Page 37 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

“We should go,” I say, emerging from our hiding spot behind the altar. I hold my freshly lit candle aloft, its light casting flickering shadows on the cavernous walls, as Braxton paces the room, a storm of emotions visible in his every step.

“He’s not coming back,” Braxton says, his voice echoing through the space. “Besides, if I run into him on the way back, I can’t promise I won’t kill him with my bare hands.”

“No, you won’t,” I respond softly, wishing I could calm his frantic movements, hold him tightly to my chest, and soothe away all his anguish and fury. But I know he needs this moment to vent, so I stand back, giving him space to process his feelings.

“He’s a monster,” Braxton says, and I’m instantly struck by the word.

Arthur has indeed become a monster. Yet I can’t help but reflect on the man he might’ve once been—a man who experienced love and loss so profoundly that he lost his way amid his overwhelming grief.

The Garden of Monsters, the grafted tattoo—these are but external symbols of how Arthur perceives himself, a physical manifestation of his internal torment.

Arthur embodies the tragic outcome of a man so consumed by grief, he’s trapped in a vicious cycle of guilt and self-blame. It would be so easy to feel sorry for him if it weren’t for his resolve to control time and remake the world.

But now, having seen the depths of his despair and the extremes he’s willing to endure to recapture all that he’s lost, I’m left with a clear understanding of the motivation behind all of this. And because of it, I’m significantly closer to thwarting his plans.

Now that I’m armed with the why and the what, all that remains to uncover is how.

Turning to Braxton, I ask, “She never said anything? Back when you were together, Elodie never mentioned Arthur being her actual father, not just a father figure?”

Braxton pauses, looking at me with a distant gaze before shaking his head as if to clear it of the tormenting thoughts surrounding his grandfather. “No. Never.” He runs a hand through his hair, casting a glance around the strange, haunting space. Returning his focus to me, he says, “Elodie’s never been one for sharing much of herself. It was mostly just—” He stops abruptly, his sentence trailing off with a dismissive wave.

“Mostly just what—physical?” I say, relieved to find the sting of jealousy that always reared its ugly head at any mention of their past is now gone.

I love Braxton. He loves me. And anything that happened before, with either of us, only served to steer us toward the path that led to each other.

But Braxton is unaware of my new sense of security. “Um, yeah,” he says. “I guess, that’s one way to put it.” He shifts uneasily, gives an uncomfortable shrug. “Honestly, what sticks with me most is the never-ending head games. I don’t know how Jago can stand it. It was way too much drama and chaos for me.”

“I’m not sure Jago’s all that invested,” I share, remembering their casual relationship status. “It seems more like a convenient fling—a bit of fun between Trips. As for Elodie…” I pause, glancing at Braxton, debating whether to divulge what I know. “She appears quite taken with someone named Nash.”

Braxton’s expression shifts to one of mild curiosity.

Then, remembering Nash is from Regency England, I say, “Do you know him? You might’ve been quite young, just a child, but I met him during that Trip where I…well, when I met your father.”

Or more accurately, when I engaged in a sword fight with your father, leaving him maimed and bleeding on the floor .

Braxton, seemingly uninterested in delving deeper into Elodie’s love life, dismisses the topic with a noncommittal, “Yeah, maybe. Regardless, I think it’s clear we can’t consider her an ally. Her loyalty to Arthur—whether she knows he’s her real father or not—is too strong. I can’t see her siding with us.”

I breathe a heavy sigh and nod in agreement.

“And Killian?” Braxton says. “You sure you don’t want to take him up on his offer to save your dad?”

I look at him like he’s suddenly sprouted an additional head. “Absolutely not,” I say, a shiver of repulsion coursing through me. “It’s completely out of the question.”

Braxton regards me with a cool, unwavering look. “Is it pride that’s guiding your decision—or is there something else at play here?”

His question catches me off guard. “What exactly are you implying?” I ask, surprised and slightly irked that he’d even entertain such an idea.

Braxton’s response is measured. “Consider this,” he says, “if Killian is genuinely seeking redemption, perhaps it’s worth exploring his offer. Particularly if it could lead to achieving something you deeply want.”

The words linger between us. “It’s not about pride,” I insist. “It’s about not being able to trust him. And you shouldn’t, either.”

Braxton meets my gaze with unwavering seriousness. “Make no mistake,” he says. “I have no illusions about Killian de Luce. I was there in that French crypt, witnessing his actions firsthand.”

As the words settle, I’m struck by how what once felt like a devastating, life-altering revelation is now just another unfortunate event in a long string of them. Time and clarity have a way of softening the hard edges.

“Here’s the thing,” I say, “Killian might spin tales of seeking redemption, but aligning with him comes with a risk. He might promise to spare my dad, presenting it as a victory, only to turn around and target you, under the guise of liberating me for himself. And when I react with fury, he’d simply shrug and remind me: I’m the scorpion, remember? It’s in my nature. What else did you expect? ”

Braxton nods, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “You’re right. I guess I didn’t want to close off any options. But facing what we now know, how do we go about stopping Arthur?”

I take a deep breath and turn my attention to the murals once more. “Arthur commissioned these pieces from some of the art world’s most renowned artists,” I say, directing my candle toward the scene that’s closest to the hidden door. “Just like the mural over his desk, he did so with intention. There’s a story here; it’s coded, of course, but I’m determined to decipher its meaning.”

“Go on,” Braxton says, glancing between the mural and me.

“At first glance, it looks haphazard, random. But I’m sensing there’s a pattern. Think of it like a graphic novel without the speech bubbles.”

Braxton grins, his blue eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.

“I think the journey starts here.” Gently, I tap a finger to the wall. “And I’m thinking maybe we can gain deeper insight if we place our hands on it, together.”

Braxton’s gaze is as deep as the sea, and when he places his hand over mine, a surge of electricity shoots through my veins.

“Now, focus on your breathing and clear your thoughts,” I say, repeating the steps my dad taught me. “As you merge with the mural’s energy, let your mind be a blank canvas, open to whatever impressions may come.”

Together, Braxton and I follow the mural in quiet contemplation, absorbing the tale of a boy born into scant means, a world where ascending beyond one’s initial circumstances seemed a distant dream.

Yet, Arthur was exceptional—naturally industrious, and remarkably insightful for his age. His most defining attribute, however, was his foresight, a vision not just for personal advancement but for societal betterment.

When he first saw the beautiful young kitchen maid at the household where he worked, Arthur was determined to transcend their shared lowly status. His brilliance and indomitable spirit, coupled with a burgeoning grasp of alchemy, allowed him to rise above his station. Together, they fell in love, wed, and built a modest yet joy-filled life with their daughter.

But tragedy struck when his wife became gravely ill. Desperate to save her, Arthur discovered a time portal, a gateway to different eras where he hoped to find a cure. Promising a swift return, he left his family, only to become ensnared in the labyrinth of time, unable to find his way back.

By the time he finally did return, years had passed. His wife was gone, and their daughter, Elodie, had been abandoned to the harsh realities of a Dickensian orphanage. Each attempt to rewrite this fate saw him clashing with time itself, always with the same heartbreaking outcome.

“My God,” Braxton says, once we near the end of the mural. “Arthur’s not just fighting against the random injustices of the world, but against time itself. No wonder he’s so obsessed with controlling it. It makes perfect sense.” He looks at me, his eyes wide with realization. “Well, in his twisted mind, anyway.”

When we reach the penultimate scene in the mural, we remove our hands from the wall and I say, “And here’s how his preferred story ends.” I gesture toward an image of a girl with flowing brown hair and green eyes—a girl who is unmistakably me. In this part of the mural, I am kneeling before Arthur, the Star cupped in my hands, presenting him with the final piece he needs to amend his past tragedies.

The image that follows depicts Arthur in a vision of sheer joy, his family restored, ensconced in a realm of splendor and radiance, a utopia free of all darkness.

Arthur envisions a perfect world, and it’s not that I don’t dream of such a place for myself. But I can’t overlook the countless lives sacrificed for him to achieve this goal—my father, Braxton’s father and grandfather, numerous Timekeepers across the ages, and all those lost in his early time travel experiments. And those of us here at Gray Wolf, taken from their homes, whisked away from our families and friends, the lives we’d been living, just so Arthur could edge closer to his dream.

We are all casualties of Arthur’s refusal to confront a universal inevitability—the pain of losing a loved one.

Arthur Blackstone is grieving, and though I empathize with the gravity of his loss, he has no right to dictate our choices or manipulate time for his personal benefit.

This struggle Braxton and I now face goes far beyond safeguarding time—it’s about ensuring society retains its freedom of choice.

Beneath my sleeve, the skin on my arm begins to itch. I lift it to find another golden circle has appeared. Looking to Braxton, I say, “I know exactly how we’re going to succeed.”