Hermes could hardly believe his eyes.
There, standing on the wet sand as the tide licked at his boots, was Dante Quasar himself, beaming like he had only just returned from a pleasant stroll rather than piercing his way through the fabric of time itself.
The old man's cloak fluttered in the sea breeze, his battered hat tilting at an impossible angle, and the familiar sparkle of mischief lit his eyes.
But before Hermes could reach him, a guard in the King's livery stepped into their path.
He saluted Glasán and bowed low. "The King calls for you, Ridire na Mara. He says it is time… time for you to make your decision."
Glasán's face softened. He looked at Hermes, the sea light in his green eyes. A smile tugged at his lips.
"My mind was already made up since we first met."
Hermes' heart skipped, but before he could reply, Glasán had turned away, striding after the guard back toward the halls of Ailech.
The moment shattered when Dante whistled.
