Chapter 6 Dimas #2
The Furybringer was long gone from Wyrecia, and tales of her reign were the most forbidden of all, but the empress had insisted it a vital part of her son’s history.
“You need to know what can happen when an emperor fails to bond with his Fateweaver,” she’d explained. “If that kind of power is left unchecked, it will destroy us all.”
He’d thought of that moment a lot since his fifteenth namesday.
Since the vision he’d been waiting for all his life had not come.
Had his mother known, somehow, that the rumors about her son were true?
That he would be forsaken by the very goddess who had blessed his bloodline all those centuries ago?
Dimas took a deep breath, trying to fight off the darkness flickering at the edges of his vision. He refused to believe this was his fate. Naebya was simply testing him. He just had to prove he was worthy.
He let out a breath. Slid his sword from its sheath. “I’m going to try to use the connection again.”
“Dimas—”
“Just a small cut,” Dimas promised. “The pain should be enough to trigger the bond. To … let me see Lenora again.” All of his lessons had taught him that if an emperor was injured, it would trigger the connection between him and his Fateweaver.
It was a long shot, given how unpredictable their connection had been so far, but … he had to try.
“And if she resists you again?” Ioseph asked, and Dimas knew he was thinking about the other lessons Dimas had sat through.
Lessons that warned of what would happen if a Fateweaver rejected the divine bond with the empire’s rightful ruler.
The Fateweaver would descend into madness, driven insane by her power until it consumed her.
And the reigning emperor alongside her.
“I have to do something, ’Seph.” He thought of the young guard’s lifeless face. The blood staining his cloak. If the same people who had killed Aldryn had gone after Milos’s unit…
He slid off his glove. Placed the cold steel of his blade against his palm.
“Wait.” Ioseph stepped in front of him, eyes softening. “If you’re adamant about doing this, at least use my blade. You’ll cut your fingers off with that thing.”
“Ah.” Dimas’s cheeks flushed. “Yes, alright.”
He slid his sword back into its sheath and took the dagger Ioseph offered him without another word, his heart fluttering at the reassuring smile his best friend offered him.
The gesture gave him the strength to slide the edge of the blade along his flesh.
A single, long line from one edge to the other.
Blood welled, the same deep crimson as the blood at the guard’s throat, and nausea churned in Dimas’s stomach as pain exploded along his arm.
He forced himself to close his eyes. To focus on the unnatural silence of the Wilds after a storm.
It was nothing like the stone prayer rooms he was used to, but it would have to do.
He let himself drift into the darkness of his mind. Waited for the familiar flicker of Lenora’s surroundings to come into view. A heartbeat passed. And then another. Frustration flared to life in Dimas’s chest. Come on.
He thought he saw a flicker of his Fateweaver’s stern face.
Of snow and frost-covered trees and the hazy shape of a large town in the distance.
And then there was pressure in his head.
The taste of copper on his tongue and shadows twisting behind his eyes.
She was fighting him again, pushing against the bond with a will of iron.
If he could just get her to talk to him, he could make her understand the consequences of what she was doing—
“Dimas.” Ioseph’s voice sounded distant. He was vaguely aware of hands on his shoulders. Of something warm and wet dribbling from his nose. “Dimas!”
The weak link he’d managed to make with Lenora severed. Dimas stumbled, his breath coming out in short, sharp bursts. Only Ioseph’s hands on his arms kept him from falling to his knees.
Shame burned his cheeks. He couldn’t look at Ioseph as the soldier held him steady, giving him time to collect himself. It was only when Dimas pulled away, his legs finally stable enough to hold him up, that Ioseph spoke.
“We’ll find her,” he said, but the certainty that had shone in his words just minutes earlier now seemed weaker.
Dimas couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand himself. But he made himself nod. Made himself wipe the blood from his nose and stand up a little straighter. They would wait here until Milos returned with his Fateweaver, and then—
Something moved in the distance. A lone figure stumbling through the snow.
Ioseph saw it at the same moment Dimas did, and the soldier drew his sword, his body moving to shield his prince.
But as the figure drew closer, as the ebony of his uniform and the silver pin at his breast became clear, Ioseph lowered his weapon.
Milos had returned. Alone. His face was so covered in dirt and blood that he was barely recognizable, and as he closed the distance between them, he fell to his knees in the snow.
Dimas and Ioseph moved at the same time. Ioseph knelt beside the hunter, his steady gaze assessing for wounds. “Milos? Milos, what happened?”
“Who did this?” Dimas asked.
Had Lenora attacked the hunters? No. There were three deep gashes in Milos’s chest, as if something had swiped at him with claws the size of swords. No human could have made such wounds.
Milos gripped Ioseph’s arm. Despite his injuries, his eyes were clear.
“It came out of the shadows.” Milos coughed.
“At first we thought it a wolf, but then we saw its face.” A shudder went through the hunter.
“It slaughtered Arwel and Ieuan before they could even scream. I tried to fight it off, but it was so fast. I must have blacked out. When I awoke, the creature was gone. It is only by Naebya’s blessing that I managed to make my way here.
” He wheezed, teeth stained crimson. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but there was no sign of your Fateweaver. ”
Dimas’s blood ran cold. He’d known the second Milos had appeared, alone and bloodied, that his Fateweaver had escaped. Had known, then, what he needed to do.
“Come on, let’s get you patched up.” Ioseph had helped the hunter to his feet, and the two shuffled back toward the outpost without another word.
Finaen stepped outside a moment later, his brow furrowing as he stared at the bloodstained patch of snow where Milos had just been.
“They didn’t find her, did they?”
“No.” Dimas frowned.
“She won’t stop fighting.” Finaen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You see that now, don’t you?”
“I do.” Dimas curled his fingers into his palms. “Which is why we’re going to give her no other choice.” At Finaen’s confused look, he said, “You told me you’d do whatever it took for a position in the Fateweaver’s personal guard. Does that offer still stand?”
Finaen’s jaw tightened. “It does.”
“Good. Because we’re going to Deyecia, and you’re going to find Lenora,” Dimas said. “And when you do, you’re going to tell her that if she doesn’t take her place as my Fateweaver, your sister’s life will be the cost.”