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BLAISE
Nox dead on the beach.
I rip the thread from its binding and start again.
Nox dead in the cavern.
Again.
Nox dead in his sister’s arms.
No.
Again.
Nox dead. Again. Nox dead. Again. Nox dead.
Not again not again not again.
Rip.
I stare down at the limp piece of torn thread in my palm. The color fades from its fibers, as if bleeding out into the surrounding air.
No.
The frayed end splays from the tapestry as if to mock me. As if to say, “This is the moment that determines Nox’s death, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Maybe that’s it. Maybe I simply haven’t been unwinding far enough. Maybe there’s something in the tapestry, something that happens earlier that ends in his death, and if I can only figure out what that moment is, I can rework it. I can change his Fate.
I can change our Fate, and then he and I can be happy. Happy, like Evander and Ellie are happy.
The sight of her bulging belly assaults my mind, and I hate myself for the way my heart sank when I saw it, detest myself for the envy that writhed within my heart at the sight of their joy.
Tears sting at my eyes as I try again with the tapestry.
Again, Nox dies.
A scream wells within me as I rip the thread away. A scream that encompasses all my pain. The pain of being without Nox, the agony of losing my baby, the sorrow of putting my child’s spirit to rest, the shame that Evander and Ellie didn’t tell me, because they knew, they knew the ugliness that would fester inside my heart at their happiness.
My baby is dead.
Nox is going to be dead, and I can’t stop it, and now that Piper’s contacted Marcus, informing him that Abra is taking her to Mystral, Nox is going to stay dead.
They’ll turn around. They’ll turn the whole caravan around, and Asha will want to go with them.
We’re so close. We made it so close.
And still, I’m going to fall short of saving him.
“Blaise, I know Lydia already told you about Piper. I just wanted to let you know…Blaise?”
I turn to find Asha in the doorway of my tent. Her voice is tinged with concern, but she’s not looking at me. Her gaze fixes on the tapestry, scanning the likenesses as they make their way across an abandoned island.
“What sort of thread is that tapestry made of?” Asha asks, her hand drawing toward the fabric, as if by its own volition.
I brush my braid from my neck and it swats me on the back. “I’m not sure. It’s just thread I picked up back in Othian. I’ll have to remember the shopkeeper’s name, but I can ask her when we return.”
Asha’s gaze flicks between me and the tapestry.
