Page 57 of Death of the Glass Angel (Apotheosis #1)

Felsin

“Ilove you,” Heras said fondly.

Felsin stared at his mother, wide-eyed. When was the last time she had said that? Silhouetted in the door frame of his balcony, she looked almost as she had in his youth. Less of a Royal Chief, more of a mother.

“I love you too, Mom,” Felsin said uncertainly.

“Try to sound like you mean it.” Heras walked over, arms crossed over her tartan robe.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” Heras stood by the banister, looking up at the stars. “I just feel like we’ve been distant lately.”

Reaching into his pocket, Felsin brushed his deck of cards. “Why haven’t you told me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Told you what?”

“What you saw. Why haven’t you told me?”

Heras’s iron eyes lowered. “Alfaris taught you to see the way he does. So look up. See for yourself.”

She turned abruptly, and Felsin caught her arm. “Why would you resort to silencing me before talking to me?”

“The ancestors spoke, Felsin.” Heras’ voice was a low whisper. “I have not lifted a finger to harm you. But I will find the one responsible.”

“The one who works for you? I remember him. Castelmar. If only briefly.”

“A chance encounter.” Heras studied his face. “I have never known my youngest son to be anything but sure. So sure of himself. He never cared that he was different; he never doubted his choices.”

“Enough riddles, mother.” Felsin spat. “I’m not going to let you hurt her.”

Heras’ eyes narrowed. “You always berated me, telling me the ancestor’s word superseded all. Now you doubt them? Now, you agree they are wrong?”

Felsin released her, eyes darting away.

“Choose the path behind or the road ahead,” Heras warned. “And let go the other.” She stepped through the door, leaving him alone on the balcony.

Darkness fell over him. Studying the door, every line in its wood, Felsin tried to decide who he believed.

The revered ancestors?

Or the truth he suspected?

Pulling out his deck, he shuffled the cards and spread them, face down, on the banister. Tapping his finger, he tried to sense one calling to him, but all were black, meaningless pieces of paper.

Staring into the firmament, Felsin focused on the silver glow of the stars, remembering everything Alfaris had taught him.

The sky was a canvas, the stars sentient.

Those chroniclers above know our histories and write our futures.

One need only release their mortal body and connect with those above.

A truly spiritual experience, one few could grasp. But there was another step, which Alfaris had outlined as the most important rule.

Let not the glance behind steal away your chance to change the foretold end.

Felsin closed his eyes, washing his mind of memories and searching the heavens for tomorrow. He focused on the shimmering patterns of stars taking shape into constellations that matched the cards.

Father had been murdered.

Intrusive thoughts interrupted Felsin’s concentration.

Who would have murdered him? Why? Father had not taken part in Heras’s affairs, supporting her only in the home. While Mother was away, Father raised the children and looked after the house. He had done nothing in politics and was nobody in the Gaevral clan. What benefit was there to his death?

. . . to Felsin’s death?

The stars faded, and the pattern vanished. Blinking lights, distant celestial bodies, unreadable. Meaningless.

Frustrated, Felsin backed away. Mother was right. He was stuck in the past, bound by old traditions, and unable to look forward.

A seer who clung to the voices of those long dead. A man trying to walk two roads, when there could only be one.