The underground workshop around her dissolved.
For one suspended instant, it was replaced by another chamber—larger, brighter, lit by flickering torches that sent trembling shadows across the stone walls. Metal rang against metal. The air smelled of oil, heated iron, and smoke.
Her father stood bent over a great machine, his sleeves rolled above his elbows as he adjusted something deep within its heart.
Without looking up, he let out a soft laugh. "Hand me the wrench, Aveline."
She froze.
He knew she was there.
Slowly, he straightened and turned toward her. The same gentle smile. The same warm eyes.
"My little Aveline," he said with a chuckle. "Come to inspect Father's work?"
Her lips parted. She wanted to answer yes. But that was not why she had been there. Somewhere beneath the rush of the memory, another thought flickered through her mind.
Theron.
She had wanted to ask about Theron. She had wanted to know where he had gone.
The vision shattered.
