Chapter 1 #2
Wiping those wandering thoughts out of my mind, I flapped my wings towards the house, flying over the gates. This time, the guardians didn’t stir. Instead, the yellow glow of their eyes faded as they shrunk and turned to stone at the same time as the gates closed behind the woman.
My gaze roamed over the spectacular vegetation flanking both sides of the wide, packed dirt road leading to the entrance.
Most of the plants and herbs that grew there shouldn’t be able to thrive in this environment.
Conjurers, alchemists, and arcanists of every level would give a limb without hesitation to have access to this incommensurable trove of potent magic.
Most of them would never even come close to simply peering at such exotic reagents.
I marveled at the beauty of the sprawling mansion—not to say castle—that my mother lived in.
As I couldn’t be affected by illusions, I could also see the glamour spell she used to fool people into thinking that they were merely entering a cliché humble witch hut.
I often wondered at her reason for that deception.
A part of me believed it had to do with making people more comfortable if the setting matched the narrative they built in their heads about the Weaver being a morally-gray hag.
After all, I could see how supplicants might find it awkward to enter the palace of a goddess to beg for a cure against the festering boils on their genitals.
I began my descent and shifted back into my human form even as I landed in front of the house.
Contrary to other shifters, doppelgangers didn’t just switch their appearance at will, we could also create certain clothes and accessories in the process.
Granted, they only had basic functions, but it beat walking around with your cock hanging out or your ass on full display like Remus and Lycans in general would do when shifting in and out of their wolf forms.
However, while I could create a weapon, it would be deemed flimsy at best. In weight and appearance, anyone would be fooled into thinking it was the real deal. But in a true combat situation, it would shatter at the first blow, breaking the illusion.
As I stepped forward, the door opened quietly before me the moment it sensed my approach.
My chest constricted as soon as I laid eyes upon my mother.
As usual, she was sitting on a cushioned stool, weaving the golden threads of a million lives on her spinning wheel.
She was breathtaking, ageless with her beautiful, tanned skin, her endless silver white hair plaited into a single long braid that fell all the way to the floor.
The corner of her lips quirked into a discreet smirk as she kept her purple eyes glued to the thread between her long fingers.
“And here I thought you had barred me from your home,” I said tauntingly in lieu of greeting.
“And here I thought you had forgotten where I lived or that I even existed,” she deadpanned, still spinning the wheel.
Shrugging, I closed the distance with the long table that stood between us.
“I didn’t think you even remembered me, let alone missed me,” I retorted.
“Is that so?” the Weaver asked nonchalantly.
She was still facing towards the right side of the house, leaving me with a profile view of her.
Saying it pissed me off would be quite an understatement.
My mother knew it was getting under my skin, but this was one of the many little games she loved playing with her children and people in general.
I could never tell whether it was a sadistic trait in her or merely a mischievous side she couldn’t help.
“It is so,” I replied, my tone slightly hardening. “You never seek me out. So what else am I supposed to think?”
“I never seek out my other children either,” she quipped dismissively.
“That, I have noticed,” I hissed.
This time, my mother stopped weaving and cocked her head sideways to peer at me. The vertical slits of her pupils narrowed as she stared at me with a neutral expression for the briefest moment. Then she raised an inquisitive eyebrow, expecting me to elaborate.
“It’s been a year since you got the serum,” I said in a stern voice. “Why is Ranael still cursed?”
She didn’t answer right away. The grinding sound of wood on wood had my head jerking to the left as I glanced over my shoulder.
A chair I had not noticed next to the front door glided towards me, settling at the table located a couple of meters from where my mother was sitting in front of her spinning wheel.
I looked back at my mother, startled to find her still sitting on her stool but now directly on the other side of the table from me.
“It is not his time to be freed,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Her nonchalance in the face of the endless torment her own son continued to endure pissed me off beyond words.
“What does that even mean? When the fuck will it be his time?” I snapped.
Her face hardened. Any mortal would be pissing themselves were they currently standing in my shoes.
The Weaver didn’t need to raise her voice or even make a terrifying face.
A single stern look from her, and the constant insane power that passively radiated from her sufficed to liquify your innards.
Growing up, Mother never had to raise her voice to make us behave.
“Careful, boy,” she said in that terrifyingly gentle and soft voice that had a shiver running down my spine
Although feeling somewhat chastised, too much anger and resentment continued to brew inside me to stay my tongue.
“I understand you neglecting me. But why Ranael?” I insisted.
She rolled her eyes, which stung more than I could express.
Clearly annoyed, she gestured for me to sit down.
I almost refused in a childish act of defiance.
However, besides the fact that aggravating her wouldn’t help my cause, I also knew my mother well enough to understand that she would not answer any of my questions or even pursue this conversation further unless I complied.
Pinching my lips, I sat down and ground my teeth upon seeing the victorious glimmer in her eyes. Her pupils dilated a little, taking on a more oval shape that was far less ominous than the narrow slit. It was usually a good sign that she was in a more cooperative mood.
“I’m not neglecting Ranael,” the Weaver replied in a factual manner. “As I stated, it is not yet his time. Fate has plans for everyone. It cannot be rushed.”
My heart sank when she didn’t elaborate further. This time, it wasn’t so much about the fact that my beloved brother would have to remain a while longer in this feral state of madness. My mother hadn’t contested my statement about her neglecting me.
She narrowed her eyes at me, her expression assessing as the silence stretched between us. I stared back at her, a million words burning my tongue.
“Go on,” Mother said at last. “Speak your mind.”
“Why did you keep me?” I blurted out.
She tilted her head to the side and studied my features as if I didn’t make much sense to her.
“Because you’re my child,” she replied in a self-evident manner.
“A child that you didn’t want,” I snapped.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re here, aren’t you? So clearly I did.”
“Not by choice,” I countered, shamed by the hurt and bitterness that seeped into my voice. “You never planned me. If you hadn’t been tricked, I never would have existed.”
She stared at me for a moment. That she didn’t vehemently deny it right away cut me to the core.
It shouldn’t have. Why the fuck was I setting myself up to be hurt when I already knew the answer?
I’d always known myself to be a bit of a sadist, but I never realized I possessed such masochistic leanings.
“You’re right,” she conceded softly. “You were not planned. Never in a million years would I have ever wanted a child with your sire.”
A sharp pain sliced through my chest, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to show how devastated I felt.
It was a stupid endeavor as my mother undoubtedly knew exactly what emotions were currently coursing through me.
Although I didn’t have proof, I strongly believed that my mother could read minds, at least to some extent.
“So is it true that he also tricked you into keeping me?” I asked, hating myself for further stabbing at the gaping wound.
“Yes,” my mother said with a shrug.
“So you didn’t want me!” I shouted, anger and a sense of betrayal burning in my gut.
“Yes, you foolish boy, I did want you,” she countered with a conviction that took me aback.
“You seem to forget who I am. If I wanted to be free of the obligation of keeping you, I could have easily circumvented it. I chose to keep you. You are my son, and no one—least of all me—blames you for his actions.”
“But you still hate me,” I argued.
“No, you fool,” she said with a snort. “If I hated you, or if I wanted you dead, it would have happened a long time ago. Your sire paid for what he did, with interest. That part is settled. But you are my blood. You are mine. I chose to keep you then, and if I could go back in time today, I would choose to keep you again, and again, and again.”
My throat constricted painfully. How I had longed to be thus claimed by my mother. It shamed me to admit that I had been too much of a wimp to confront her about this. But although my mind acknowledged her words, the broken boy in me continued to struggle to reconcile any of this.
Her face softened, and she gave me one of those far-too-rare maternal smiles that always melted me from the inside out.
“If I wanted you dead, Lyall, I wouldn’t have sent Amara to you,” she said softly.
My back instantly stiffened upon hearing those words, the warm and fuzzy feeling that had started seeping into me evaporating.
“You sent her to save Ranael and to torture me as an added bonus,” I snarled.