Fia and Mikael spent their first two months in the Garden at the arrival halls. Mikael perfected his flight, weaving through sparse forests and, eventually, landing cleanly seven out of ten times. Fia spent the same weeks buried in old scholars’ journals from the library.

She found several theories on why someone arrived in the Garden. Arrivals shared no pattern, representing royalty and peasants, east and west, strong and weak. One thing was widely accepted, the timeline of Earth had absolutely nothing to do with the time of arrival in the Garden. Some scholars had been from so far in the future that the people of the 21st century were an ancient civilization for them, while others came from times when neanderthal sightings were still common. Once they arrived in the Garden, they all spoke the Garden tongue fluently. 

Whether migration followed death on Earth was disputed. Some scholars said arrivals had a copied consciousness, the original continuing on Earth. Others believed death here returned the mind to the instant of transfer on Earth—a taboo theory responsible for many suicides. The speculations offered no comfort to Fia—or Mikael—who chose not to dwell on them.

By their third month, Fia and Mikael moved into an inn at Grey Peak’s centre, where they both worked to cover rent. The innkeeper, Markus, was nice but easily exasperated by their diligence. Most long-timers in the Garden had lost patience for menial work with businesses and customers settling into a quiet pact—no one expected good service, and when it was offered, it only made them uneasy. 

Markus’s greater unease came when they asked about Earth. Old arrivals treated their former lives as private relics shared only with close friends. The few exceptions were those with royal wings, their heritage paraded as proof of the popular belief that wings marked royal blood. Even then, nobody but the newest arrivals ever dared ask which dynasty a person claimed.

Six months after Fia and Mikael’s arrival, the Rumbling Pass opened again. Pulled carriages returned to Grey Peak, and on one occasion Fia spotted a fuel-powered rag-tag jeep, but most people still travelled on foot. Then one day, just after dawn, Fia and Mikael climbed down Grey Peak for the first time to meet a trainer from the Initiator’s Guild. Markus handed them a pack of seedchurns, flat, palm-sized discs studded with seeds. The tough, bitter-sweet snack packed a ton of energy and made a practical gift from an employer convinced they wouldn’t be coming back.

The Initiator’s Guild trained new arrivals in basic survival and like every organization in the Garden, it functioned on good faith. That meant the chance of anyone actually showing up at the agreed time and place was roughly one in three, which were the odds of good faith in this world. In return for lessons, Fia and Mikael owed the Guild a small cut of future earnings and occasional help initiating others, which seemed like a fair bargain. 

From Grey Peak, the valley below had looked like a bowl of cereal for a god, usually filled to the rim with a foam of clouds. Fia often imagined a giant spoon scooping up the white goodness, thinking it would taste like spring rain and joy. The bowl was empty the day she and Mikael descended. A few clouds hung high, and through the trees they saw the shimmer of a lake long before reaching it.

At the clearing stood a small café—a wooden shack with two tables by the bank. The lake stretched wide and still, stained with orange light as the sun drifted toward the horizon.

“Wow!” said Mikael.

Fia sighed. “Why didn’t we come sooner?”  

The café was empty. Mikael dropped a few coins on the counter, rummaged in a cupboard, and found dried meat. He arranged it on a plate and carried it outside. Fia followed with two cups of tea and brushed off the chair beside him before sitting. The sunset colours lingered longer here than they ever had on Earth.

Fia bit off a chunk and chewed. “This—tastes like—cardboard.”

Mikael’s nose wrinkled.

She laughed. “Oh, come on! It’s edible. I think.” 

“Well,” he said, tossing the meat back onto the plate, “we’ll know by tomorrow—if you survive.”

Fia stared at him, then at the meat. She spat what was left into her hand. “You brought it out! Why would you do that if you didn’t think it was safe?”

“Obviously, I wanted to inspect it in the light first.” He leaned back, tea in hand, feet on the next chair.

Fia marched to the basin by the café door and gargled several times. 

Then, they waited. The sky grew darker. The bird songs—familiar as long as they didn’t pay attention—slowly began to fade. Just as Fia felt the first inkling of worry, they heard footsteps. A woman with short grey hair climbed up the dirt road flanked by the two men who had once tamed Mikael’s wings.    

Mikael and Fia stood up. The man with the crown smiled and his stoic companion gave a curt nod. The woman pursed her lips, crossed her arms and silently observed Fia and Mikael. She was short, wore a dark green robe and was built as strong as the men by her side. After a moment, she gave a small nod.

“I’m Gayle,” she said, “and these are my comrades. We’re from the Initiator’s Guild. They say you’ve met, so let’s skip their introductions. You can start with yours.”

Fia and Mikael couldn’t recall the men’s names, but they didn’t dare interrupt this woman, and neither did the men. Gayle confirmed their time in the Garden, asked about survival skills, which was easy to answer since they knew none, and motioned for them to clear up. 

Mikael took the meat back while Fia took the cups to the basin. She scooped some water from the tin and rinsed, stealing glances at the trainers.

Gayle was older than any arrival she’d seen, likely forty when she arrived. The men looked to be in their twenties, but their demeanor betrayed far more years. The blonde man wore black, silver knives crossing his chest like an emblem. Fia searched for his name and drew a blank.

His princely companion somehow carried the bronze headpiece and delicate brocade on his midnight-blue robe even in the wilderness with surprising ease. He was cute. And then, he grinned. The warmth reached his hazel eyes for a few moments before he restrained his lips. Suddenly, he was gorgeous and Fia felt nothing could ever pry her eyes away from him.

Mikael grabbed the cups from her hand and she jumped. He placed them inside and slammed the shack’s door shut. “Let’s go!”

Fia hurried after him.  

“There’s a camp ahead where we’ll train,” Gayle said, leading them down the road. “It’s free, so your debt will be smaller. It’s not as safe as town, but don’t worry—your trainers will keep you safe.” 

Fia glanced back at the two men walking a few paces behind, talking quietly.

“We have nineteen new arrivals this cycle,” Gayle continued. “One more girl from Grey Peak—you’ve met her. Seven from Sun Peak, eight from Cloud’s Nest, and one from Wolf’s Ridge.”

Those were the four inhabited mountains of the Ethereal Pillars. The girl from Grey Peak had worked at Markus’s inn before leaving with travellers months ago. Mikael frowned at her mention. Fia smiled absently.

“There’ll be no formal training today,” Gayle said. “Use the evening to meet your fellow students. Training starts at dawn.”

Fia glanced back again, and Mikael shot her a curious look.

“What is it?” he whispered.

She smiled, feeling shy.

He risked a quick look toward the men, then back at her. “What?”

Fia leaned closer. “Oh God, he’s so handsome. I never thought I’d fall for a man with a crown.” 

Mikael’s face scrunched up. “Now? Really?”

For years, Fia and Mikael had been each other’s confidant to every crush. Mikael’s were usually idols on a screen or an older woman he admired from a reverent distance. Fia, on the other hand, found a pretty boy to gush over everywhere she went. She never confessed to the boy, of course. That would be improper. According to Mikael, given how fickle she was, it was probably for the best. So, she drooled, dreamed, and recited poems about the said boy to her girlfriends, sisters, and Mikael until the crush was over. Usually, a month or two. 

“My heart doesn’t run on a schedule, Mikael!” she said.

He made a mock you-poor-thing face.

Gayle stopped abruptly and they nearly ran into her. “I’m not speaking for the benefit of the trees,” she said without turning. “I lose nothing if you don’t listen. You, however, lose plenty. Pay attention.” 

Fia felt like she was back in school. Mikael shot her an angry look and they scurried after Gayle just as the two men approached. 

The camp lay a short walk off the road, a grassy clearing ringed with barbed wire, trees on one side and a slope on the other overlooking the lake. They were surprised to find Raija, who they hadn’t seen in months, waiting by the campfire, a kettle steaming beside her.

She welcomed each newcomer with a hug, even a stiff Gayle. Gayle was less dismissive of Raija, almost regretful that she’d had to make the fire. Fia remembered that, despite not acting or looking a day over twenty-five, Raija was over three centuries old in Garden years. Raija brushed off the formality with a wave of her hand and rushed into one of the dozen tents surrounding the campfire to fetch tea.

The man with the circlet motioned Fia and Mikael toward a log around the fire and they took it. He had tried thrice to talk to them on the way over and each time Fia just stared blankly at his face, while Mikael, mortified by his lovestruck friend, deflected with curt answers. Eventually, he’d given up. His black-clad companion had been silent to begin with and offered no help. 

Now they sat around the fire in an awkward silence that pressed only on Fia and Mikael. Gayle took the axe from her hip and started cleaning the head with a rag. Everyone in the Garden carried weapons, even Raija, when she wasn’t within the walls of the arrival halls. The joint arrival only had their knives. 

Raija reappeared, and Fia and Mikael sighed together in relief. She hopped over the log and propped herself between the two men, right across from them. 

She brushed the hair on her face aside, without actually moving a single one of them, and flashed them a smile as she put tea leaves in the kettle. “So, how have you been?” 

“Great,” Mikael said. “Markus gave us a job at the inn like you said. He’s been kind.” 

“Yes, he’s great,” said Fia. “Great—it’s been great. So—great.” 

Mikael gave her a sidelong glance that threatened to vapourise her. 

“Excellent!” Raija beamed. “Gayle, did they tell you Dara and Pekka taught this one—” she pointed at Mikael “—how to walk without knocking things over.”

Mikael and Fia chuckled awkwardly.

“You don’t remember them?” Raija asked.

“Oh, we do,” said Mikael. “It’s just—maybe we were never formally introduced.”

Raija grinned. “That’s easy to fix.”

She passed tea to Fia and Mikael, then held a hand out towards the blonde man.

“This here is Pekka.”

He nodded and waved away the cup Raija offered, pulling a flask from his robe instead.

Raija tugged his ponytail. “He likes his liquor—and just like it, he takes time to grow on you.”

Pekka didn’t react, expression as flat as ever.

Raija handed the next cup to Fia’s crush. “And this one is Dara. He likes to talk, so I’ll let him speak for himself.”

He smiled. “I’m Dara Shikoh. A pleasure to meet you again.”

Mikael choked on his tea and Fia’s eyes widened.

The family tree Fia was so proud of, traced her lineage to the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan who had many sons. The eldest, Dara Shikoh, was meant to inherit the throne but was defeated and executed by his brother Aurangzeb, his head allegedly served on a platter to their father. But that violent history wasn’t what either of them were thinking about right now. Fia’s line traced through Dara Shikoh’s surviving children. Which meant she had her heart set on her own ancestor. 

Mikael’s smile spread slowly. Fia’s fingers tightened around her cup.

“You mean the Mughal prince, Dara Shikoh?” Mikael asked.

“You know the Mughal line,” said Dara.

“Oh, yes! Of course! And who hasn’t heard of the great Dara Shikoh—philosopher, artist, scholar?” Mikael gestured towards Fia. “Fia here happens to be your descendant.”

Fia glanced over Dara’s shoulders, noting the absence of wings. Maybe Mughals were exempt, she thought.

“It’s an alias,” said Pekka, finally speaking.

Dara nodded. “Indeed. I’m neither the prince himself nor his descendent, though Fia and I may have some common ancestors.”

“So, you’re not a prince?” Fia asked, glancing at the circlet.

It was nearly impossible to guess the Earth origins of old arrivals. They’d adapted too well.

“He is a prince,” Raija cut in. “Just not that one.”

Dara met the attention with calm amusement. “Can I still claim to be a prince in this world?”

“As long as you wear that crown,” Raija said, lifting her cup towards his head.

He inclined it slightly, accepting her insistence with grace. 

“But you don’t have wings,” Fia said before she could stop herself.

“Oh he does,” Pekka replied, showing more life than he had all evening. “Don’t you, Dara?”

Raija snorted, then she and Pekka burst into laughter. Dara stifled a grin.

“Wings don’t define a man!” Gayle cut in. “And his don’t concern you.”

The laughter died and Fia flushed.

“I think they define him a little,” Pekka said after a beat, and Raija cackled. Dara’s composure cracked and he chuckled at what was clearly an inside joke at his expense, his friends showing him no mercy whatsoever.  

Where a few moments ago, Fia had seen a charismatic royal, now just sat a man with shameless friends. Fia knew such friends, the same kind who’d gleefully tell your crush you were their descendent. It made Dara instantly seem more approachable, and her trance thawed a little.

She and Mikael looked at each other, laughed and returned to their tea.