I stared at her, the armory’s cold lights humming faintly above us, reflecting off steel, crystal, and a history I was only just beginning to understand.

  “Wait,” I said slowly. “Why was I born on Earth instead of Aeterna anyway? And more importantly… why are you able to be here for so long? I was told the otherworld of a Twinworlder has a time limit.”

  My mother laughed, a soft, knowing sound, and waved one hand as if brushing away a particularly na?ve concern.

  “Oh, Morgan. I was wondering when you’d ask that.”

  She leaned against a crate marked with sigils I did not recognize, arms folding loosely.

  “I am there,” she said simply.

  I frowned. “That doesn’t—”

  “It does,” she interrupted gently. “You just haven’t learned to think the way a high-tier caster does yet.”

  She tapped her temple with one finger.

  “When a caster accumulates enough power, knowledge, and stability, the body stops being a singular requirement. There are simulacra, clones, homunculi, spiritual projections, anchored avatars…” She shrugged. “Entire schools of magic exist just to argue semantics over the differences.”

  My stomach sank a little. “You’re telling me this isn’t really you.”

  She smiled, warm and unmistakably hers. “I’m telling you this is me. Just not all of me.”

  She flexed her hand, and for a brief moment I saw it. The faint shimmer under her skin, like a reflection misaligned by a fraction of a second.

  “This body has a timer when it’s not on Aeterna,” she continued. “When that timer runs out, I trade places with the version of me that’s over there. Seamless. No paradox. No strain. Think of it like hot-swapping a process.”

  Of course she would use a technical metaphor.

  “And you’ve just been doing this,” I said. “My entire life.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

  She gave me a sideways look. “You were six, Morgan.”

  “…Fair.”

  I rubbed my face, then lowered my hand, another question bubbling up beneath the first.

  “Okay. Then why Earth? Why not Aeterna? Why was I born here at all?”

  That one made her expression soften.

  She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked past me, past the armory, as if seeing something far away.

  “Your father’s idea,” she said at last. “Entirely his.”

  She met my eyes again.

  “Matthew believed that Aeterna teaches survival too early. That it sharpens you before you’ve learned why being sharp matters. He wanted you to grow up in a world that, at least on the surface, pretends to be peaceful. A place where monsters hide in systems and people instead of forests and ruins.”

  I swallowed.

  “He wanted you to learn how to see people,” she continued. “Not assess them. Not measure threat vectors. See them. Their fears. Their contradictions. Their kindnesses. That was always his gift. He could read a room faster than I could read a battlefield.”

  Her smile turned wistful.

  “He thought if you started here, you’d carry that perspective back with you. That you’d be dangerous for the right reasons.”

  I didn’t trust my voice for a moment.

  “Mom…” I said quietly. “You do know I’ve been seeing Dad’s memories when I sleep, right?”

  She didn’t look surprised. She nodded, slow and deliberate.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I had a feeling.”

  That made my heart skip. “You’re just… okay with that?”

  “Okay isn’t the word I’d use,” she replied. “But I expected it.”

  She straightened, her tone shifting into something more explanatory, more teacher than parent.

  “The ability your father awakened and engraved into the Dia-Dron was something he called Oneiro. Dream-walking. Not just observing dreams, but entering them. Navigating them. Extracting memory, emotion, even fragments of skill.”

  My breath caught. “You mean he’s—”

  “Not haunting you,” she said quickly. “Not like that. Dreams are echoes. You’re seeing imprints. Residual pathways etched into the gem, resonating with you now that it’s bonded.”

  I hesitated. “But he needed the Fetch dreamworld to do that. How am I supposed to—”

  She smiled again. That dangerous, proud smile.

  “You have the Dia-Dron,” she said. “It will compensate. It always does.”

  I exhaled slowly, trying to process that, then asked the question I was almost afraid to hear the answer to.

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  “Is this… in addition to everything else? The cyberkinesis. The spells. All of it?”

  “Yes, Morgan,” she said without hesitation. “It is.”

  My shoulders slumped. “That’s… a lot.”

  She reached out and squeezed my arm.

  “Most of it will manifest through familiar channels,” she said. “You’ll cast it like magic. Shape it like cyberkinesis. Functionally, it won’t feel separate.”

  Then she tilted her head, studying me.

  “But make no mistake,” she added softly. “You are not just inheriting power. You are inheriting perspective. And that is the part you need to be careful with.”

  “Because?” I asked.

  Her gaze sharpened, maternal concern cutting cleanly through the mysticism.

  “Because when you can see the world awake and asleep,” she said, “you start to forget which one is more fragile.”

  She squeezed my arm once more, then let go.

  She crossed her arms, the faint glow of sigils in the armory reflecting off her eyes, and gave me that look. The one that meant a lesson was coming whether I wanted it or not.

  “Mine actually just improves talisman creation,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s it. No lightning from the fingertips. No grand miracles on demand. It sharpens preparation, efficiency, and longevity. So unless you decide to become a taliscaster, my engraving on the Dia-Dron won’t do much for you directly.”

  She raised a finger before I could speak.

  “And no, I am not going to spoil what my parents put into it. Let alone what my grandparents added. Some of those engravings are conditional. Some are situational. A few are… temperamental. Do not assume every ability in that gem will resonate with you cleanly.”

  She stepped closer, placing a hand briefly over my chest, just above my heart.

  “But keep the options open, Morgan. Bearers who survive are the ones who don’t tunnel-vision themselves into a single solution.”

  Then she turned, already walking toward one of the weapon racks.

  “For now,” she continued, voice shifting into something sharper, more practical, “you are going to pick up that smallsword.”

  I blinked. “The—what?”

  “The smallsword,” she repeated, pointing. “Lightweight. Thrust-focused. Fast. If Sophitia manifested petrified with a sabre, then symmetry matters. Spirits imprint preference. I am not letting you grow dependent on ranged solutions when your primary companion clearly favored steel.”

  Sophitia inclined her stone head, just slightly. I felt betrayed.

  My mother wasn’t finished.

  “And,” she added, almost casually, “pick up a handgun too.”

  I stared at her. “You just told me I can’t bring guns to Aeterna.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Which is why you’ll be learning to use it here.”

  She turned back to me, expression unyielding.

  “Earth teaches complacency. Aeterna punishes it. I want you competent in both environments. Blade for when magic is restricted, disrupted, or simply the wrong answer. Firearm for when cyberkinesis fails, mana is thin, or you need to end something quickly without ceremony.”

  She softened then, just a fraction.

  “This isn’t about turning you into a soldier,” she said. “It’s about making sure you don’t freeze when the rules change.”

  She gestured again toward the racks.

  “So,” my mother said, voice warm but absolute, “arm yourself. We’ll start with grip, posture, and respect for the weapon. Power comes later. Control comes first.”

  She smiled, sharp and proud.

  “Welcome to the part of your life where theory stops being enough.”

  ***

  “Sword,” she said, pressing the hilt into my hand.

  The grip was wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth in a way that suggested it had been loved rather than merely used. A cupped guard flared protectively over my knuckles, worked through with delicate brass filigree that caught the light in looping, almost floral patterns. The blade itself was small, narrow, and surprisingly short. Not a heroic slab of steel. More a promise of precision.

  “Gun.”

  The second object replaced the first in my attention as she placed it in my other hand. Also small. Sleek. Rounded, almost polite in its curves.

  “P two three two,” she said calmly. “Chambered in point three two ACP. You have eight rounds in the magazine. Count each shot.”

  She paused just long enough to make sure that sentence etched itself into my bones.

  “This is actually a great teaching example,” she continued. “Because while guns aren’t technically a thing in Aeterna, they have something very similar. They’re called Wags.”

  “Wags?” I echoed, and immediately snorted despite myself. “That’s…that’s really what they’re called?”

  “Yeah,” she said dryly. “Everyone laughs the first time. A Wag is a ball of blessed electrum, usually inscribed and sanctified, capable of firing bolts of energy using your mana. They look like floating orbs with eyes.”

  I grimaced. “That’s unsettling.”

  “They can operate briefly away from you,” she went on, unfazed, “but they still draw from your pool. Think of them as semi-autonomous foci. Sophitia has a lantern. You’ll likely end up with a Wag.”

  Sophitia’s stone form gave a faint, approving tilt.

  “Try to get yours heirloomed,” my mother added.

  “Heirloomed?” I asked.

  “Every few levels,” she explained, “you can soulbind an item. Once bound, it grows with you. Adapts. Improves. Learns how you think. That process is called heirlooming.”

  She tapped the smallsword lightly with one finger.

  “Some objects come soulbound automatically. A Sphere, for example. Once it binds, it stays. Not that it’ll be particularly hard for you to figure out fashion around a glassy pearl.”

  I looked up at her. “Mom. Are you asking me if I’m gay?”

  She instantly rolled her eyes so hard I was worried they’d get stuck.

  “No, son. I’m saying you want to be a jeweler, you care deeply about fashion, video games, books, science, and I have yet to see you show even a hint of romantic attachment to anyone. Frankly, I’d be thrilled if you took an interest in romance with any sex at this point.”

  “Not this conversation again,” I groaned. “We’ve been over this. I’ll have time for romance once I’m done with school.”

  She gave me a look. The kind that meant the floor was about to drop out.

  “Oh. Right. Well. You kind of are.”

  I froze. “What…what do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t going to correct you in front of the CKCD,” she said lightly, “but there’s no way they’re letting you continue normal university. They already knew that. They’ll explain it later.”

  My stomach sank.

  “You’ll be required to attend Nova-York’s Academy for the Gifted.”

  “One,” I said slowly, “do you mean New York? And two, that sounds like the worst kind of prep school.”

  “No,” she replied cheerfully. “I mean Nova-York. It’s an academy for people with mana, aether, or both. The goal is to develop your abilities enough that your magic can be hidden inside a ‘respectable’ profession.”

  She smiled, entirely too pleased with herself.

  “They’ll bribe whatever university you need for your degree, pull a few strings, and place you in a shadow company that explains your income to the tax authorities.”

  I stared at her. “The CKCD isn’t just in the United States, is it?”

  “No, son,” she said, smiling like a woman who had lived three lives and survived them all. “It really isn’t. Now, enough stalling. Shoot me. Stab me. Try to kill me. Today I start training your Status the same way my teacher at the temple trained mine.”

  She cracked her knuckles and looked at me with an expression that suggested mercy was off the table. That I was the spawn of Satan’s forces itself.

  “Brutal. Violence.”

  Correction. Spawn of the devil herself.