Ato's father told him at a very young age about the day of his birth. Any mother would have said that such a thing was irresponsible, but Ato's mother was dead, and besides, his father had never felt that the truth should be avoided. He told him plainly after Ato asked: that Ato had drawn his first breath as his mother had drawn her last, that she had scarcely looked at Ato and his father before she died, and that she had not even had the energy to say anything—only to look at his father with one last, pained smile—before leaving them both alone. The midwife had panicked, calling for the nearest mage. Ato's father had simply took his wife's hand as he held Ato to his chest. He knew it was useless: if a mage could have saved Ato's mother, she would have cast the spell herself. He had looked into Ato's eyes as he told this story—a tired smile on his face—as he wiped food off of Ato's round cheeks.

    That moment taught him an important lesson, he said. The thread of life is ever tangled. It may knot even as it stitches in place. Your happiest day may be your saddest.