Page 164 of Death of the Glass Angel
Your chance to change the foretold end
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” A warm, welcoming voice spoke in Altanese.
A tall man with irises the color of red gems stood behind Felsin, hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. The breeze stirred Felsin’s curls but did not disturb the short-cropped hair of the older man. A similar burgundy tweed wrap covered his body, its high collar rising to the man’s ears.
Veren of the Gaevral. Father.
Felsin stared at his father in awe and confusion. This was no spirit, manifested in spectral white of roiling fog. This man was real, composed of flesh and blood. Yet, his eyes never seemed to look directly at Felsin. Always a hair off.
“Eros?” Janus called, gazing up a spiral staircase of ancient stone.
A few paces up, a little boy, perhaps ten years old, bounced excitedly on the rickety stairs. He was cefran, with blazing pink eyes reminiscent of the cherry blossoms in Forsaidh. And though they differed in race, a strong likeness was shared between the boy and Janus. They had the same slightly upturned nose and pronounced cheekbones.
Felsin’s head felt like it would split. Behind him lay the interior of a tower, ruined and abandoned, evidenced by the holes in its walls and the dust falling from the stairs. Yet, when he turned around, he saw the expanse of Altanese mountains, peaks dusted with snow and slopes littered with pines full of rich green needles.
“Let’s get started.” Father beckoned for Felsin to follow. “They say you can spot Nyxes in the woods this time of year.” He chuckled. “Think we’ll get lucky?”
Nyxes. . . Felsin recalled this conversation. As a boy, he’d owned a book filled with illustrations of black horses covered in draconic scales.
They’d had this conversation before their hike. Father had been wearing that same outfit, a new gift from Mother. Cane in hand, he tapped it on the gravel as he began his walk. His final walk.
Felsin stared in horror as Father strode to his death.
“Eros, wait!” Janus called, trotting up the stairs to catch up with the boy.
Head splitting, Felsin squeezed his eyes shut. This was a memory. No, two memories merging into one. But evoking did not work like this. Evokers could pull a piece of memory out into life, but they could not manifest one in its entirety. And they certainly could not replicate people. Not Eros. Not Veren. Not any soul, dead or alive.
“Janus. . .” Felsin weakly called, struggling to look away from his father’s retreating form.
He gritted his teeth as he strained to move his leg, though it felt like thick mud rooted him in place, stuck between the bottom step of the ancient tower and the Altanese mountains.
Let not the glance behind steal away your chance to change the foretold end.
Father walked not to an accident, but a murder. Someone lay in wait down the trail, ready to plunge a blade into his heart. And Felsin could not recall it. Someone had covered it up.
If he followed, he could see the truth. See the murderer’s face.
Every second Felsin hesitated, Janus drew further away.
Janus. . .
Felsin’s head snapped back. He had entirely forgotten where they had been a moment before. The play, in the Faedrail Opera House . . .
The fire, the destruction. They were in danger. This. . . this was a trap.
Let not the glance behind steal away your chance to change the foretold end.
Dive one step deeper into the past, and Felsin would lose sight of the days to come. The truth could still be found. Justice could be meted out.
Yesterday was gone. Only tomorrow remained.
Gritting his teeth, Felsin studied his father one last time, committing the sight of him to memory.
Felsin’s lungs stung as he dragged his eyes away from his father, away from the mountains. He felt like something within him fractured, and then he was free. The hills were no longer behind him. Only the crumbling tower Janus ascended.
“Janus!” Felsin called again, his voice stronger. Regaining control of his legs, he raced up the fragile steps, reaching out to grab her.
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