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    Summary

    He watched a resonant echo split from itself, the two walking diverging paths. Where the one ended, Caleb already saw. The thread unfolded before it—a short path with an abrupt end—glimmering like starlight, like the end of a noose.

    He drew air into his lungs, held it until he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling forth. “At least one of these versions of myself killed Trent Ikithon in the Blooming Grove,” he breathed shakily, the relief not in finally voicing that unutterable truth, but in how easily it came. Here. With Essek.

    “Do you think he regretted it, that variant?” Essek asked, just as quietly, in that precious little space between their lips where neither kings nor gods were privy to their words.

    “I don’t know…” Then, because it did not settle easy, lying to Essek, Caleb cleared his throat. “I cannot imagine that he did.”

    ***

    The trial of Trent Ikithon is underway. Caleb thought this was what he wanted. He’d agreed. He was sure. Until he wasn’t.

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