Michael was running fast and hard through King Marlo’s palace. Servants quickly dodged out of his way and guards tried to intercept him, asking what was wrong or if there was danger nearby, but he couldn’t hear them. Gabriel was alive. His son was alive. He’d been here in the new world alone since he’d died. He’d been born a Prince of Burndan and had become a King. Michael had fought his son’s armies, lost a man he considered a brother to them. He needed to reach Gabriel. He needed to see his son.

  He made it to the palace gate, it had been sealed after the festivities of the parades, and he quickly created barriers in stairsteps that led him up and over it then leapt to the other side and began running through the streets of the capital, his feet desperately striking the pavement. He made it halfway through the city, dodging people still celebrating after the parade the whole way before his single driving thought started to give way to others.

  What he was doing was stupid. Pyotr had told him that King Castor had requested his help and that he was branded in the same way that Michael had been when he’d served as a Penitent. If he ran in there without a plan he could get him killed. Even beyond that he would be leaving behind a vulnerable Hume to be consumed by the rifts, ignoring the deal he made with Bayle to help with the assassination of the King of Stent, and abandoning his friends.

  In spite of all of those realizations he didn’t manage to stop his desperate running until he was a dozen miles outside of the capital. His desperation finally overridden by his common sense. He stood still, clenching his teeth with enough force that he could feel them straining against one another like metal crushing metal, and stared straight ahead. His son was alive and he was a prisoner. He thought of the pain he remembered feeling through his own brand and clenched his fists.

  He turned his attention outward, to the voices of the gods that were constant in his ears. He broadcast a single question.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The whispers went completely silent, and it was Seras’s voice that responded to him.

  ~Before we didn’t tell you because our own thoughts were too mingled and confused as the combined divine. Then we didn’t tell you because despite our love for you, this world needs you focused.~

  “You didn’t trust me to prioritize? After everything?”

  “What are the chances? That he and I would both arrive here?”

  ~I told you once that it was luck of a very special kind that led us to you. Gabriel is the source of that luck.~

  “How?”

  ~He prayed once. Only once. It was shortly after he first arrived. He prayed for you, and he prayed for his mother. As he did so, we could see the vision of you he had in his mind. A giant of a man. Kind, protective, strong. Willing to do anything for him. We could not force you into this world, but when your soul was in the astral sea we as the divine could make our world shine a little brighter in your vision than the infinite others~

  The voice was that of Seras and it was apologetic. An unnatural tone to hear from a god.

  “So you traded the soul of this body for me? Based on the prayer of a scared child?”

  ~The loss of all children is our responsibility. All whose bodies are taken, and all who die because beasts of the rifts rip them apart. When we were one as the divine we did not act by thought, but by instinct. That is the only excuse we can offer.~

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  Michael considered that. He had allowed himself to bear the total guilt for what he’d done, and while he’d managed to put most of that behind him he did feel some relief to hear he bore less responsibility than he’d thought. Unfortunately it raised another question. Had he known that his son was waiting there, and that he’d called out for him, would he have done what he’d done anyway? Would he have clenched that mote of light in his fist? He shook his head. He’d dwelled enough on possibilities for two lifetimes. There was only what was in that moment, not what could be.

  He turned around and began to walk back toward the capital. The gods were silent.

  By the time he could see the city gates a squad of men on horseback were approaching him, and Ollie landed on the ground in front of him.

  “Michael, are you alright?”

  “No. No I’m not.”

  The horses rumbled up, coming to an abrupt stop near him. They were being ridden by Lance, Marcus, and Pyotr.

  “My son is here in the Humelands,” he said.

  “Aren’t your sons back on Earth?” asked Marcus.

  “My son Gabriel. The one that was killed by a drunk driver. Before I died. He’s been here the whole time. God, it’s been more than twenty years.”

  Pyotr dismounted his horse his eyes wide. “Oh no. Is he… is he?”

  “Castor. King Castor is my son,” he looked to Ollie. “My heraldry. Ernst confirmed that it’s an exact match to Castor’s personal iconography. I watched Gabriel design it. I still have the banner he made hung up in my garage.”

  “Well fuck,” said Ollie helpfully.

  Michael inhaled deeply and exhaled. “Let’s go back. I’ve calmed down. It would be stupid for me to run in there half cocked and stupid.”

  “Okay,” said Marcus, nodding. “When you do decide to go though, know that I’ll be with you.”

  “Me too,” said Pyotr.

  “Do I even need to say it?” asked Ollie.

  Lance was standing there with utter confusion on his face, but still managed. “I, of course, would help in any way I can as well.” He shook his head. “What are the chances though? Why would the gods not tell you?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I’ll tell you on the way back. After Pyotr tells me again about every interaction he had with my son.”

  “Of course, brother,” said Pyotr with a nod.

  They had a spare horse for Michael and he hopped onto it. “You let me know what he wanted me to do. That he’d been branded and would reward me for helping him. Now tell me everything else. How did he speak? Did he mention anything about his life, or could you infer anything else? How did his men react to him?”

  Pyotr looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I met him on the battlefield. He’d killed dozens of us before he challenged me to a duel just as I was about to be overwhelmed. He beat me easily, even with Marcus shooting at him too.”

  Michael looked at Marcus.

  “Sorry I tried to kill your son.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not like you knew. Besides, from what I already know about him there have probably been hundreds of people that have tried to kill him. Please, Pyotr, continue.”

  “He took me alive because he wanted to know more about Stent. He was firm about learning more from me. I could sense a bit of desperation in him, but it didn’t seem to be controlling him. He was good to his men. They spoke to him with admiration, all except those I gathered were in the employ of the dowager queen.”

  Michael nodded at that, feeling a bit of pride at hearing it. Even in the circumstances he’d been in his son had still managed to be a man that his people admired. He’d never doubted it. He wished he could’ve seen him become that man on Earth, but at least he’d be able to meet him.

  Pyotr kept talking, trying to remember other little parts of his interactions with the king of Burndan, listing what specifics he could come up with until he stopped suddenly, his eyes widening a bit.

  “He mentioned that he had children,” he said, turning his attention from the road to Michael.

  Michael felt his heart nearly stop in his chest. “Children?”

  Pyotr nodded. “He only mentioned it once, but he implied that he had at least one.”

  Michael clenched the reins of his mount tightly, causing them to make a strained sound. He’d been a grandfather when he left earth. He still remembered, even through the haze of drugs and failing organs, his grandson being brought to him at hospice. He had been a small and wrinkled little thing, as all newborns were, and he’d managed somehow to place his hand on the boy’s head of soft pale hair. His son Victor’s face had been wrenched somewhere between pain and pride.

  The leather of the reins he was holding tore and he re-tied them into a knot to make them functional. More grandchildren to meet, some that he could actually hold and talk to. He’d have to love them for Sara too just like she’d be loving Victor’s for him.

  “Thank you Pyotr,” he said to him with a smile. “You’ve given me a great gift by telling me all of this.”

  “No problem, brother. I’m happier knowing I was captured by my nephew rather than some random king.”