Chapter 12
The New Thread
Medea
The heart beat against my bare palms, a wet thud that shuddered all the way up my arms. Jason’s blood was drying tight and sticky between my fingers. With every frantic step, I expected the stolen organ to dissolve in my hands. It didn’t.
Through some kind of miracle, I managed to make my way to the Weavers’ Hall. I’d never been here before, but Asphodelia itself seemed to be guiding me.
As I pushed the heavy doors of the Moirae’s domain, the chaos of the city fell away.
My breath was swallowed entirely by the cold, crushing silence of the grey marble underneath my bare feet.
The air in the vast chamber tasted of burning myrrh and ancient stone.
But I forced my tired legs to keep moving.
Soon, Aion. Soon. I’ll see you again.
Near the center of the hall, Charon stood hunched over a wide altar. My colossus lay there, perfectly still.
Charon was leaning over Aion’s open chest, using a slender, silver-tipped tool to carve fine lines into the dark metal inside. I couldn’t see exactly what the ferryman was doing. But the slow, deliberate scrape of silver against bronze was just another reminder of what was at stake today.
At the sound of my footsteps, Charon paused. He lifted his intense blue eyes, his gaze dropping immediately to the pulsing red muscle in my hands.
“Well done, Medea,” he said. “The pattern of the Old World served you well.”
I stopped at the edge of the dais. My arms ached with the effort of holding the heart steady. “I don’t know if it was the pattern or just… me,” I offered. “I just want Aion back.”
Charon set the silver tool aside. “And you will have him. Bring me the anchor.”
I took a step forward, my eyes immediately going to Aion’s face.
His bronze features were perfectly serene.
He looked exactly as he had right before he went blank beneath me.
I had watched the light die in his eyes.
I had watched him tear his own core out just to spare my life.
Now, as I held the fragile, wet human organ that was supposed to help him, a sudden, suffocating wave of doubt hit me.
Could a piece of a human necromancer actually restart a bronze colossus?
“Will this really work?” I asked, the desperate question spilling out into the cold air. “Will this actually bring him back?”
“Of course it will.”
The voice did not come from Charon.
Shadows detached themselves from the base of the colossal Loom of Fate at the back of the hall.
Three tall figures stepped forward into the torchlight.
The youngest, Clotho, held a polished darkwood spindle.
Beside her stood Lachesis, a stern woman in her prime, and Atropos, the ancient crone and figure of wisdom.
The absolute rulers of Asphodelia looked directly at me.
Clotho was the first to speak, her youthful face utterly unreadable. “Aion was forged, not woven. He was meant to be a vessel of pure utility. He possesses no thread in our Loom. Because he is threadless, we cannot touch him.”
Lachesis moved to stand beside her sister. The heavy bronze measuring rod in her hand caught the ambient light of the hall. “Yet he held back the storm. He defied his own design to protect you. That kind of sacrifice demands a formal place in the weave of Asphodelia.”
I held the heart carefully, terrified my shaking fingers might slip or puncture the slick tissue. The muscle felt absurdly fragile against the massive scale of this room. “He is solid bronze. This is human flesh. It will just rot inside him.”
Atropos emerged last, gaunt and severe. The heavy Stygian iron shears tucked into her belt sent a shiver down my spine. “It would rot if you were a mere mortal. But you are not.”
A cold, sharp knot of dread pulled tight in my stomach. I had spent my entire life as a walking disease. I’d turned against my own insides to free myself from Jason’s tether. But saving Aion was a different matter entirely. “I’ve only ever known how to kill.”
“That is the lie your creator forced upon you.” Clotho’s lips twisted in a shadow of a smile.
“Death is not an end. It is a raw material. You were born from a corpse. Your magic governs the threshold between the dead and the living. Aion’s return is not something that goes against your nature.
On the contrary. It is what you were always meant to do. ”
“But… But how? I don’t understand.” Charon had told me to bring Jason’s heart to him, but nothing else.
Lachesis pointed the tip of her bronze rod at the wet mass in my hands.
“You must use your necromancy to strip away the mortal decay of that flesh. You must force the muscle to become a living, pulsing conduit of pure death energy. It must retain the rhythm of a human soul, but it must be altered to survive inside a bronze shell.”
Atropos’s dark eyes simply assessed me, holding no comfort or pity. “If your magic can hold the anchor, we will operate the Loom. We will spin a new thread and tie Aion to Asphodelia. He will no longer be an anomaly.”
As I looked back at Aion’s serene, flawless face, my throat tightened painfully. I loved him more than I had ever feared my own curse. If I failed to control my magic now, I would turn his only chance at life into a handful of grey ash, and he would remain a silent statue for eternity.
I swallowed hard around the sudden knot in my throat. “All right. Let’s begin.”
Charon stepped back, giving me room to work. “Seat the anchor, Medea.”
It was a show of trust that humbled me. I’d killed Charon’s son, yet this man was willing to give me the chance to bring him back.
Shaking, I moved to Aion’s side. The thick edges of his open chest felt incredibly heavy and dormant under my forearms. The cavity was a dark vault, stripped entirely of the vibrant life that usually radiated from Aion. My hands shook as I lowered them into the cavity.
I pressed the muscle gently against the back plate.
The moment the flesh met the cool, unyielding metal, the stubborn thud faltered.
The rhythm stuttered, skipping a beat, then another.
It was a mortal organ torn from its host, completely incompatible with a shell of solid bronze.
Deprived of blood and surrounded by ancient metal, the tissue was shutting down right in front of me.
“No,” I breathed out, a tight knot of panic clawing up my throat.
“Now,” Clotho’s voice echoed from the shadows.
Behind me, the colossal Loom of Fate groaned. A deep, bone-rattling hum filled the hall, vibrating straight up through the soles of my feet. The sisters were spinning the thread. I had to give them something to tie it to. I couldn’t let him slip away again.
I squeezed my eyes shut and reached into the silver-blue river of necromancy I had finally claimed as my own. I couldn’t afford to doubt my control anymore. I knew exactly what my magic was capable of. I just needed to force the raw power of death to act as a bridge of creation.
My magic rushed out—a violent, deliberate flood of energy pouring down my arms and directly into the failing tissue.
The muscle seized. It didn’t wither, and it didn’t turn to ash. Instead, the sheer volume of power I forced into the organ threatened to overwhelm it entirely. “Beat, damn you,” I choked out, tears stinging my eyes. “Beat. Make him live.”
I forced the magic to bite deep into the biological matter. Under my palms, the flesh drank the death energy. Veins of brilliant, liquid silver threaded rapidly through the failing muscle, rewriting its very nature.
I felt the exact moment the heart transmuted. The deep red flesh shifted into a glowing, translucent blue-white, crystallizing and fusing seamlessly into the surrounding bronze walls. The stuttering flutter locked into a steady chime, soft and shy, yet so full of hope.
The sheer effort hollowed me out. My knees buckled, and I collapsed, hitting the hard edge of the altar. The magic siphoned my stamina directly into the forge of his body to fuel the transformation. I gasped for air, but I didn’t dare break contact. I poured my life into his.
“Hold the connection,” Charon ordered from somewhere above me. His voice was entirely stripped of its usual calm, tight with heavy tension. “The bronze is taking it.”
I forced my head up, my neck screaming with the effort. The metal plates surrounding my hands were no longer cool and dormant. A deep, steady heat bled through the dark housing, pushing warmth back into his motionless limbs.
The heat grew beneath my palms, spreading rapidly through the metal. Then came the sound. A resonant thump vibrated through the stone altar, echoing in the quiet hall. It was not the steady hum of a death-energy core. It was the heavy, rhythmic beat of a living heart.
Aion drew a breath. His heavy bronze fingers twitched, scratching loudly against the altar. Yes, please, yes. Come back to me.
Instantly, I pulled my hands out of the cavity. The thick metal plates slowly shifted and sealed themselves closed over the glowing blue-white pulse. Aion opened his eyes.
The familiar light burned there, but it carried a new, startling clarity. When he turned his head, his gaze found mine instantly. “Medea.”
The word rumbled from deep inside his chest, carrying the warm echoes of his new heart.
I reached out and grabbed his hand. There was so much I wanted to say and do, so many things I needed to tell him. In the end, only one thing could come out. “I’m sorry, Aion. I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he replied. “And you never need to apologize to me.”
The bone-rattling hum of the Loom finally ceased. The silence rushing into the hall was absolute. Clotho stepped out of the shadows, holding a single, shimmering silver thread. “Your mate has just placed a heart inside you, son of Charon,” she said. “And a heart carries a thread.”
Lachesis lowered her measuring rod, letting the heavy bronze tip rest against the floor. “You are woven into the fabric of Asphodelia now. No longer threadless. Bound to the Loom.”
Aion pushed himself up. The joints of his shoulders chimed with heavy grace. “Thank you, Revered Moirae.”
Atropos stepped forward, shaking her head. “Do not thank us. It is not we who brought your mate here, and not we who were truly capable of weaving you as a child of Thanatos.”
The three sisters looked at me one last time. Then, with a final flash of silver light, they faded back into the deep shadows. The silver thread dissolved into the ambient glow of the hall.
Charon stood motionless at the edge of the dais. He hadn’t looked away from Aion since the moment my mate first stirred. “You look well, Aion,” he finally said.
Aion pressed a hand over the center of his chest, right above the sealed plates. “I believe… I don’t look any different, Father.” He looked down at me, his fingers tightening securely around mine. “But what I am feeling… It is beyond compare.”
Charon shook his head. “It is not. You were just the same when you first gained your mind. I trust that you will be able to adjust to a thread just as easily. Especially now, with your mate by your side.”
He bowed his head slightly toward me, though I didn’t think I’d done anything to deserve it. “I will leave you to it. Take care of my son, Medea.”
With that, he turned his back, his dark robes sweeping over the marble.
“Father,” Aion called out.
Charon paused, his broad shoulders perfectly still.
“Thank you,” Aion said.
Charon did not speak. He simply nodded once and walked out, leaving us completely alone.
“You went back to him,” Aion whispered. He reached out, cupping my cheek with striking gentleness. “You faced the man who made you a weapon.”
“I only faced my own truth.” I stepped between his knees and reached up, tangling my fingers in his silver hair. “I made my choice, and that is you.”
He wrapped his massive arms around my waist and pulled me against him. I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady, perfect rhythm beating inside the metal. I was perfectly safe in the arms of the only person in the world who could hold me.
He leaned down and kissed me.
There was no terror of decay. There was no fear of breaking. It was just a man and a woman, anchored to each other. The bargain was finished.