Page 52 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

Talon

I’ll never understand your aversion to anmarite. You once availed yourself of every advantage. Why do you protest, now that I seek to do the same?

-Letter from Lady Entia to Gemellus Instigo

The forge sat ominously in the corner, a wellspring of heat—burns, fire, pain.

Talon gritted his teeth, shutting away the memories of his past.

“Are you sure about this?” Valkyrie asked, tying her fiery locks into a bun.

“As much as I can be.” Talon shrugged, turning over his bandaged arm. “I’ve been through worse.”

“This might kill you,” Valkyrie said, though she did not sound worried. “Nobody knows anything about working with anmarite.”

“Then I guess I’ll be a pioneer.” Talon attempted to sound cheerful.

Valkyrie snorted. “Who are you performing for? Me?” She leaned her head on her fist. “This entire course of events is unlike anything I’ve seen. So much has gone into hiding the truth, and for what?”

“Something yet to come.”

“It must be exciting, whatever it is,” Valkyrie smirked. “And Princess Janus, our hero. Or will she be the villain?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Talon said, staring at the forge.

He’s going to kill himself. A voice whispered.

He’s terrible at magic. Another agreed.

What is he thinking?

The door flew open, and Felsin trotted out, a white cat clinging to his heels. He held a small box and offered it to Talon. “This stuff is worth a fortune,” Felsin said as Talon accepted the parcel. “Do you know how difficult it was to convince my mother you were owed restitution?”

Talon opened the box to see a single piece of refined anmarite inside, the metal glimmering silver with faint flecks of blue beneath the sunlight. Pulling the chunk out, he watched Felsin closely. The man had pretended to be alright, but Talon could see countless thoughts flurrying behind his eyes.

Pacing around the courtyard, Felsin unfolded a piece of parchment. “According to the diagram, they thought the lightning in your veins would bond the anmarite.”

“Bond?” Talon asked, holding up the anmarite to his arm.

“Like a new skin. It would become part of your body.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Good question. . .” Felsin muttered, reading over the notes. “You were to be the first experiment. Which begs the question of why a clockwork soldier awaited us in the tomb.”

“Clockwork soldier?”

“Des named it.”

“Fitting.”

Felsin flicked the page. “If I had to guess, we should shape the metal to match your arm before grafting it on.”

Exhaling heavily, Talon set the anmarite down on the anvil and stepped back. The task ahead would require a great deal of magic, and therefore, a great deal of his blood.

Setting the notes aside, Felsin picked up a measuring rod from the tool bench and gestured for Talon’s arm. He jotted down the dimensions of the wound and picked up a hammer. “Forging isn’t exactly quick,” Felsin said. “This might take a while.”

Valkyrie made herself comfortable on the bench, stretching her legs over where Talon had been sitting. “Don’t let him kill himself.”

“I know my limits,” Talon said, eyes shifting nervously.

He doesn’t.

He’s lying. The voices whispered.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m a half-decent blacksmith.” Felsin stepped to the other side of the anvil. “But I’m accustomed to normal metal that obeys the forge. I guess you’ll. . . soften it for me?”

“That’s the idea.” Talon rolled up his sleeves, eyeing the resilient little rock. “Try to work quickly.”

“This thing will be stuck to you for. . . well, maybe forever.” Felsin pointed out. “You don’t want shoddy workmanship.”

“I already don’t trust your ‘workmanship.’”

“And what makes you think so lowly of me?”

“The fortune telling?” Talon suggested. “The ugly coat. The fact you knew my name before we met and still haven’t told me how.”

“Pff.” Felsin exhaled. “Fortune. Teller. Put the pieces together, Talon.”

Valkyrie chuckled, a rare sound from her. Wrinkling his nose as he stared at Felsin in distaste, Talon returned to the anmarite. “Fine.”

“Do you treat everyone like this?” Felsin asked, smirking. “Or do you just like me?”

“Are you flirting with me now?”

“Would you like that?”

Rolling his eyes, Talon looked away from the irksome man and focused on the anmarite, extending a hand above the metal. A spark could emerge from his fingertips, extracted from his blood, so long as he called upon his catalyst. But, gods, did he hate doing so.

Only Lark knew Talon’s catalyst was fear. Of all they shared, Valkyrie and Talon had left the nature of their magic unspoken.

Fear seemed harder to invoke each time Talon called upon it. Biting his lip, he tried to envision his worst nightmare.

Perhaps the true nightmare was that he feared nothing. Not death. Not failure. Not a life spent alone. The night of the fire, Talon had thrown away his chance at happiness.

He’d met Des, someone he wanted to keep in his life, but couldn’t. Each step brought him deeper into an endless hall cast in dusk, approaching night but never the sun.

Lightning burst from Talon’s fingertips and surrounded the anmarite, bathing the silver in violet.

With every pulse of static, the metal softened.

Felsin watched closely, waiting for the metal to become malleable.

Once the lightning had done its job, Talon receded his hand, and Felsin set about hammering into a flat, vambrace-like shape.

With each strike, the metal flattened and smoothed. All too soon, the anmarite regained its original toughness, and the hammer bounced off one last time, useless. Felsin looked up at Talon, beckoning him to be the fire of the forge again.

So little accomplished for so much effort. The metal hardly looked dented now that it had re-hardened. This was going to take a while. And none of it would be pleasant.

* * *

A dream plagued Talon—a frustrating, endless chase. He ran forever yet never reached his destination. The further he sprinted, the less he understood what he sought. Was it resignation he decided upon, or had he finally laid eyes on the goal when consciousness returned?

Weak and sore, Talon sat up, eyes narrowing as the darkness cleared. What happened? A moment ago, he had been in Weisskopf’s southern courtyard, working beside the forge.

Talon glanced up and was met with the night sky. Stars blurred against the endless void, bright, silver, and. . . fake. Blinking, Talon cleared his sleep-crusted eyes, realizing only a ceiling decorated with little paper stars loomed above him.

He lay on a simple bed covered with a quilted red comforter. His coat had been removed and draped over the rocking chair in the corner. Mess covered the remainder of the chamber: stacks of cards piled atop the dresser, and no less than five crystal balls adorned the table.

Laying his hand across his eyes, Talon sank into the mattress. He was exhausted, and he tended to think when his energy was spent.

Saint’s Winds. What was Talon supposed to do about Des? He couldn’t be with her, but she pulled him to her side like a magnet. When her voice lowered, when her steely gaze fell upon him, when their skin brushed. . .

She was impossible to resist. The cold distance he’d meant to create instead warmed each day. He was falling for her.

Sors leaped onto the bed and sat beside Talon, shaking him from his thoughts.

“There he is.” Felsin’s voice appeared in the air beside Talon.

“Ah.” Talon jolted upright, and Sors jumped into his lap. “Where did you come from?”

Felsin chuckled. “You passed out. Do you not remember?”

Pressing a hand to his aching cheek, Talon closed his eyes.

Oh. Valkyrie had told him to stop, and he had insisted he was fine, eager to get the excruciating job over with.

The last thing he recalled was everything going fuzzy.

He’d probably landed on this aching cheek, considering the corresponding arm also throbbed dully.

“Why am I in your room?” Talon asked.

“I was going to bring you back to Janus, but,” Felsin folded his arms. “I didn’t want to miss the chance to interrogate you.”

“Where’s Valkyrie?” Talon asked.

“She left. Told me to tell you that you’re stupid, and she told you so.” Felsin politely informed him.

“Great,” Talon murmured. He felt wretched. Overextending with cefran magic was akin to bleeding out and surviving by a thread.

“Des disturbed my father’s tomb,” Felsin said abruptly. “Were you with her?”

“No.” Talon leaned back. “Why haven’t you asked her?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to. I’ve been thinking about what she said. About him being murdered.” He sat beside Talon, eyeing him expectantly.

“Hm?” Talon pushed Sors aside. “Your father was murdered?”

“So it’s news to a songbird as well?” Felsin looks away. “Somehow, that makes it worse.”

“I thought you were with him when he died.”

“I was. I remember a rockfall, my father shielding me.” Felsin sighed. “Which is stronger? My fury at Janus’ disrespect, or my gratitude for uncovering a piece of the truth?”

“That’s up to you.”

Felsin paced. “Everyone knew. My mother. Brand. Alfaris. Why didn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Talon admitted.

“Something’s not right.” He said quietly. “Why do the assassins wait so long before striking again? Why always in public?”

“Why not poison?” Talon murmured. “Why not a blade in the night?”

“Exactly.” Felsin whirled around. “Alfaris can see so much more than I can. Precise moments, down to the minute, years in the future. ‘Fate is not a script.’”

“But we’re in one,” Talon muttered. What a horrifying thought.

“Everything they’ve done leads us to a certain outcome. Maybe it’s not our deaths they want.” Felsin grinned. “But what? What do they seek? What moment will this lead us to?” His eyes flashed. “Get some rest. We have a bracer to finish.”

Talon thumped his head against the pillow, watching Felsin fly out the door. The man was excited.

Gods, was everyone in this city mad?

* * *

Talon had never been in the business of time-intensive, laborious tasks. He had little patience for them. To date, this project would mark his first honest endeavor. Judging from how delightful this experience had been, also his last.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he stepped away from the forge, listening to the thunk of the hammer against the metal sheet. Flexing his tired arm, Felsin ran a hand over the anmarite, admiring his craftsmanship.

“Done?” Talon presumed.

“It’s about as good as we’re going to get.” Felsin nodded. “Unless you want to decorate it? Add a few engravings, maybe some fancy trim?”

“Heavens, no,” Talon said, exasperated. “Far too much effort for something I’m going to hide beneath a sleeve for the rest of my life.”

“If you say so. I just hope this works.” Felsin muttered as he picked up the anmarite bracer and beckoned for Talon’s hand.

Pulling off his coat and rolling up his sleeve, Talon sat at the workbench and laid his arm across the table, unraveling the bandages hiding his unsightly wound. Felsin’s measurements proved accurate; the anmarite bracer slid perfectly onto his arm.

Now came the uncertain part.

Backing away to avoid the ensuing spark, Felsin folded his arms and watched with rapt attention.

Taking a deep breath, Talon closed his eyes, focusing on the cold metal painfully brushing against his missing skin.

The blood within his arm pulsed with lightning, and to his surprise, he felt the metal shift. Almost as though it were alive.

Eyes flying open, Talon watched as the vambrace settled against his flesh as though called by the blood below. The gap Felsin had left melded together as the metal clicked into place, falling even with the uninjured skin on his upper arm and hand.

Fighting back a strangled sound of distress, Talon gripped the workbench’s edge with his other hand until his fingers turned white. He felt like his arm was being cut off. The metal’s squeeze and the storm raging in his blood sent waves of burning agony down his arm.

And then it passed. The discomfort vanished abruptly as the seams between skin and metal disappeared.

Though his arm felt much heavier, Talon could still move it without difficulty.

To the distant eye, it would appear as though he had forgotten to don every piece of his armor save the left vambrace.

“Whoa.” Felsin breathed, setting down his hammer. “That was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” His eyes darkened. “And that thing in the tomb was covered in this.”

Standing, Talon tested his arm. The pain had dulled to a throb.

Anmarite.

Talon whipped around, startled by the piercing voice. He spun in place, searching the courtyard for the speaker. It sounded like a young man.

I always wanted to make something with anmarite.

Only Felsin stood in the courtyard, staring at Talon in alarm and amusement, unsure if he should be concerned by Talon’s sudden hysteria.

Who had spoken?

“You okay?” Felsin asked slowly.

“Fine,” Talon assured, casually stretching the new arm.

“Good.” Felsin stepped past him, looking up at the night sky. “One final dance. And then, fittingly, the grand finale at the opera house. Yet I see nothing in the stars.”

“And here I thought you were a fortune teller.”

“Evokers pull from their perfect memories, right?” Felsin stared intently at Talon. “Shouldn’t it be obvious how one glimpses fate, then?”

“By having no memories?”

“Closest thing to,” Felsin confirmed. “You let the past go. You let the path behind crumble, never glancing back.”

“But now you’re thinking about. . .”

His father.

“Yes,” Felsin said somberly. “Be careful, Talon. Who can say what awaits?”

Nodding, Talon pulled open the door and stepped inside, hurrying through the palace halls as he pulled his coat on, covering the anmarite arm.