69. A Glimpse
A Glimpse
My spire rose from the landscape like a finger pointing at the heavens, isolated and imposing against the brightness of Sundralis's outer reaches. I'd chosen this place specifically for its distance from the capital city, from the other Aesymar.
As I approached the marble steps, I noticed a figure standing by the entrance.
I didn't quicken my pace. Didn't slow it either. Just continued my measured approach as the figure turned.
Heron.
His milky white eyes found me with their uncanny accuracy, and a gentle smile touched his weathered face. He looked different from the last time I saw him.
"Thais," he said, inclining his head. "It's good to see you again."
"Heron." I returned the greeting with the same mild tone I used for everything now. "You're far from the desert."
"Indeed." He stepped aside to let me approach my door. "Though distance means less than it used to, these days."
"How did you find me? "
"The threads of fate lead everywhere, if one knows how to follow them." He offered a small smile.
A beat passed. Then another.
“Is there something you want, Heron?”
“I was hoping you’d invite me in, if it’s a relatively good time, of course.”
The door swung open, and I gestured for him to enter. "Tea?"
"Please."
We settled in my sitting room. It had come with furniture and dressings. The same ones that drenched the rest of this sunlit domain.
"I was sorry to hear about your father," I said, setting a cup before him.
Heron's expression shifted minutely. "He fell the moment Moros vanished. Simply... ceased. One heartbeat to the next." He took the cup with steady hands. "A peaceful end, all things considered."
I nodded, sipping my tea.
"Morthus paid me a visit after that." A wry smile touched his lips. "Offered me my father's position. The chance to ascend properly." He gestured at himself. "As you can see, I accepted."
"Aesymar of Fate." I sipped my own tea. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." He studied me with those unseeing eyes that saw too much.
We sat in silence for a moment.
"How are you managing?" he asked finally. "The transition to godhood can be... overwhelming."
"Fine." The word came out flat. "Everything's fine."
"Ah." He nodded sagely. "The same 'fine' my mother used when I accidentally set her herb garden on fire trying to divine which plants would survive the winter. None of them did."
"You can see fate but couldn't see that coming?"
"Fate and common sense are distant cousins at best." He sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Besides, I was twelve. And blind. The fire was really more impressive than destructive, all things considered."
"How does a blind twelve-year-old accidentally start a fire?"
"With remarkable creativity and gross misunderstanding.
" He smiled at the memory. "I thought if I concentrated hard enough on seeing the future, the universe would show me through.
.. other means. Turns out the universe's idea of other means involved a magnifying glass I didn't know I was holding and some very dry rosemary. "
"That's..."
"My mother made me replant everything by touch alone." He chuckled. "Taught me that fate rarely reveals itself through dramatic gestures. Usually it's more subtle. A thread out of place. A pattern where there shouldn't be one."
I set down my cup. "Is there a point to this story, Heron?"
"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 been darkened 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."
Heron rose, moving toward the door. "I debated whether to tell you. Hope can be cruel when it's built on such uncertain ground."
I followed him, my mind in shambles. "It’s not hope. It’s a countdown."
Heron nodded slowly. "May fate be kinder to you than it has been thus far, Thais Morvaren. And may the departed not stay that way.”
After he left, I stood in my empty spire, feeling that spark pulse with each heartbeat.
For the first time since Thatcher fell, I felt my lips twitch, corners threatening to tug upwards.
The Abyss had taken half my soul.
In thirty-six years, for seven seconds, I'd have my chance to take it back.
And I would be ready.