“You are so wise sometimes, pipsqueak,” Roc says, smiling at El. “Get over here.”

Elsey charges over and gives Roc a big hug. My eyes are watery but I hide it well. I can’t trust Roc to cut me any slack just because I did the same for him. “Group hug!” I yell, barreling over and jumping on them, smashing them like the pancakes Roc used to serve me for breakfast in the morning.

Elsey shrieks and Roc groans and I laugh. When I release them I say, “You got any other talents I don’t know about, man?”

“I think that’s about it,” Roc says, grinning.

“Can you show us how you do it?” I ask. I can still hardly believe how talented he is. I never actually saw his servant’s room back in the Sun Realm—we usually hung out in my vast apartment—but now I picture it with walls covered in Roc’s artwork. Pictures of the Sun Realm, the Moon Realm, the Star Realm. All the places we visited—the people we saw. A history of our lives, perhaps.

Roc shrugs and turns the paper over, leans on a sturdy rectangle of slate he got from somewhere. I sit on the bed next to him and Elsey leans in from the other side.

Roc deftly handles the charcoal pencil with ease, like he’s been doing it his whole life, probably because he has. At first his drawing is just lines and random bits of shading, brought together in a way that seems abstract, almost pointless. After ten minutes I’m thinking he’s a fraud.

But then with just a couple of effortless strokes the drawing starts to take shape. A person—a woman—sitting under a tree, holding a book. Tucked under her arms are two children, boys. One has brown skin and dark hair, the other white skin and light hair. The tree is majestic, with a huge trunk and sturdy, rising branches full of leaves. The woman is smiling as she reads to the boys, and I can almost hear her voice. A voice from my childhood—from our childhood. A memory is unleashed in my mind and I’m transported to a better time, a better place. A happy place:

Bright light from the artificial sun shines through my stained-glass window, sending brilliant red and blues and greens dancing across the white-painted stone walls. I should be up already, but I’m still groggy from yesterday’s late-night festivities. It was my eighth birthday, and my mom let me stay up till midnight. Last night I was happy, but today I’m sad. Because today is Roc’s eighth birthday. The day he becomes a man. My father calls it the age of accountability, which for me is awesome, because I get to stay up later, start real sword training, and brag to my brother about how I’m a man now.

But for a kid born into a servant family, like Roc, turning eight means no more fun, no more playing, time to work. Today he’s my best friend, my playmate, like a brother to me; and tomorrow he’ll be my servant, charged with cleaning my armor after training, serving me my meals, answering my every beck and call. Father sat me down and explained everything. Roc has to call me sir, and he can’t laugh around me. We can’t joke around, or play tricks on my brother, Killen, or do anything fun together. No more friendship, no more brotherhood. So I’m sad.

I slip out of bed and pad down the white, stone hallway. The lights are on in the presidential house, making the place feel bright and cheery. In the Sun Realm, things always seem bright and cheery. Roc said he hears his dad talking about the other Realms sometimes. That they aren’t bright…or cheery. That he and Roc are lucky to be living up here, even if only as servants. That the Moon and Star Realms are dreary and not a place you’d want to visit—not even for a day. All that just makes Roc and me want to visit the other Realms even more. But I’m not even sure I believe him. Roc can be a bit of a fibber sometimes, but I don’t mind.

The long dining table is empty when I arrive. Everyone else had to stick to the schedule, and they have long since finished their breakfast. But not me, not today. Because of my birthday, and because of Roc’s. My mom’s orders.

I even take a risk and sit down at one end of the table, instead of in the middle like I’m supposed to. I sit impatiently, sliding the bottoms of my socked feet against the floor as I swing my legs. A minute later I feel a tap on my right shoulder and I swing my head around to catch the culprit. No one’s there. Someone snorts to my left, a clear attempt to disguise a laugh. Roc.

I turn sharply to the left, wrenching my elbow to the side and behind me. “Oomf!” Roc hollers, as my bony elbow cracks him in the shoulder. Now it’s my turn to laugh. Roc may be a better prankster, but I’ll beat him in a fight any day.

Roc is rubbing his bruised shoulder, but his brown-skinned face isn’t angry—he knows he had it coming. He’s even sort of grinning, but wincing too, like he wants to laugh but is in too much pain to do it properly. What a dork.

He sits down next to me, still massaging his shoulder. “You should have seen your face,” he says. “You were like, ‘what the heck!’”

“Like you can talk,” I say, pointing at his pained expression.

We are interrupted when one of the servant girls brings us our breakfasts. She’s one of my father’s personal servants, blond-haired and blue-eyed, with legs that are longer than my whole body, and big bumps on her chest. Roc calls them her pillows and they’re way bigger than my mom’s. She looks like what I think an elf would look like, except a whole lot taller, if there even are elves anymore. I’m not sure what she helps my father with, but it must be important.

We devour our breakfasts without speaking, occasionally flicking bits of food at each other with our forks and laughing. Good old Roc. My best friend. At least for one more day.

We hurry off to find my mom. It isn’t hard because she’s always in the palace gardens, and we find her at her favorite spot, sitting with her back against the biggest tree in all the Tri-Realms, with a thick trunk and gnarled branches that are perfect for climbing. She tells me she loves the gardens because they’re peaceful, away from all the politics and hubbub of the government buildings. I like that word, hubbub—it sounds funny when you say it.

When my mom speaks of the gardens it’s all about the beauty of nature and the serenity—which I think means peaceful—of wasting away the day dreaming on the lawn. When my father speaks of the gardens all he cares about is how smart his engineers are who figured out how to make artificial sun powerful enough to grow plants underground. My parents are so different.

My mom looks sad when I first see her, her eyes wrinkled and tired, and her mouth thin and drooped. But as soon as she spots us, her eyes come alive and sparkle—prettier than the flowers that dot the gardens, prettier than Father’s servant girls, prettier than anything—erasing the weary lines underneath them. Her mouth sprouts wings and curls into a smile that warms my heart and soul. “Tristan, Roc—I’m so glad you’re here. I was afraid I’d have to tell myself stories all day. And that can get pretty boring. Plus they’d probably lock me up for insanity.” My mom’s smile somehow manages to get bigger as she talks.

I crack up and Roc giggles next to me. The thought of Mom sitting there talking to herself seems funny for some reason. “You can tell us the stories,” I say, right away taking control of things.

My mom ignores me and looks at Roc. “It’s your birthday, kiddo, so it’s up to you.”

That’s just the way my mom is. She treats both Roc and me like sons, which is probably why I think of him as a brother. I wonder what will happen tomorrow, when he’s not my brother anymore.

Roc’s brown eyes light up in a way they only do when my mom’s around, and he says, “I’d love a story. For my birthday.”

Mom gestures with her arms and we sit next to her, one on each side. She pulls us in close to her shoulders, kisses us each on the forehead, and says, “Once upon a time, when humans lived aboveground…”