You’ve known Neteyam longer than you can remember.

Long enough that no one questions it when you sit beside him at the fire. Long enough that the elders smile and say you’re basically siblings—as if saying it enough times will make it true.

He was the one who taught you how to ride an ikran.

“You’re pulling too hard,” Neteyam had said back then, steadying the reins as your ikran screeched and shifted beneath you. You’d been shaking, more excited than afraid.

“I’m going to fall,” you’d whispered.

He’d laughed softly. “You won’t. I’ve got you.”

And he always did.

Years later, you stand beside him again, watching your best friend—his sibling—disappear into the trees with a grin and a wave. When they’re gone, the space they leave behind feels… heavier.

Neteyam exhales. “You’re better on an ikran now than half the warriors.”

You scoff. “That’s because you wouldn’t let me quit.”

He smiles at that, small and familiar. “You never do.”

The silence stretches—not awkward, just full.

Someone passes nearby and calls, “You two still glued together?”

Neteyam answers easily, “She’s family.”

The word lands wrong.

You laugh it off, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Guess that makes you my overprotective brother, huh?”

He doesn’t laugh.

Instead, Neteyam looks at you—really looks at you—and says quietly, “Is that what you think I am?”

Your smile falters. “Isn’t it?”

A beat. Then another.

“You know it’s not,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Neteyam—”

“We’ve never been siblings,” he interrupts, not unkindly. “Everyone just decided that for us.”

You swallow. “Because it’s easier.”

“For them,” he agrees.

The air between you feels dangerous now—charged, fragile. One wrong word could break something that’s lasted your entire life.

“So what are we, then?” you ask, voice low.

Neteyam hesitates. For the first time, he looks uncertain. “That’s the problem,” he says. “I don’t think we’re allowed to name it.”

Footsteps approach. Your best friend’s voice carries through the trees, calling your names.

Neteyam steps back, the moment snapping shut like it never existed. When he speaks again, his tone is light, familiar.

“Come on,” he says. “They’ll think we ran off.”

But as you walk side by side, shoulders barely brushing, you realize something has shifted.

You’ve never been siblings. And pretending otherwise might be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.