As I approached, my heart began a strange thud in my chest. The figure didn’t turn around, his attention focused on the ground at his feet. As I got closer, I saw the sword, curved and graceful, held loosely in one hand. The blade and the arm that held it were stained with blood, dark streaks all the way past his elbow.

As I drew close, the figure turned, and I gasped.

I couldn’t see his face; it was blurry and indistinct, his features hidden as if in a fog. But I knew him; I recognized him as surely as I knew my own shadow, my own heartbeat. Bright, tall, achingly handsome, even if I could not see his face. I sensed piercing, icy-blue eyes, somewhere in the haze between us, felt him smile at me.

My son. This is my son.

And he was covered in blood. It stained his hands, his arms, was splattered in large streaks across his chest. My heart gave a violent lurch, thinking he was fatally wounded, dying perhaps. Was this what the oracle wanted to show me? Was this the grief she was talking about, the death of my child? But how could that be, when he was standing right there, and I could still feel his smile, directed at me?

Then I realized the blood was not his own.

And I saw what was lying in the grass before us.

The world seemed to stop for a moment. My legs shook, and I sank to my knees, unable to hold myself up any longer. No, this couldn’t be. This was a cruel joke, a nightmare.

A body lay at my son’s feet, sprawled on its back in the grass, gazing sightlessly at the moon. Another boy, my age perhaps, with messy brown hair and smoky blue eyes. A pair of short blades were clutched loosely in his hands, though the edges were clean. Blood pooled from a gaping slash in his chest, right over his heart, staining his once-white T-shirt nearly black.

I felt sick, and covered my mouth to keep from screaming. I’d never seen this boy, not like this, but I knew him. I recognized his face, his eyes, the tug on my heart. Though he was years older now, and had changed so much, I’d know him anywhere.

“Ethan,” I whispered, touching his arm. It was cold, sticky, and I yanked my hand back, shaking my head. “No,” I said, trembling. “No, this isn’t true. It can’t be.” I looked up at my son, who was no longer smiling, and I sensed his cold blue eyes, appraising me. “Why?”

My son didn’t answer. Sheathing his sword, he stared down at the body, and though his face remained hidden and blurred, I could sense tears running down his cheeks. A voice, low and soft, clear and high, filled with infinite possibilities, drifted over the grass.

“I’m sorry.”