There are words that knot themselves at your ankles, tie you down with their meanings, and then there are words that light little fires in your kneecaps.

Here’s one: brother. Bly is my brother.

“Bly!” I yell, running into the cave. Running toward the blood and light we share.

But when I see him, I stop.

He’s sitting on Nightfall’s back, the cloisterwings balanced on his shoulders. Nightfall arches their neck, lets out a clamoring cry.

“I went looking for you,” he says. “I saw them — the Masters. We don’t have much time.” Nightfall lurches underneath him, almost flinging him off their back. “They want to fly,” says Bly, clinging to the beast-bird’s feathers.

I can see that.

Even if the whole sky was torn to pieces, this giant bird would fly, up and up and up, finding new skies, new stars to press their wings against.

Bly says, “You’ll have to jump.”

“What do you mean?” I laugh out the words.

Before Bly can answer, Nightfall glides forward as if they’re made of howling wind, lifting into the air and grinding their head against the high ceiling of the cave. Bly says, “Now!”

Nightfall’s wings spread out like seeping ink, clicking like warming bones. In their glistening eye I can see the soul I sang. The cloisterwings cry out.

Bly says, “Come on, Delphernia! Jump!”

My brother. Bly. My brother says jump.

So I do.