Page 7 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

“I know what you’re thinking,” my dad says, a wry grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “It sounds cliché—like something you’ve heard, or seen, or read a million times before. But let me ask you this: Have you ever truly lived it? Can you imagine how it feels to be so deeply anchored in your own power that you’re no longer swayed by external judgments or outside circumstances?”

The question is rhetorical. Obviously, I have no idea what it’s like to live with that sort of conviction. Still, it sounds like the ultimate freedom. And as I watch him sort through stacks of dusty, old tomes, his fingers gently brushing over cracked spines and worn leather covers, I say, “And that bit about the minotaur?”

My dad looks over his shoulder, casting a thoughtful glance my way. “It’s about delving deep into yourself. It’s the process of confronting and conquering all the fears that have accumulated over the years. Once that’s behind you, you’ll begin again as a new, more powerful, version of yourself.”

“Didn’t realize it would be so easy,” I joke. “Do I get a red string like Ariadne gave to Theseus in the myth?”

I watch as my dad sets a few selected books aside. When he looks up, his gaze levels on mine. “Let’s start there.” He frowns. “Your use of humor and sarcasm to shield your insecurities.”

I shift uncomfortably, painfully aware that I’ve failed the first test. “Don’t most people do that?” I ask.

“Perhaps.” He shrugs, peering at me like his eyes can strip through layers of flesh and bone, all the way down to my deepest, most shadowy, shameful self. “But you’re not here to become ordinary. You’re here to achieve the extraordinary, no?”

His voice resonates with a sobering truth, and I find myself nodding in place of words. My throat is tight with a mix of apprehension and the promise of liberation from the me I’ve come to know—the me I’m increasingly desperate to outgrow. And yet, I still have my doubts.

“I’ve learned a lot at Gray Wolf,” I say, the words coming out in a rush, as though I might soon forget the proper use of language as well. “And a lot of it, most of it, is not the sort of stuff I can afford to forget if I have any hope of defeating Arthur.”

My dad raises a hand to stop me. “Let me be clear,” he says, “your memories and skills will return. It’s the narrative you’ve woven around them that will evolve.”

“So, like rewriting my story?” I ask, recalling Arthur’s advice once more.

He nods. “Only this goes much deeper. It’ll become second nature, an intrinsic part of who you are, requiring no conscious effort on your part. And this is where we begin.”

He lays open a book before me, tapping his index finger to the center of the page where an enigmatic sketch is displayed. “Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I .” His finger hovers over the image.

I lean forward, making a closer study of the picture. It’s so vivid, so intricate, centering on the figure of a melancholic angel surrounded by various objects—a scale, a geometric shape, tools, even an hourglass. And though I have no idea what any of it means, with all that symbolism, there’s clearly a story to unravel.

“It depicts mankind’s struggle to comprehend the ancient mysteries. It’s a puzzle scholars have been debating for centuries,” my dad says.

“And what’s your take?” I ask. “I mean, as a Timekeeper, what do you think it means?”

“Look closer.” He edges the book nearer to me. “Do you see how every element symbolizes a different aspect of the human experience? Knowledge, measurement, time, and the limitations they impose on us all—it’s all there.”

I study the image, noting how the angel, despite being surrounded by symbols and tools, looks lost in thought, maybe even paralyzed with thought.

“She seems overwhelmed,” I venture, biting my lower lip as I gaze up at my dad.

He nods. “She represents the mind’s potential trapped by its own self-imposed barriers. And your journey, Natasha, much like hers, is about breaking free from the mental constraints you’ve forced upon yourself.”

“And how do I do that?” I ask, feeling a sudden kinship with the angel’s burden, the parallels between my journey and hers.

“You’ve already begun,” he says, his gaze reflecting a blend of empathy and determination. “Each element in this image stands as a metaphor for the layers you need to peel away. The scale for balance, the geometric shape for perspective, the tools for skill.”

I glance at the hourglass, its sands slipping from one chamber to another. “And time?”

He grins. “Time,” he says, “is about the flow of life. So far, the Unravelings you’ve experienced have come suddenly, unexpectedly, seemingly from a place beyond your control.”

“Seemingly?” I frown, wondering if he really meant what he said. “Just so you know, I’ve never asked for any of them. They just happen. And usually, at the most inopportune moments.”

His expression shifts, his face becoming a canvas of regret. “Only because I never got to teach you how to not just control an Unraveling, but to harness it, summon it, and bend it to your will.” Though his expression still holds traces of sadness, his voice is strong, imbued with a deep sense of purpose. “But first, there’s an exercise you must do. Come.”

I leave the wool throw on the chair and follow him to a secluded part of the room, a long narrow hall where a large target with colorful rings stands on a sturdy frame at the end.

Confused, I turn to him, only to find him offering me a square of silky black fabric and what I instantly recognize as archery equipment.

“What is this?” I scrutinize the bow and arrow, my curiosity tinged with unease.

“Blindfold Archery,” he says. Then, reacting to my wary expression, he goes on to explain, “It goes beyond merely hitting a target. It’s a practice of mental discipline, sharpening focus, honing intuition. It’s about seeing beyond the visible, as the eyes can grasp only what the mind is prepared to understand.”

His words stir up a memory. “You sound like Arthur,” I say, recalling what Arthur once told me about the difference between mere sight and true vision.

My dad studies me with a reflective pause. “He may have his flaws, but he’s not entirely misguided. And that, I suspect, will make the choices ahead of you even more challenging.” He lets the words hang between us, allowing the gravity of his statement to take root. “Ready to start?” he asks, shifting back to the task at hand.

With a hesitant nod, I let him secure the blindfold over my eyes, instantly plunging me into a world of darkness. After correcting my stance, he carefully guides my hands, steadying my grip on the bow.

“Focus on the bullseye,” he says. “Even though you can’t see it. Trust your instincts.”

I grip the cool wood of the bow, its smooth curve nestling into my palm. Beneath my fingers the string feels taut, and as I nock the arrow, its feathered fletching whispers softly against my cheek.

In my mind’s eye, I visualize the target, imagining its concentric circles, the gold center waiting for the punch of my arrow. Then, with a deep breath that fills my lungs and steadies my nerves, I draw the bow and release the string.

A rush of exhilaration surges through me. For those few seconds as the arrow cuts through the air with a faint, almost imperceptible hiss, there’s a weightlessness to my being, a freedom found in the uncertainty of this moment.

I brace for the sound of impact, the telltale thud of the arrow striking its target. But just as I reach back to tear the blindfold away, a crushing wave of nausea violently overtakes me.

The bow slips from my fingers, clattering to the ground.

My head spins, the room tilts and swirls, as reality quickly dissolves, leaving a familiar sense of dread in its place.

This sensation, this feeling—I know it all too well. It’s the terrifying onset of a full-blown Fade.

With desperate fingers, I claw at my neck, seeking the comforting touch of my charm. But it’s not there. My lifeline is severed, sending me adrift, a solitary speck in a tumultuous sea.

“You’re okay,” someone says.

It’s the voice of a man, and I have this unexplainable urge to call him Dad. But how can that be?

“Stay with me,” he says. “Ground yourself in the present and breathe.”

I nod, my face sheathed in sweat, struggling to obey. But my mind is too frantic, trying to capture a trove of fleeting memories, only to watch them slip away like grains of sand spiraling down an hourglass.

Eighteen years of my life, fragmenting into nothingness, leaving behind only a dark, hollow void.

Without these memories, these anchors to my past and the narrative of who I am, do I even exist?

“Natasha,” the man says. “You can do this.”

I cling to the words like a drowning person desperately flailing toward land, but the tide of oblivion continues to surge, gathering into a monstrous force that defies my attempts to withstand it.

Next thing I know, I’m swallowed whole, ripped away from reality’s comforting shores and hurled into an unfathomable abyss.