Page 301 of The Ascended
"There's always a point. Whether it's sharp enough to matter..." He waggled his hand. "But yes. I've been thinking about unexpected fires lately. Sparks where there should be only ash."
His tone made me pay attention. "Meaning?"
"Do you know what the strangest part of being Aesymar of Fate is?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's not the seeing—I've done that all my life. It's the scope. Before, I could see threads within our realm, births and deaths and all the choices between. Now I see... edges."
"Edges?"
"Where our reality meets what lies beyond. The frayed ends where threads simply... stop." He set down his cup, and his expression grew serious. "Most end cleanly. Death, transformation, ascension—neat conclusions. But some are torn. Ripped away mid-weave."
My chest tightened. "And?"
"And yesterday, while I was cataloging these torn edges, I saw something that made me drop my tea. Wonderful tea, too. Waste of good leaves."
"Heron."
"Patience. I'm old now. Officially. I'm entitled to ramble." But his blind eyes had fixed on me. "I saw a thread that's beendarkened suddenly... flicker. Like a candle in a distant window. Just for a moment, but unmistakably there."
The words slithered over my skin. "That's impossible."
"That's what I said! Rather loudly. Scared my new assistant half to death. Poor boy thought I was having a vision of his doom." He leaned forward. "But impossible, it is not."
"What thread?" My voice came out strangled.
"I think you know." His expression softened. “There is a point to this visit, after all.”
My hands stilled on the table. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that in thirty-six years, for exactly seven seconds, a thread that shouldn't exist anymore will spark back into my sight."
The cup slipped from my fingers, shattering on the stone floor. Tea spread in a dark pool, but I couldn't look away from Heron's face.
"Thatcher?" My voice caught in my throat. "You saw Thatcher?"
"For seven seconds, his fate will be readable again. He'll exist in a way that touches this realm."
My heart seized. The first real sensation I'd felt in weeks—a violent, painful thing clawing up my chest. "What does that mean? Is he—will he be?—"
"I don't know." Heron's expression was grave. "I cannot say what state he'll be in. Only that for seven seconds, his thread will exist where I can see it."
"But he's alive." I gripped the edge of the table hard enough to crack the stone. "In thirty-six years, he'll be alive."
"Yes, dear. That is what I’m trying to say."
My mind raced, the fog of numbness burning away. "How?"
"If I were to speculate," Heron said slowly, "I would guess that some type of event will occur to thin the veil between realms. A crack, perhaps. A momentary weakening of the barriers that separate our reality from the Abyss beyond."
"Seven seconds." I stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Outside, the blinding light of Sundralis stretched endlessly. "That's nothing. That's?—"
"It's more than you have now."
I pressed my palms against the cold glass, feeling something I'd thought lost forever. A spark. Tiny, fragile, but unmistakably there.
"Where?" I spun to face him. "When exactly? Tell me everything."
"I'm afraid the vision was brief, more impression than detail. Thirty-six years from this moment. Seven seconds. That's all I know for certain."
"It's enough." The spark in my chest grew stronger, spreading warmth through veins that had felt like ice. "It has to be enough."
