27. Nyssa
Nyssa
Nine champions were ushered into a wide chamber with an earthen floor, the air thick with disuse. It pressed down on me like the weight of the earth itself. Stifling. Stagnant.
Thallo had indeed been eliminated in Hermes’ labyrinth, while I’d orchestrated Diana’s demise at Athena’s fortress. That left nine heads competing for one crown.
As the golden threads released our throbbing wrists, the room lit up like a fire roaring to life.
Moments ago, it had housed only oppressive darkness, thick and absolute.
Now, it glowed with the light of a golden star.
Hundreds of glittering threads lit up the space above our heads, an ethereal tapestry twinkling and twirling against the stone ceiling.
Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos stood at the centre of the chamber, preternaturally still. No longer were they spinning, measuring, or cutting. They now intently assessed each of us in turn — for as long as they deemed necessary.
“All things begin, and so they must end,” Clotho began with a whisper. Her long, spindly fingers reached up to pluck a single thread, rolling it between her digits.
Lachesis spoke next, carefully extricating the cord from her sister’s grip.
“We are the weavers of fate. But for this hour only, that tribulation falls to you.”
Atropos came last, skeletal fingers wrapped around a pair of now-visible shears.
“Your task is simple. Determine which thread is your own and decide what to do with it.”
“Cut the thread to sever your destiny,” Lachesis declared.
“Rebind it to reshape what is to come,” Clotho murmured.
“Or leave it untouched. Surrender to the fate already spun,” Atropos hissed.
“You may leave once you have chosen,” they said in unison, gliding back to rest against the wall. From there they silently observed the crown’s potential bearers.
The threads of fate flared and dulled, each pulsing to its own rhythm. Fragile promises. Some of what had already come to pass; others, of what might yet be.
To my left, Aphrodite stood still — appearing visibly troubled for the first time since the trials began.
I saw the indecision warring across her features: rosy lips pressed together in a thin line, fingers twitching at her sides.
The goddess of love appeared to be afraid of what her own heart might choose.
I understood.
If she chose to cut her thread early enough in its length, she might rewrite Adonis’ cruel fate — might still be with the man she loved. But she could just as easily be cutting her own life short. None of us knew what cutting would cost us.
And if she chose not to act, if she surrendered to the fate already spun, she would be choosing to accept that Adonis was forever gone. That she might never see him again, not in any afterlife.
But it was Leander who moved first.
Jaw set, sea-blue eyes locked onto the threads, he reached up, fingers grazing the glowing strings, testing them. He continued walking, hand raised.
Then, a hum.
Like a lyre string gently plucked, the note reverberated throughout the chamber. The deep, haunting baritone quietened as Leander wrapped his tanned fingers tightly around his woven destiny.
We held our breath, waiting. Wondering.
Without hesitation, Leander drew a dagger from his boot and sliced his thread in two.
Just a quick slash upwards and it was done.
The sea god did not flinch. He did not waver as the severed ends recoiled. They curled in on themselves before dissolving into nothingness. Leander exhaled, turned on his heel, and exited the chamber without a word.
He had made his choice. He had severed the fate woven for him, rescinded his definite future for one unseen. The question on all our tongues: what had he given up in the process?
Tychon panicked. He cast a single glance at the threads — then darted out right behind his ally.
Slowly, Aphrodite moved forward. She raised a hand upwards as Leander had done.
We all listened, waiting for that telltale chord to sound.
She advanced another few feet before we heard it — a high, sweet note — delicate and pure.
Aphrodite froze, string held gently in her perfectly manicured fingers.
“Aph,” I whispered, stepping forward.
She flinched. Her cerulean eyes flicking to mine, sharp, uncertain, but only for a moment. Aphrodite turned back to her bright thread, every breath laced with hesitation.
“I know,” she breathed, barely audible over her elegant note still playing softly in the background. I could feel the heavy stares of the other champions, watching to see what the goddess would do.
“Aphrodite…” I repeated softly.
My friend straightened, steeling herself.
Her decision had been made. With a steadying breath, she extended a graceful, expectant hand toward Atropos.
The Fate considered her for a moment, then inclined her weathered, sightless skull.
With ceremony, she placed her enormous pair of silver, razor-sharp shears into Aphrodite’s waiting palm.
Aph gripped the shears and snipped cleanly through her golden thread.
A gasp rang through the chamber, and it took me a heartbeat to realise it had come from me.
But Aphrodite was not done yet. She dropped the scissors to the dusty floor with a metallic clang. Atropos shrieked and rushed to scoop them back up, hissing at the goddess.
Aphrodite tightly grasped each end of her fraying cords. They strained desperately to coil and dissolve, eager to vanish as Leander’s had, but she refused to let them. Instead, she fiercely tugged and twisted, weaving them together anew.
When at last Aphrodite was finished, her fate was remade — rewoven, stronger than before.
She turned, smiling faintly, and withdrew from the chamber.
And then there were six.
To my other side, Caelus stood motionless, his expression indecipherable. He silently watched every decision unfurl with quiet stoicism. I couldn’t tell if he was waiting for a champion’s weakness to unravel, or if he, too, was paralysed by indecision.
Across the space, Aros shifted uneasily, his mouth pulled down at one corner. He lifted his right hand, only to drop it again. I nearly laughed. The ever-suave figure I’d come to know, rattled by a future he couldn’t even begin to guess at.
I must have made some small noise of amusement, because his amber eyes immediately locked onto mine. His narrowed. Mine danced with a grin.
Aros strode forward, boldly prowling towards me. In my periphery, Caelus jolted.
“Laugh if you must, darling. Furies know I long to hear it,” Aros said, pausing to scowl at the glowing threads. “But anyone who chooses to fuck with fate deserves the consequences it inevitably doles out.”
With that, he promptly pivoted and stomped out the door, leaving five stunned champions in his wake.
Athena moved next. She said nothing, made no gesture — just left without so much as a sound.
Four.
Apollo lingered, his brows furrowed as he contemplated the hand that fate had dealt him.
In the end, he opted to leave his thread untouched.
A rough sigh escaped him. The decision seemed to rest heavily on his shoulders.
With slow, deliberate motions, he turned to the remaining competitors and spelled out a parting message:
Choose well.
His golden eyes lingered on mine. It felt personal — as if he already knew which choice would haunt me most. Then he left with the air of a god who had avoided fate’s web, leaving the rest of us tangled in it.
Three.
Archimedes marched forward next, fingertips raised.
With grim determination he brushed his fingertips along the pulsing threads.
A fragile, melancholy twang sounded as he sharply wrenched his fate down from the ceiling.
With steady hands, he severed it quickly, absolved of doubt.
As Aphrodite had done, Archimedes chose to rebind it — deftly weaving it into a thicker, more durable version of itself, twice the thickness it was before.
He tugged on it again, but this time a deep note hummed through the air, a much sturdier resonance than what had sounded seconds ago. Cautiously satisfied, he walked out, leaving the steady twang of his thread echoing behind him.
Two champions remained. Two heavy, impossible decisions left to make.
I had toyed with the possibilities of each option before me. Every time I thought I had finally chosen, doubt sprang to the surface of my mind with a ravenous claim.
Caelus and I exchanged a loaded look thick with unspoken words.
He smiled softly. A gift, meant for my eyes only.
“Choose, Nightshade,” he murmured.
I didn’t know why his opinion seemed to matter so much. I only hoped he would understand my decision — eventually. I knew it would affect more than just me. Zeus’ prophecy loomed like a shadow, the fate of the realms tangled in the thread between my fingers.
For just a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a realm where I truly had the freedom to choose.
Would I still yearn for him if I severed the cord? Would he for me?
Would I fade to nothingness like the threads had done? Or wander untethered and lost, like the souls I sentenced to the Asphodel Meadows?
I walked forwards, curious to know what my fate sounded like — what tenor it would possess. Caelus watched with intense fascination, as though he knew my decision tonight would affect us both in some way.
A single, lonely note filled the chamber. A strong, mid-range tone, neither high nor low. Steady. Clear. But the longer it played, the sadder I grew. The thread pulled taut between my pale fingers, shimmering in the dim light.
I could do it. One slash of a midnight blade, and I could end my part in the fracturing of realms. I could end a war before it ever began. No more trials, no more loss, no more being tethered to a destiny I didn’t choose.
But my fingers made no move. No dagger formed. No shadows came.
I had never feared death. I had walked beside it my entire life, from the moment I was born. We were kin, death and me. We played the same melancholy song at our core.
No, it wasn’t death I feared. It was what my choice might cost. If I chose to do anything other than walk away, I would be risking everything . Every realm and every soul would pay my price.
But if I walked away, I would be choosing, instead, to endure. I would be choosing to face whatever came next — regardless of how it might break me.
A heartbeat passed. Then two.
I exhaled, slow and shaky, and let go of my thread.
Surrendering to fate.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
I turned — and met a sharp, silver glare.
Did he know? About the prophecy his father had ruled by? Died for? Was he now judging me for choosing to let it play out?
I fled before I could find the answer in his storm-filled eyes.
Minutes later, as I hastily climbed the dusty stairwell, a strange sense of peace washed over me.
Whatever fate had woven for me, I would face it. Even if it shattered my cold, black heart. Even if it killed me.