Séverin knew he was meant for godhood…wasn’t he?
Ever since he had discovered the truth of his lineage and taken possession of the lyre, Séverin had imagined this moment everyhour of every day. Every morning, he had turned the instrument in his hand and stared at the lavender lines on the inside of his wrist, knowing the promise that pulsed through his blood:In your hands lie the gates of godhood…
Was that not destiny?
Was that not the glorious purpose he was always intended to fulfill? Was that not the reason why his parents had died, why the seven sins had raised him and trained his tongue to be accustomed to bitterness, why he had held Tristan in his arms and did not move even when the blood started to cool on his own skin, why the woman he loved had been unraveling from the day they met?
But then why did his imaginings not match up to the scene around him?
He had imagined he would ascend these steps, clean and shining, his heart light. He had imagined Enrique grinning, Hypnos winking, Zofia smiling, and Laila…living.
And now?
Séverin could not even turn his head, but he sensed their broken spirits around him. He heard Hypnos softly weeping, and Zofia’s panicked quiet. He heard Enrique murmuring prayers, and above all of it, the silence of Laila’s soul.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
“I can fix this,” said Séverin, keeping his head bowed.
The temple crumbled around him. His throat ached. His ears pounded. He raised his hand, touching the gleaming strings of the lyre—
“I can fix everything,” he whispered. “… Can’t I?”
Those words no longer felt like knowledge to Séverin.
It felt like a belief.
And it was here, in this space between fact and faith, that Séverin found himself praying for the first time in more than a decade.
“Please,” he begged as his fingers strummed the instrument.
Please show me I was right.
Please fix this.
Please—
Something engulfed him, and Séverin felt as though he had been temporarily unmoored from time itself. In a few moments he would learn that he had been wrong about many things, and right about one: The lyre could remake the world.
And it did.
Venice, 1890
Luca and his brother, Filippo, were hiding in the shadows of the Rialto Bridge when it happened.
Up until two days ago, they had not been hungry thanks to the man at the dock. The man had given them apples full of coins, but now they were down to their last two, and the man was gone. Luca wondered what had happened to him.
Two nights ago, there had been an explosion in the lagoons. According to the gossip on the docks, thepoliziahad made no arrests. Normally Luca didn’t care, but the unsolved explosion had led to more patrolling of the marketplaces, which made it that much harder to steal.
Every time he got close to snatching an apple or loaf of bread from the stands, he’d catch sight of thepoliziawith their large, Forged batons, and he would be forced to retreat back to the shadows. There was nothing he could do. If he did not steal, his brother would not eat. And if he got caught stealing, his brother would be undefended.
Luca turned to Filippo. “Are you hungry?”
Filippo put on a brave face and shook his head, but his stomach growled loudly.
Luca clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the gnawing ache at the pit of his gut. Instead, he stared at the gondola crossing the waters. A boy leaned against his father, half-asleep, an unwrapped sweet lying in his lap. Saliva filled Luca’s mouth. Why must they scrabble in the corners? Was this what every day would be like?
At that exact moment, Luca heard a song.
