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“What is it you’re after?” he asks, eyes pinching so tightly, they’re just barely visible.

“I’ve come for the Star.”

“Impossible,” he seethes.

“I assure you, it’s not.” I struggle to keep my expression neutral, my voice firm, hoping he can’t sense the unsteady thrum of my own anxious heart.

“And what of your companions?” he asks.

“They’re here to stop me from what I really plan to do,” I explain. “Which is precisely why I’m asking for your help—to ensure their attempts are unsuccessful.”

“And what is it you plan to do?” he asks, visibly softening to the idea, but only slightly.

With my gaze fixed on his, I inhale a deep breath and divulge the whole story. Telling him about me, my connection to Braxton, the strategy we’ve devised together. I even confess that Braxton is now in possession of the gold pocket watch I took from him during my last visit.

“The visit where you cut me.” He gives me a look I can’t entirely read.Admiration? Contempt?It’s impossible to tell.

“Your son, Braxton, taught me how to use a blade.” I shrug. “Admittedly, I’d had only a few lessons. I wasn’t very skilled. Hopefully, I’ve progressed a bit since then.”

His father’s eyes narrow. “It is, indeed, an interesting story you tell. One I might be tempted to believe if it weren’t for one glaring detail.”

I stand before him, barely able to breathe, as I wait to hear how I’ve failed.

“My son is not named Braxton.” He folds his arms, tilts his chin high, convinced he’s just caught me in an elaborate lie. “His name is—”

Before he can finish, I race to say it, so he’ll know I’m legit. “His name is James,” I say. “You named him after your father, his grandfather. It’s only later that he decided to combine his surname with that of his mother’s, which is why I know him as Braxton Huntley.”

His father falls silent, surrendering the moment to the soft echoes of music wafting from beyond this room.

“So…” He gives me an inquiring look.

“Natasha,” I say. “My name is Natasha Antoinette Clarke.”

“So, Miss Clarke,” he continues, “are you going to tell me how my son ended up living in a time several centuries from this day?”

“It’s complicated.” I sigh. Having already told my own father how he’ll die as a result of Arthur’s ambitions, I dread telling another. Though the shift in his expression tells me he already knows how his story ends.

“Arthur Blackstone,” he says, catching me by surprise. I wasn’t aware he was familiar with him.

“Yes,” I confirm.

Seeming to take the news in stride, he says, “And so my son is a time jumper, like you?”

“He is,” I reply. “But hopefully, not for much longer. We aim to end this now. And, if things go well, you can have a different ending as well.”

“No.” His father’s response comes swift and sharp. “I’m afraid I cannot allow that.”

I gape at him, perplexed. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Why wouldn’t you at least—”

“It’s a tale of hubris,” he says, cutting me off.

My puzzled look deepens; now I really don’t follow.

“It’s the story of Macbeth,” he explains.

I stand before him, waiting, unsure where he’s going with this.

“Macbeth,” his father continues, “much like Arthur, believed he could shape his own destiny through his actions. And his attempt to dominate his fate only made him a pawn of it, ultimately bringing about the very future he tried to escape. His tragic flaws—overweening ambition and profound arrogance—and the actions spurred by these traits led to his undoing.” His intense blue eyes fix on me, a heavy silence stretching between us before he adds, “The moral of the tale is clear: humans cannot twist their destiny through misdeeds without facing grave repercussions. This is why I shall refrain from attempting to change mine.”