Curious, I draw open the doors to the walk-in closet, parting a sea of carefully pressed suits. Silk ties are meticulously hung. Rows of dress shoes line the shelves. I pause in front of a velvet rack displaying a collection of eye patches, neatly laid out in rows and sorted by color. I gravitate to one with a black satin band—the same one Michael wore the day he inducted me into his Guard—and feel reassured that this was, and has only ever been, my Chronos’s room.

Lyon must have moved into Gaia’s suite, hiding in his girlfriend’s bed like a coward, too ashamed of what he’d done to sleep in the room that had belonged to the man he’d murdered. The same way he hid from Ananke’s eye, covering it so he wouldn’t have to face the ending he deserved.

I snatch a shirt off a hanger, claiming it. Grabbing a pair of slacks and a tie, I carry the suit into a vast marble bathroom. The threads of my prison jumpsuit pop, seams tearing in my hurry to strip the thing off. I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I sling open the shower door and wrench on the faucet, stepping under the spray without waiting for it to steam. Filth and blood color the water. I lather and scrub my skin raw, until the blisters on my hands soften and peel away and the last of the blood and ash swirl down the drain.

After, I stand naked in front of the mirror, my hands braced on either side of the wide marble sink. A drop of blood seeps stubbornly from my nose, and my chest feels tight. That same pain from yesterday pushes against my ribs. My gaze lifts to my reflection in the mirror. To the blackened eye socket. A memory flickers, shining back at me from my remaining eye. . . .

There’s still time to make the right choice.

I start as my cell phone vibrates on the vanity. Turning from the mirror, I swipe the screen with shaking hands.

“Chronos?” Lixue asks when I don’t speak. Her voice is thick, groggy, as if she’s just come to.

“This had better be good news.”

“We have Fleur.”

“Where is she?”

“A holding cell in the catacombs. She was injured. Not badly. But she’s still sleeping it off.”

“Call me when she’s awake.” I disconnect, one hand braced on the rim of the sink. Michael’s black patch rests on the fresh clothes piled beside me. I slip it over my head, brushing back my wet hair and adjusting it to cover the empty socket.

“You are Chronos now,” I say, daring to look at myself again. A lump forms in my throat when I swallow. It’s like I’m staring at Michael’s face. I raise my voice until the facets of my eye blaze. “You are Chronos now.”