her memories were gone, yet she never truly would be.

Or at least, that’s what I’d told myself.

But as I read her words—seeing myself and, at the same time, someone else entirely in her erratic scrawl—an immense and sudden guilt twisted my stomach.

I had meant to merge with another self, not replace her. And yet, by the absence of the first Zia’s memories, I could only assume that I’d failed.

She was homesick, but sad to leave her friend. She wanted dumplings.

A real person. A real person a lot like me, with real feelings other than murderous rage.

And this Erek guy…

If it was the same Erek now shut away in the room at the back of the suite, it would explain a lot. Maybe even why our Moons were synced up. But the one part of the entry I couldn’t stop going back to was the line about her sister.

I don’t look forward to facing Seri now that I’m sure she knows I’m on to her.

On to her about what?

I was both desperate and afraid to find out.

What if she’d somehow been justified in her actions, and I just swept in and erased her?

Starting to feel a little queasy, I took a deep breath through my scarf-mask. I’d intended to hold the air in for a moment and let it out slowly, but the mask could only do so much, and I breathed out in a rush as I realized my mistake.

In the moment, though, the parade of colorfully lewd thoughts that followed was a welcome distraction from the ever-growing pit of guilt at my core. I came back to myself just as Keshry emerged from the bathing pool and shook her fur dry. Jumping to my feet and tucking the book under my arm, I grabbed the trunk’s nearest handle.

“I’m going to try to spend some time alone in one of the rooms,” I said. “I hope that’s alright. I’ll be back out in a bit.”

Keshry nodded sagely and turned her attention to the ceiling.

Dragging my stuff behind me, I made my way around the pool and to the back of the chamber, selecting the room beside Erek’s. When I opened the door, the light of a lowering sun washed over me, taking me by surprise. The room had an actual window. High, narrow, and fitted with glass stained in whirling tones of violet and indigo and brown.

If I hadn’t been so thrown by the journal entry, I’d have gone straight to the bed to deal, as best I could, with some of my urges. But now that I was sick to my stomach, riddled with guilt, and desperately curious, that would have to wait.

Instead I weighed the simultaneous desires to dive at once back into the journal and to inspect my surroundings. The latter won out, and I set the book down atop my trunk as I padded about the room. There were a number of shelves carved into the walls, all of them empty, and a sort of desk-nook, low to the floor with no chair.

A depression overflowing with the softest, fluffiest-looking moss I’d ever seen no doubt served as the bed. Heat radiated from the stone beneath my feet, as it seemed to throughout much of the mountain. And in one corner, another nook contained an opening from which a small stream of water fell, emptying into a rough basin at the center of a rocky trough—which must have been packed with soil, because mushrooms grew from it in profusion.

I sniffed at one of them. It smelled like a well-seasoned steak. I sniffed another and got marshmallows and figs. Huh. Maybe they’re edible?

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The view out the window I saved for last. Going up to it, I pushed tentatively at the metal framework of its single pane, and then a little harder. It gave way, swinging open to let in a gust of fresh, cold air. It helped clear my head a bit—though the general concept of sex was still ever-present in the backdrop of my mind, like a very nsfw homescreen wallpaper.

Leaning through the opening that was only just wide enough for my head, I took in the view of the Siblings that I hadn’t been able to fully appreciate before. Being safe inside an enclosed space helped a lot, in that regard.

The river-fed lake had shifted in color, now glowing with a million motes of blue-green, teal, and lime. The other lake’s surface shone with swirling, muted jewel-tones as the sun’s rays skimmed across it, but beneath that it was as opaque and black as before. A void separated from the rest of the world by a thin film of color.

Turning away from the lakes a little reluctantly, I crossed the room, snatched the journal back up and took it over to the bed. For a minute I just sort of sat with it in my lap, my hand laid over the cover as I braced myself for whatever might await within. A fresh gust of mountain air flowed through the window, and my fur fluffed up in response.

Opening the journal, I flipped it to the first page and the sigils I’d initially passed over. It only took a touch of focus for their varied intents to become clear.

Foresight. Luck. Protection. Enhanced observation.

Paying closer attention to the drawings, I realized that a few of them were definitely Erek. Another almost resembled Keshry…but not quite.

I flipped the page to the journal entry I’d already read and all the sigils crowded around it.

Independence. Fortitude. Shield against loneliness. Shield against doubt.

I turned to the next page and found another journal entry, this one written almost entirely in that so-familiar, scratchily erratic hand.

Day 8, Jade Moon, 1236

The Truthseer is on their side.

I went to father with my suspicions the instant I got home. Seri denied everything of course. Father summoned Thrasta, and she claimed my sister spoke in absolute honesty. Of course she did. Of course. And then they set her on me.

The handwriting devolved still further, becoming difficult to decipher even with my automatic translation power.

That accursed liar told father that, though I believed in my own assertions, I was deluded by jealousy. Entirely mistaken, and in serious need of guidance. I swear I almost went into a frenzy on the spot.

I must let this go from my mind for a while, or else I will lose it entirely. I’ll spend some time in the viridian springs, eat good food, work on the mural. But I will not let this go. I can’t.

By the next entry, the script was legible again. For the most part.

Day 10, Jade Moon, 1236

I have been focusing on my mural. It helps a little. Seri is keeping her distance, but when I do see her and no one else is around…she gives me this look. Smug, knowing. I’ve been wondering more than ever if she might be dragonbound, and destined for Topaz. It would explain a lot. It’s the sort of the thing she’d keep a secret, if she could. Probability-wise, however, it seems unlikely.

Today I called on Shoshia. She did not answer. She always was bad at keeping her call-stone charged, especially considering how stingy her foster family is with their mana. But I fear my sister’s work has gotten to her, too.

Day 11, Jade Moon, 1236

I went to deep market today and ran into Shoshia. She barely acknowledged me. So I suppose that settles that.

The mural is almost complete. I’ve come to see it as a friend, in a way. Probably my only one at this point. I may never be chieftain, and my name may sour the tongues of all who speak it. But this work, this mural, dominates the whole of the forward face of our fortress, looks out over all. It declares my skill, my talent, my claim on this place in the most undeniable of terms. Even if they could take it down, destroy it, cover it—no one would. It is too beautiful. And once activated by a proper Opal, too useful.

It’s strange to think that Seri was the one who inspired it. Hard to remember how close we were when I brushed its first stroke, fixed its first stone. I wish I could forget that. It would be easier.

The instant I finished reading the last entry in the spread, I flipped the page with bated breath. But there were no journal entries on the next two pages. Only sigils. The same two, over and over again.

Numbness. Shield against emotion.

But on the next page were two short entries, both of them scratched in a shaking hand. The first had no date.

I didn’t mean to.

I didn’t check the wards. I didn’t know the Gem chips were gone.

I didn’t know.

Day 1, Onyx Moon, 1237

It’s not enough to be numb.

It’s not enough to be distracted.

I cannot do this. But I can’t end it, either.

Yes, I’m a coward. I’ve never been good at truly letting go. And I can’t trust anyone else but myself to stop them.

If I manage to find someone to activate this and somehow it even works, and you’re reading this…my other self…make sure to read the green journal, too.

I’m sorry.

And on the page facing that was inked a series of three extremely complex interlinked sigils, the central design dominated by two overlapping spheres. There, three sets of slender gem chips glinted up at me—pressed into the thick pulp of the paper. One of onyx, one of jade, one of opal. If they had once contained mana, it had gone out.

Forget that which has formed this facet of my self.

Give me the essence of another of my self.

One who may complete my work.