Chapter Four #2
The die. One of the two Dice of Destiny. The one rolled to find a match in the Festival of Fates.
It’s warm and humming and etched with runes that glow like embers against my skin.
Riven’s gaze snaps to it instantly. “Why do you have that?” he asks, sharp now, all humor gone.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. Panic claws up my throat. “I didn’t—this isn’t—”
I fling it away.
The die vanishes midair.
Then reappears in my hand.
“Roll!” the voice booms again, louder this time, rattling the stone beneath us, shaking lanterns from the air.
“No!” I shout, clutching my fist to my chest. “I didn’t enter. I didn’t consent. I’m done with this.”
Riven doesn’t move.
He stays seated, solid and unyielding, my weight still anchored in his lap. One arm bands around my back, the other braced against the ground like he’s decided this is where he’ll make his stand. His shadows that had flared moments before retreat—but not far. They coil close, watchful, waiting.
The Crone rises.
Her staff strikes stone.
Once.
The sound silences the arena.
“Roll,” she commands, voice carrying the weight of centuries. “Fate demands it, and we do not deny Fate. Or else Fate may take from you what you desire most.”
My hands shake, and no matter how long I glare at the Moirai, their verdict is unwavering.
Riven’s chin dips, his mouth close to my ear. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low and fierce. “This isn’t a big deal, and we’ll figure it out later. Whatever happens, I’ve got you.”
I swallow hard and let the die fall.
It clatters across the stone.
Spins.
Stops.
Silence stretches.
One breath. Then two.
Then light explodes overhead, and a giant number eighteen flashes on the score crystals above our heads with photos of Riven and me glittering beside them.
Not my score.
Our combined score.
Fate has matched us…again.
Gasps ripple through the crowd as all twenty sigils ignite at once in a circle around us, blazing gold into the air above us. A critical match. Magic slams down like a vow made manifest, sealing around us in a radiant halo that hums with promise—a soulmate-level promise.
This has to be a mistake. Panic claws at my throat, chest constricting like Riven is sitting on my chest instead of the other way around.
The arena erupts.
Cheers. Laughter. Shouts of outrage and awe crash together into a cacophony of chaos.
“I didn’t enter this year!” I cry, voice raw, breaking. “This wasn’t supposed to—”
Riven stiffens beneath me.
I feel it—the exact moment the implications hit him. The way his breath catches. The way his arms tighten, instinctively bracing us both as the magic settles.
On the dais, the Moirai huddle together, whispers sharp and hurried.
“Administrative error?” the Maiden whispers.
“An old application, perhaps. She’s entered many times before.” Thanks for reminding me, Crone.
“This has never happened,” the Mother adds.
I feel stripped bare. Plucked for matching when I never asked to be. My pulse hammers wildly, adrenaline flooding me, and beneath it, treacherous and terrifying, a spark of something that feels like hope flickers.
Riven stares up at the blazing number. Then to me.
Something unreadable flickers behind his eyes.
His mouth quirks, a brittle reflex kicking in. “Well,” he says lightly, though his grip never loosens, “that’s not what I expected when I woke up this morning.”
“What in the seven hells just happened?” Angora screeches, silencing the crowd.
“Shit,” Riven mutters like he’s just remembered her, pupils blown wide with what looks like fear.
He rises carefully, setting me on my feet before turning to her—only for a golden thread between us to snap taut. It yanks him back mid-step, slamming him into me. His arms come around me automatically, holding us upright as the magic thrums, possessive and unyielding.
“This is unacceptable!” Angora stamps her foot.
“I agree,” I say hoarsely. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
Riven goes very still.
Then he exhales, slow and deliberate, and lifts his head.
He doesn’t look at Angora when he speaks.
He looks at the Moirai.
“Neither did I,” he says evenly. Then, with a sideways glance at me, his voice drops. “She will not take the fallout for your mistake.” Now he’s threatening the Moirai? Coven help me.
He shifts, angling his body in front of mine without asking. Shielding and claiming the space like it’s his to take.
The sigils around us flare brighter.
The thread around us tightening like Fate is answering his rebuttal with a lasso of decisiveness.
“Do not test us, boy,” the Crone warns. His jaw flexes once. Twice. Then he huffs a quiet, incredulous laugh.
Angora splutters to the Moirai. “You’re joking. You have to be joking. He’s mine!”
Riven finally turns his head to her, expression unreadable now—too calm, too sharp. The sunshine menace is gone. What replaces it is something colder. Older.
“I didn’t sign up for this either,” he says, echoing my words without looking back at me, “but screaming won’t unbind Fate.”
He shifts, subtly angling his body between Angora and me now so that he’s half in front of me, half beside me—shielding me from her icy gaze without making a show of it. The shadows at his feet curl in, obedient but restrained.
Angora points at me like I’m an infestation. “This is your fault. You planned this.”
Riven’s smile returns.
It is not a kind one.
“If she had that kind of power,” he drawls, “trust me, we’d all be kneeling.”
A ripple of laughter breaks out somewhere in the crowd. It sounds nervous and unsure, mimicking my internal sentiment.
Angora stamps her foot again. “I will not be humiliated like this.”
He shrugs, careless, devastating. “Then don’t be.”
The golden thread hums between us, tugging insistently. Riven glances down at it, then at me. I know he can see the panic still caught behind my eyes by the way his fingers curl into mine as if I need an anchor.
Something shifts.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Steadier.
“This isn’t on her,” he says to the Moirai, to the crowd, to Fate itself.
“She didn’t enter. If anyone’s taking responsibility for this mess”—he lifts his chin, smirking like he always does when cornered—“it’s me.
” Riven exhales through his nose, quiet and resigned.
“I alone can bear the weight of your punishment. Let her be free of me.”
The Crone’s staff strikes stone again. The sound reverberates through the arena like a heartbeat, silencing the murmurs, the cheers, and the gasps.
“Those who refuse the will of Fate,” the Mother’s voice rolls across the crowd, “shall carry seven years of misfortune in love. No contest. No compromise. Both of you.”
I feel the weight of her words coil around my chest, a vine of dread and adrenaline. Riven’s shadows curl protectively, making my pulse skip. In the face of the Moirai’s threats, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, but I catch the tight line of his jaw and feel the way his fingers flex.
Angora shrieks. “This is absurd! I didn’t sign up to—” Her arms flail, her voice like glass shattering in the cavernous space.
“Calm yourself, Angora,” the Maiden snaps, a shimmer of magic curling around Angora’s wrists to steady her. “Your turn awaits.”
I blink as the fallen ceremonial curtain snaps back into place, gold threads knitting themselves with a flourish of light.
The Moirai’s magic moves with a dancer’s grace, sending Angora gliding to one side of the stage, perfectly poised for her match.
At the same time, a soft glow coils around Riven and me, whisking us offstage with a silent, swirling hush.
Seems they’re done with the spectacle we’ve made.
We land behind a partition, the murmurs and flashes of the arena now muffled. Dust and stray sparkles from the golden halo cling to the air around us, making the space shimmer faintly. It’s beautiful magic. But all that glitters isn’t gold.
Riven shifts, one arm ready if the magic falters, his eyes scanning, alert, but once that passes, he smirks, low and teasing, voice brushing against my ear like a dare. “Congratulations. Fate just bought us a month together, whether we like it or not. Lucky us.”
I exhale, tension coiling through me. “Lucky us,” I mutter, sarcasm thin as paper.
The golden halo hums faintly between us, the light warm, insistent.
It feels like a tether, a leash, and a promise all at once.
Riven leans in, not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of him through the shimmer.
His protective aura flares, subtle, almost feral, as if the magic itself has to compete with him.
Across the stage, the Moirai gesture to Angora. “Step forward. Let Fate decide your path.” She is lifted in a graceful swirl toward the dice set, and the audience shifts its attention. Cheers, whispers, and gasps fade beyond the curtain that now holds Riven and me back.
I stay quiet, letting my breath settle. The adrenaline has left my fingers tingling and my stomach fluttering. Now in the shadows, I feel safe to allow myself a moment after that scene of chaos. Allow myself a moment to entertain the glaring question: What am I going to do?
With shaking hands, I push back my hair and breathe, trying and failing to let Angora’s match ceremony distract me.
Am I a bad friend? Riven’s girlfriend is being matched, and all I can think about is how freaked out I am.
No, it’s fine. He doesn't even like her that much anyway. Of that I am certain.
Fate matched us again. Didn’t it see what a colossal error that was the first time?
“Look at that,” he murmurs. “Matched again. Fate’s really committed to this bit.” I finally glance at him, annoyance written on every inch of my face. No. Not written. That’s not permanent enough. It’s tattooed. No. Sealed in a blood oath.
How could this have happened?
Riven shifts again, glancing at me with a crooked grin. He knows he’s got me on the ropes. Of course he does. This wretched man does it on purpose.