Chapter Twelve #2
And this third soul… whose would it be?
What makes us different from the others? And why?
Yet another mystery that’s going to require space in my head.
“It seems when I escaped Opaltide in favor of Ollora, I shortened the distance between my own knots,” Raevi says, giving me a saddened smile.
Opaltide?
The capital city of a human-dominated country where fae aren’t welcome.
“What were you doing in Opaltide?” I lend the question voice before I can stop myself.
“For the last two decades, I served the royal family of Strayus,” she answers, turning her eyes to her lap where her hands clench one of the ruffled edges of her black uniform skirt. “Too hated to let free, too useful to kill.”
Her head snaps up, her jaw tight, revealing silver-rimmed eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, she lifts a hand and curls some of her blond hair behind her ear.
Confused, I shake my head.
I’ve made the poor creature cry.
And I don’t understand how.
“If I’ve done something, said something—”
I stop myself short as she lets her hand fall, uncovering gnarled and curled flesh where a pointed fae ear should be. Faint scarring, fully healed, stands stark against her warm olive skin, tracing the edge of a rounded ear like lightning strikes.
The scars aren’t new.
Nor were they accidental.
Raevi, a fae, was mutilated by humans to appear human.
A fae’s pointed ears are their most identifiable trait. Intricate scents, sharpened facial features, typical whimsicality aside, pointed ears have become the de facto means in differentiating between species.
And her—her ears were clipped.
They tried to carve away her identity.
Everything I know about Raevi falls into place.
From the way she wears her hair—parted and braided just so—her soft-spoken demeanor, to her reserved and skittish tendencies… It’s all designed to enable her to blend into the background, regardless of her surroundings.
She doesn’t want to be noticed.
Especially not by royalty.
She’s found ease in surviving by becoming forgettable. And why not? This world has proven time and time again it’s willing to mutilate those who stand out—inherently or otherwise.
And because I’m a fool of a demon with a ridiculous, feeling heart, I remain silent, else I fight rage-induced tears of my own. She keeps a firm grip upon the silver lining her eyes. Not a single tear falls—not even as she pulls her hair over her ear, hiding away her truth once more.
I try to speak. “I hope you realize—Ryc would never—I would never—”
Her quiet, bubbling laughter floats between us.
I’ve never heard her laugh.
Nor have I ever heard such a sad sound.
It’s like she doesn’t believe me. Or perhaps she simply knows better than to trust a demon.
“Everyone here has been nothing but kind since my arrival, Lady Ves. If I felt otherwise, I would leave,” she says with a weak smile. “It’s not my past which saddens me. It’s what’s left of my Fate.”
She rises, smoothing her hands over her skirts as she does. My eyes trail after her, watching her as she reaches the door.
As her hand falls upon the gilded doorknob, she says, “I didn’t understand my Fate.
” She laughs again, though the sound isn’t meant for anyone other than herself.
“But being granted the opportunity to see you, see your weaving so closely… I had no idea leaving Opaltide would hasten my last knot.” She heaves a long sigh.
“Nektos hasn’t woven anything for me beyond helping a demon find themselves.
And now, I can’t help but wonder what happens to someone who’s reached the end of Nektos’ plans. ”
“Is Fate ever finished?” I ask, my voice quiet as I recall Oraphia’s words on the matter days ago.
Raevi smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “No. Her work, like time, continues beyond us, Lady Ves.”
She opens the door.
“The crystal is yours, daughter of death. Its weaving is the other half of yours.” She shakes her head, a hint of a smile curling her lips.
“It’s strange. I’ve never seen such a thing.
A weaving cleaved so perfectly. Clean. With precision and care,” she says and steps into the hall without a backward glance.
“You’ll need to decide whether to mend it or leave it to wither—that’s the knot you currently approach. ”
The closing door severs my view of the Fate reader without remorse.
I stare at the door, barely breathing.
Mind blank and body numbed.
Then the words hit me.
Their weight dropped upon my ribs like a boulder.
“Raevi!” I shout, scrambling to rise from the couch. “Raevi, wait!”
My toe catches on the leg of the low table, the obsidian box with the crystal slips over the edge. Panic flares to life in my veins and instinctively my hand darts out, catching the box.
But my thumb grazes the crystal and I’m blinded.
Broken scenes fill my head as the little air in my lungs is squeezed out—too many colors, sounds, and places—all unfamiliar—loop themselves in my mind. Ice grips my heart in a burning clench as I cry out.
But the visions, the images, they don’t clear.
They gain sharpness, focus.
Silver eyes reflecting the night sky—
The ice tightens around my heart and threatens to consume my lungs.
A darkened field blossoms with pops of glowing blue—
The bitter tang of blood fills my throat.
White-feathered wings stretch to their fullest—
The sound of shattering glass echoes in my ears.
Silver blood pools across polished obsidian—
The floor beneath my feet quakes.
Glimpses of a face, my face, surrounded by obsidian shelves come into view before darkness swings shut.
And for a time, there’s nothing.
Comforting.
Cold.
Silence.
Until hurt, despair, and rage sear through my bones.
The obsidian box clatters against the table, the crystal undisturbed in its velvet lined recess. As my chest heaves, I straighten myself and take notice of the state of Ryc’s study.
Destroyed.
Furniture fractured and ruined, shelves emptied, windows shattered, curtains shredded… a few, free-falling sheets of parchment curl and slice through the air, descending upon the floor like leaves cast from branches.
What have I done?
I shift, stepping in a puddle of water—no. Tea.
Teacup, kettle, and saucer lie smashed, leaving a growing pool of barely discernible red upon the black marble floor. The jagged pieces bathe in the slow spreading sea, as does The Elder Mythos.
Face down and open.
Fishing it out of the tea, crimson runs down my wrist as I turn it over, its pages now stained in a bold vertical wash, severing the pages in half—as if it’s been bathed in blood. My eyes narrow. It’s fallen open to the start of a chapter, Aether, it looks like.
The Mother of Magic.
Grasping at the end of my shirt, I wipe it across the page, hoping to pull the excess away. My shirt grows soaked, but the crimson lingers. Half of the landscape depiction on the left now has a hellish hue.
I pause, staring at the image.
It’s a rolling field under a night sky, filled with flowers and vines.
The field of blue…
“Little love,” Ryc’s voice sears through our bond. “Are you hurt? Are you safe?”
Before I can reply, the dark-haired fae appears in a flash of white light. In a quick few strides, ignoring the state of his study, ignoring the mess of tea he walks through, he pulls the book from my hands, casting it aside. It lands on the couch behind me.
I stammer, struggling to understand everything before me. My mind feels fuzzy and frayed, as if I’m still dreaming.
“You felt cold,” he says, framing my face with his hands. “Like the other day.”
The day I slipped into the veil.
The day he’s convinced I died.
“Your office—” I wince, a hand flying to my throat with the unexpected soreness.
“I don’t care about the office,” he says in a low growl. “What happened?”
Tears spring into my eyes and worry flashes across his unnecessarily beautiful face.
“It’s mine,” I send the thought through the bond and his brows furrow. “The soul crystal is mine, Ryc. I saw—”
The office door flies open and Cyran appears in the doorway, the expression on his face one I’ve never seen—shock.
“Your Majesty,” he says, his wide eyes finding us in a heartbeat, “the center courtyard, you’re going to want to see it.”
Ryc presses a soft kiss against my brow, and there’s a burst of light before the study vanishes. The cool breeze of the evening greets my skin as the last of the sun loses in its eternal battle against the moon. Lifting my gaze, the brightest stars take stage overhead.
Leading me by the hand, Ryc treks forward, down the few steps toward the front gate. Doing my best not to stumble, I follow, dragging my eyes down from the heavens.
A subtle, persistent tingling washes over me, and whatever it is that lies beyond the castle curtain wall—I feel it. The sensation races up my spine and settles into the base of my skull.
It’s ancient, powerful, and cold.
Stepping into the courtyard, a dozen Royal Guard stand motionless and silent. Their faces fixed in the same direction. My head swivels and I freeze.
Green.
So much green.
“It’s a sign from the gods,” one male guard says and despite his quiet voice, the words ring loud.
“But which god?” a woman retorts, her tone curt.
A sea of emerald vines twist and climb over the temple. Barbed ropes braid themselves around the high rising spires, winding tight. The gleaming white structure is no longer the bright standing icon visible from the farthest reaches of the capitol city.
It’s been ensnared.
And the vines threaten to crush it.
They snake across the courtyard, stretching in every direction in a slow, intentional crawl.
Broad, heart-shaped leaves unfurl and tapered, tight buds emerge along the vines.
I’m reminded of the moonflowers that once graced the structure.
And slipping my hand from Ryc’s, my feet carry me forward with cautious steps.
They’re beautiful.
Whether it be the darkness or the thrill of the magic, something in my blood sings as I draw closer. Stopping before a single tendril, its curled end unfurls toward me, as if in greeting.
“Be careful, little love,” Ryc says beside me, his voice low. “We don’t know what this is.”
He’s not wrong.
But I ignore his warning.
Reaching, fingers outstretched, I graze the curling tendril.
It’s nothing short of frigid.
A sharp, icy shock rushes up my arm and settles in my heart. The closest bud bursts open, revealing an indigo bloom. As it begins to emit a faint blue light, other buds along the vine do the same. In a wave-like race and in a matter of seconds, the center courtyard is bathed in blue.
The shimmering field I saw moments ago flashes in my head.
As does the first time I ventured into the veil.
I’ve seen these flowers before.
But it’s been centuries since I’ve seen them last.
“Veilflowers,” I whisper, drawing my hand to my chest.
Ryc pulls me against him, securing an arm around my waist. He half drags me away from the vines and flowers.
“A ward. Now!” he orders in a bellowing voice over his shoulder. “Seal off the courtyard. Stop the vines from spreading.”
The guards stream forth, their fingers dancing in unison and a blue-silver ward shimmers into existence. It domes over the courtyard and Moon Temple, sealing itself against the ground, trapping the vines.
A barking caw draws every pair of eyes skyward. The white raven glides through the ward as if it didn’t exist, the ward simply glimmering with the intrusion. It lands upon a tall vine near the Moon Temple entrance and tucks its wings away.
Figures it would appear now.
“Is the creature dead or not?” I ask, brows creasing as I stare.
Ryc, smiling, peers down at me. “I’d say it’s very much alive.” There’s a teasing gleam in his eyes I don’t quite understand.
Across the courtyard, the creature warbles.
Like it’s laughing.