Chapter 33
Hours pass in the Atrium's hush. The stone chamber feels timeless, as though the mountain itself has pressed us into stillness.
I stand in the center, sweat dampening my brow, my eyes closed.
Nova lingers just behind me, her voice calm and steady, guiding me step by step.
Lowan paces at the far edge of the room, though I can feel his silver gaze fixed on me, protective and relentless.
The rest of my friends rest against the wall, backs to the stone, watching in silence.
No one interrupts. No one breathes too loudly.
Only Nova’s voice threads through me: “Reach outward. You already know how to touch your phoenix fire. This is the same, except you reach beyond yourself. Fate has woven Threads between the realms—find them.”
I steady my breathing and let her words settle. Arden’s voice cuts in from the side, thoughtful. “That’s kind of how it works for me, too. Sensing gifts. It’s tied to me, but I still reach outward, and then the Thread comes back carrying what I need to know.”
I nod faintly but don’t open my eyes. His words make sense. It helps. Still, concentration beads sweat along my spine.
Nova continues, gentle but firm. “Each realm carries its own cadence. You will know them by how they feel. You must learn to listen for the difference.”
And then—I see. Not with my eyes, but with that inner sense my magic has always given me. Threads hum softly around me, luminous strands stretching through the dark.
“That one,” I whisper. A familiar blue aura brushes against me like a memory. “The mortal realm.”
“Yes,” Nova confirms. “It feels familiar because you have been there. But do not touch it. You would have no control over where you land.”
I swallow and pull my magic back, resisting the tug that aches in my chest. Another Thread glows vivid green. It shines like my eyes. “Vaeloria,” I breathe.
“It lives in your blood. But do you notice? It is still.”
“It doesn’t pulse,” I murmur.
“Nor for me either,” she says quietly. “No one can access that realm. I do not know why.”
I move past it, heart racing. A black void catches at me; its presence is cold, rotten. My magic recoils violently.
“Draelith.”
“Yes. Your magic recognizes it because it has brushed against it before. Do not reach for it.”
“I won’t,” I vow, shuddering.
The Threads multiply endlessly around me, colors I do not know, shades without names. My breath hitches. There are so many. Too many.
Nova’s hand hovers near my shoulder. “Sort through them. Do not touch—only look. When you are stronger, you will call one forward. For now, you wade. Search for the Wasteland Realm. It has no color, only pale light. It will pulse because you can reach it, but it is lifeless. That is the one.”
I move through the shimmering strands; the hum vibrating in my bones.
I am aware of everything outside—the stone beneath my feet, Lowan’s steady pacing, the rustle of Remli shifting her weight, the air of the cave pressing cool against my skin.
Two worlds at once. And then I see it. White and empty. Still pulsing, waiting.
“I’ve got it.”
“Well done,” Nova says. “This realm is barren. It matters little where you open. Practice here first. Later, you may learn to aim.”
“Tell me what to do,” I whisper.
“See the Thread. Take hold with your mind. Connect your magic. But gently. Yours does not behave like others—it wants to seize. Do not let it. Say the word open, and it will answer.”
I remember Alva’s fertility ward, the control it demanded—allowing magic to touch mine without letting it devour. I summon that discipline now.
I reach. I touch. Open. Light flares behind my eyelids. Lowan gasps.
My eyes fly open. A portal glimmers in the space between us, glowing white.
Beyond it stretches a valley of dust, once fertile perhaps, now only barren soil and endless sun.
Jagged seams cracked the earth, as if the earth had once heaved against something too heavy to bear.
Shards of stone jut like broken teeth, and in the distance, a single tree stands petrified—its branches frozen mid-reach, blackened as if fire struck and never left.
The air shimmers faintly, not with life but with the ghost of heat, as though the realm itself remembers burning.
Nothing stirs there. No shadows. No sound. Only silence that feels too loud.
Nova smiles, radiant. “There it is.”
The others murmur, awed. I can see Lowan through the light, silver eyes locked to mine. For one heartbeat, it feels like the Thread ties us together, not the realms.
“Now,” Nova says softly, “you must learn to close it. This is as vital as opening. Return to the same place in your mind. The Thread is still there. You are holding it. Loosen your grasp. Say release.”
I nod, close my eyes, and reach again. The white Thread quivers in my clenched mental fist. “Release.”
Nothing happens—my pulse spikes. Panic prickles my skin. What if I can’t close it? What if I leave it open—what if something—
A warm hand settles on my shoulder. Nova’s voice calms the storm. “Do not fear. No harm can pass through. This is why we practice here. Breathe.”
I drag in air. Lowan steps closer to the portal, right at its edge. His silver gaze meets mine. He nods once, sure and steady. You’ve got this. I close my eyes again. Find the Thread. Feel it straining in my grasp. And then—let go.
“Release.”
The word leaves me on an exhale. The Thread slips from my mind like a ribbon floating into darkness. The light behind my eyes fades. I open them to emptiness. The portal is gone. Relief crashes over me. My knees buckle.
Lowan catches me instantly, lowering me against him, arms strong and certain. “You are incredible,” he whispers fiercely. “Absolutely incredible.”
Around us, my friends cheer and press hands to my back, their voices bright with pride. I lift my head toward Nova. She beams. “Well done, Metra. That is enough for today. Rest now. You have earned it.”
I let out a shaky breath, every muscle trembling, but I smile. For the first time, I feel it—what it means to hold the Threads of Fate in my hands.
Lowan carries me out of the Atrium and back toward our bedchambers. Arden cracks a grin, following close behind. “That was impressive, cousin.”
I groan. “I am not your cousin.”
“You don’t know that,” he counters easily. “But I’m claiming you anyway.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, weak and giddy. I rest my head against Lowan’s chest, letting him anchor me as the group follows along.
Back in our chamber, Lowan sets me gently onto the couch and immediately starts piling food on a plate, shoving it toward me.
“You need to eat,” he insists.
I don’t argue. Hunger rips through me so fiercely I devour every bite he puts in front of me—more than I’ve ever eaten in my life. Magic burns fuel faster than flesh, and tonight I am empty.
Still, I can’t stop talking. Between mouthfuls, I gush about the Threads, the colors, the endless possibilities of the realms. Lowan listens, rapt, his own plate forgotten. His eyes shine, as eager for my words as I am to tell them.
By the time I slump back with a sigh, I feel alive again, filled to the brim.
“To the water,” he murmurs, scooping me into his arms once more.
The hot pool welcomes us, steam rising as my aching body eases. I lean against him, still buzzing with excitement. “Lowan, the amount of realms out there—the things we could see, the places we could go. And I can gift you the ability to communicate. Just imagine it.”
He brushes his lips against my temple. “I’ll go anywhere, see anything. Even without words. As long as I can speak to you, nothing else matters.”
I close my eyes, smiling. “The future is limitless for us. Truly limitless.”
Then he gently asks, “Metra… do you think others will expect you to rule?”
The question stalls me. “Rule?”
“You’re the most powerful Donovan now. Isn’t that what Fate does? Chooses rulers?”
“I’m not a ruler,” I protest. “I’m just me.”
“And that’s who I love,” he says warmly. “But maybe Fate doesn’t care what you want.”
I sigh, a little deflated. “If it comes someday, maybe I can handle it. But I don’t want that to be the reward for surviving all of this—just a lifetime of ruling. It doesn’t sound remotely fun.”
His grin is soft, tender. “Then don’t be a typical Donovan. Blaze your own path. I would expect nothing less.”
His kiss silences the doubt, his smile chasing it away. Later, when words no longer matter, he shows me exactly how deeply he values me—body, spirit, and soul. And when I finally collapse against him, every part of me sated, sleep takes me whole and dreamless.
Days blur into one another. Then a week. Then two. We fall into a rhythm: mornings and afternoons alternating between the Atrium and the Atheneum.
In the Atrium, I practice opening the barren Wasteland Realm again and again until the motion becomes almost effortless.
At first, it takes every drop of concentration, but soon, I can call the white Thread with little more than a thought.
The real challenge begins when Nova pushes me further—teaching me to narrow my magic, to not only find the Thread but to home in on the finer spiraling strands that compose it.
Choosing where to land within that realm nearly breaks me at first, the strain of focusing on something so small, almost tearing at the edges of my control. Nova refuses to let me push too hard, forcing me to rest when frustration bites, but slowly, steadily, I improve.
When the work in the Atrium grows too heavy, we shift to the Athenaeum. Here, my task is different: not to reach outward, but inward. Not to open, but to share.
Lowan, of course, volunteers to be my first trial. His reasoning is obvious—we are already bound, our magic already woven together. If I am to risk sharing a Thread, it makes sense to start with the one person whose magic my own constantly yearns toward.