Hello, piece of my soul. My love. My dearest.

  I hope this letter finds you beneath warm light, with laughter still echoing somewhere in your heart. I pray that the years I was not beside you were still kind, that the world you were thrust into gave you wonder before it gave you pain.

  But now… now I must burden you with truths that no child should ever have to carry. Your fate is no ordinary path, my love—it is tangled like roots beneath the soil of every living plane. And though I wish I could spare you this, to leave you untouched by the weight of your lineage… you were never born to live lightly.

  If the Deshawns have done as I asked, then you already know pieces of this story. But if time or danger stole that moment from us, then let me tell you everything, here and now, as clearly as I can.

  Kitai, you are unlike any soul that breathes across the planes. Yours carries the echo of three realms within it—not as an accident, not as cosmic coincidence, but by design. Your existence is stitched from the bones of ancient sacrifice and impossible love.

  There are three planes that cradle most life.

  The Exalted Plane, first and highest, is where the gods preen and heroes rot beneath golden titles. It is a place of thrones built on old myth and older arrogance. They walk on belief like it’s a floor beneath them, polished and obedient. They have forgotten what it means to bleed.

  The Remembered Plane, your home, is the only one built on flesh instead of frames. It is fragile, and because of that—powerful. Belief is its blood. It feeds the other planes unknowingly, unwittingly. And so, both Exalted and Forgotten agreed to leave it untouched, sacred. To violate it would mean the unraveling of all that exists.

  And then there is the Forgotten Plane, where shadows hold memories older than names. Where myth has no audience, only silence. That place... that aching place, Kitai, is where I gave birth to you and your brother.

  Yes, you have a brother.

  I won’t write his name here in case this letter is intercepted, but I hope with all that I am that you will find him. He is... difficult. Guarded. But good. Beneath the layers, he is as broken and as bright as you.

  Because you were raised in the Remembered Plane, you do not have a soulframe. But your father swore he would find a way to build one for you, something worthy of the miracle that you are. And if anyone could break the impossible, it would be him.

  Your father is not a man of consistency—but you, Kitai, you were the one thing he would crawl through time for. The only thing he would never abandon. And this letter? This letter finds you only when your story is ready to begin.

  You might wonder: Why don’t I have a frame? Why was I hidden away? Why did you die, Mama?

  I will answer all of it. But first, you must understand why our family matters.

  Long ago, before the planes split, our family stood at the edge of every war, trying to hold things together while empires thirsted for power. We were not conquerors. We were keepers. When the planes fractured—when belief was being fought over like meat—we sacrificed everything to make sure the worlds could exist separately. As thanks, we were given a Key. Not a physical one, but a living glyph, etched into the soulframe of each new heir of our House. Only our blood can see it burn.

  That Key, Kitai... it's in you now.

  Take a moment. Breathe. Let your ribs rise and fall with the truth. If your heart trembles, let it. You are not weak. You are awakening.

  When you’re ready, continue reading. If you're unsure, ask the Deshawns—they are more than just scholars. They are witnesses. They chose exile to help guide you home.

  Now, I will tell you everything.

  Once every cycle, the Forgotten Plane hosts a tournament. A grand collision of wills. Warriors, sages, cooks, liars, dreamers—anyone with a soulframe can enter, and the winner is granted a single wish.

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  It's a system that was implemented by the Storyteller.

  Most squander it. Glory. Immortality. Pettiness.

  But for me, it was different.

  I competed every year, just for the chaos of it. After centuries, the tournament became the only thing that made me feel alive. It was during one of these—an Archery Tournament of all things—that I met your father. We were both awful at it. Laughably awful. We were disqualified in the first round and ended up drunk and grinning at the foot of a waterfall, arguing about the shape of clouds.

  We danced around each other for years before admitting the truth: we wanted a family that shared our blood.

  But we couldn’t have one–Not naturally at least.

  During my first pregnancy , the Exalted–jealous of our family's access to all three planes– sacrificed their most coveted Fables to curse us. Infertility rooted into our blood. I didn’t even know until your father found a hermit, a madman with one foot in every realm, who told him the truth.

  But he also offered us hope.

  A loophole: win the Tournament, and wish a child into the world.

  And so we did. The tournament that year was trivia, and our family’s long memory won the day. When we stepped forward and spoke our wish—a child born of us, loved by us—the world stopped.

  The Exalted descended in fury. They broke their ancient oath and bled into the Tournament Square, their bodies glowing with celestial contempt. One of them walked calmly to a denizen kneeling in awe and tore their frame apart—ripped every fable from their bones and drank them like wine.

  The Forgotten Plane erupted in rage. War was seconds away.

  And then… the sky split.

  Sound died. Color dimmed. And Storyteller arrived .

  In a voice that existed beyond hearing, he passed judgment. The Exalted would be punished. And we? We had a choice: abandon the wish, or lose access to all planes forever.

  We chose you.

  But fate had other plans. We were given twins.

  Your brother—strong, fierce, burning with myth. And you, Kitai... you were light itself. So luminous, so saturated with story, your body began to fall apart the moment you cried. Every cell, a living fable. Every breath, too heavy to be contained in a soulframe.

  The Storyteller saw this. And before we could beg him to stop, he took you.

  “In time,” he said, “your family will be reunited. But the story doesn’t need that now. What it needs is growth. And plotting.”

  Then you were gone.

  The girl I never got to name. The daughter I loved before she ever opened her eyes. I wept for days. The Deshawns and your father stayed with me, held me through the ache. Your brother didn’t understand, but he sensed the hole you left.

  Four years passed before your father saw the Hermit again. He begged him for a way to find you.

  The Hermit agreed—but at a cost. Our son, as an apprentice. And a vial of my blood.

  Your father agreed. And the Hermit gave him a mirror, one that let us see you.

  We watched you grow. we Watched you struggle. The bullies. The isolation. The late-night reading sessions beneath a too-dim light. You never knew we were there—but we never left your side.

  When you turned nine, the Deshawns found a forgotten doorway in the sands of Lafiyan. It was time. Time to bring you home.

  I will stop here.

  I could tell you more, but I won't steal from your future by burdening it with too much of the past. What comes next must be your choice.

  But remember this, Kitai:

  Trust the Deshawns. Trust your family. And above all else… trust your gut.

  You were never lost.

  You were only waiting.

  With love older than stars,

  Ocarinya Lafiya,

  Your mother.