6. Weaver of Fate
Weaver of Fate
LORELIE
My mask was fracturing. Every minute I spent on the continent of Wraelira was a minute closer to the demise of humanity, and that had ignited a newfound urgency.
Since my inception into the corrupted lands, my identity had been a front, and that much had been made clear to Kaelivan and Caspian.
But there were still so many things they had yet to learn about me, my kingdom, and my purpose in coming here, as well as their connection to the realms beyond and the interlinking that came alongside the Others’ ruling.
The sharp shing of a blade pulled me from my slipping thoughts. Lifting my head, I watched Sorva retrieve a ceremonial dagger. She weighed it in her hand, its sharpened edge catching the subtle glow of the lanterns in the dungeon’s depths.
“Kneel,” she commanded, and without question, the man she yanked into the space dropped with her cadence.
Caspian.
I had followed them down here, not because Sorva had required it, but because I wanted to ensure that the dark entity wasn’t about to kill him.
His survival was a necessity to break through the veil, and without him, it would prove unattainable.
Just as equally, the life force slithering through his veins was valuable, and I wasn’t certain if Sorva would drain him dry to accomplish her vision.
With a simple glance over her shoulder, the remaining Others came into view, each more haunting than the last. They were all robed, and the darkness they carried shadowed their features, their presence echoing the same warning alongside every footfall.
The one with long blonde locks stepped forward, taloned fingers wrapping around her hood—Vrax.
With a languid tug, she peeled it back, exposing the numerous sigils etched into her skin and the unnerving lacerations she’d carved from each corner of her mouth.
The symbol of feigned authority nestled against her forehead, the serpentine creature a mockery of the crown.
Forked tongue lapping her blood-coated lips, she grinned as her vibrant scarlet eyes scanned the room.
“It is about time we awaken the realm we wish to fuse, is it not, Mother?”
Sorva pivoted, though her fingers remained tangled in Caspian’s hair.
Each ancient marking engraved into her ashen skin wove a story of devoured realms and lands her malice had already suffocated—a story most did not understand.
The chains dangling from her pointed ears looped to join the variety of piercings that littered her lobes, each glint of metal demanding respect.
Ember irises flaring with a deviousness that fused with enjoyment, she spoke, “That it is, Daughter. Though we must await our fifth, for he is the missing key to what we wish to unleash.”
Without missing a beat, she glared down at the pirate situated at her feet. “Give me your palm, darling.”
There was a hesitation there, a fight, but it was brief, as a cry slithered from Caspian’s lips as he lifted his hand to Sorva.
Grinning, she flicked her arm out to the side, a chalice materializing in her palm.
Satisfied with the summoning, she spun the dagger between her fingers before carving through Caspian’s flesh.
Crimson bloomed with the first prick of its gleaming tip, and his lineage wasted no time slipping from him to coat the tarnished gold with the abilities he carried.
My nostrils flared at the scent, not only the saltiness of the sea, but something far more morbid.
It was dark, coated in a layer of insurmountable power that could only belong to one.
At the realization, my throat bobbed, the implications of my purpose settling on my shoulders with the weight of finality.
I had known he was one of them, a Divari, a child of the gods. But what I hadn’t realized was that his ties rested with Elaros, and by default, the Goddess of Death and the harbinger of souls. The goddess of my lands, Nythera. Elaros’s counterpart.
Opening my mouth to speak, the creeping slither of shadows from the blackened corner of the room halted me. A booted foot fell into the dim light first, followed by another, before he appeared.
Everything about him seemed calm, but that was the first lie.
He’d built himself to sell the mirage he curated, an embodiment of the manipulation he was capable of.
The loose fall of inky hair settled against his forehead, and the steady set of his shoulders served as a reminder of the apathy he harbored.
With his features set sharp and controlled, there was no possible way to read him as an ordinary onlooker.
And if you tried, your beating heart would be peeled from your chest before you ever had the chance to analyze his essence.
All feared him, even those who stood in line with Sorva. As if to prove the point, the four Others quickly dropped to their knees, heads bowed, touching the concrete to show their respect.
“My beautiful son,” Sorva hummed, extending a hand to him. “It is an honor to have you here beside me during this paramount moment.”
“As it is an honor to join you, Mother.” His voice carried a deep rasp, but there was something far more sinister about it. Something that made it almost impossible to resist his presence, a lure tossed in the dark. “Rise.”
The order drew the cloaked figures to their feet, each of them offering him their full attention. Sweeping over their obedience, my gaze followed as I examined the rest of his features.
Palm pressed against the left side of his face, his fingers spread just enough to reveal the faint burn beneath. The marred flesh illuminated with a languid steadiness, like something smoldering under ash. And gods… his hand. That was where it all started.
The sigils emerged to mirror the others; fine lines across his skin, intricate and etched with intention.
But they didn’t stay still long enough for any assumption to occur; it was an illusion.
One blink was all it took for them to shift and take on a different appearance.
A line that wasn’t there before. A curve that had shifted. A newly defined symbol.
He was their curator, the one capable of weaving fate.
Swallowing, my stare swept to just below his knuckles. Nestled in the center of the back of his hand was an eye that burned far brighter than any other ancient marking. Its vibrant emerald hue matched the intensity of his irises, and half-lidded, almost lazily, it watched everything.
The eye trained itself on me, and every sigil in his flesh woke. Lines sharpened, splitting and branching as they climbed higher. They threaded through muscle, mapping him from the inside out, and by the time they reached his forearm, they morphed into what seemed to be fractures.
As if something beneath his skin was trying to break through, they pulsed with tension before curling around his throat.
Once each tendril found its designated position, the movement slowed.
The marking thinned, curling just beneath the surface of his skin, like whispers rather than wounds.
They traced the line of his pulse, sliding toward his jaw in search of something…
Breath caressed the back of my neck, his presence having vanished from where he’d been seconds prior. “You’re rather… interesting,” he crooned low enough for only me to hear, taloned fingers toying with my hair. “Indecipherable. Magnetic. Tell me… Where do you truly belong, little dragon?”
My throat tightened, and part of me couldn’t help but wonder if his sigils had found their way onto my flesh. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Our new arrival huffed a chuckle, but kept his voice to a whisper. “While the others may be unaware, I am not.” Trailing his nail up the center of my back, he continued, “But we can play this game. I’m quite interested in what you are doing here, Lorelie Alreja.”
Frigidity threatened to swallow me whole as he vanished once more, appearing in the center of the room to take his place beside Sorva. With a taunting glance in my direction, the corner of his lips curled upward, and his utterance came with an authority that seemed to surpass his mother's.
“Draw the sigil. We have portals to open.”