One last time, he told himself.

At the back of his skull came the dim, warning pulse of the universe. Stop now, it said. Stop. Séverin pushed harder. In the Sleeping Palace, he had merely cut his hand and smeared the blood on the strings. That mere vibration of the strings had been enough to feel the divine wisp through him.

Now …

Now it was something else.

He felt the string cutting into his flesh. His skull throbbed. The music of the lyre built inside him, hungry for release. It was not a music of this world. It was the moan of falling stars and the sonorous yearning of tree roots, the exhale of the sea before it rose up to swallow a village whole—

Séverin.

His thumb stilled on the lyre. Its frantic music went silent. It was as if he had reached the threshold of something, because here, finally, he heard the voice he craved.

He had first heard his mother’s voice after he confronted Ruslan and clutched the lyre to him in the night. She had said something to him, something that conjured light in his thoughts, something that gave him hope. He had been starting to think he had imagined it.

Habibi … listen … listen to me.

Kahina’s voice was a thousand candles springing to life in the dark, and Séverin felt every luminous halo as if it were a step leading him out of chaos.

“I’m listening, ummi,” he said, shaking. “I hear you.”

Time contracted around him. For a moment, he was a boy once more curled up in his small bed. He remembered Kahina folding his pudgy hands into fists and kissing them twice.

“In your hands lie the gates of godhood,” she whispered. “Let none pass.”

A loud knock at the door jolted him. Séverin’s eyes flew open. He was breathing fast. His hands shook, and sweat beaded down his back.

“Are you nearly ready, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie?” asked Eva sharply.

Ready?

The world slowly came into focus. Séverin blinked, staring around him: red room, red bed. The past two days rushed back into his thoughts: the empty Bridge of Sighs, the knife to his throat, Ruslan’s plans for tonight.

“Hello?” asked Eva again.

“Yes,” said Séverin, swallowing hard. “I … I’m nearly ready.”

He could hear Eva lingering at the door, but then she turned and left. Slowly, Séverin eased his thumb off the string, careful that it should not tremble. His thumb looked purple. He brought the divine lyre to his forehead as if it were the cold hand of a priest.

“Thank you,” he said fiercely. “Thank you.”

This was the sign he had begged for. This was the proof he needed that he was no cosmic joke. There was a reason for it all, and his mother’s voice proved it:

In your hands lie the gates of godhood …

He had failed his friends miserably, but not all was lost, for he was on a greater path. He may have been an unequivocal ass in the way he’d pursed his dreams, but he would not end up like King Midas. His riches were meant to be shared.