Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Roremar
This very well might have been one of the most reckless things Roremar had ever done—and that was saying something—but he had nothing left to lose. Especially after enduring that fucking Presentation, watching Emmeline dance with every man other than himself.
Roremar crept across his empty room in the barracks, having returned much earlier than the rest of the men who were encouraged to enjoy all the city had to offer.
He didn’t care, though. As he looked at the cabinet set between the narrow windows opposite his bed, he was grateful he wasn’t expected to be out there right now.
It was a fool’s hope they’d have anything he could use in here, but he’d been a fool for Emmeline DeLeoste for weeks now, he may as well see it through.
The glass-paneled door squeaked as he opened it, and he paused, listening for a key being inserted into the lock outside as he held his breath.
If anyone found out he was attempting to read the Fate they were all terrified of, he was sure he’d be thrown back in a cage.
But the shadows through the clouded windows didn’t move beyond slight shifting.
Exhaling slowly, he opened the cabinet and scanned the shelves. There were rows of pressed oil and incense sticks, easiest to store in mass quantities like this when a variety of soldiers would need them.
“Lavender, chamomile, eucalyptus, sage,” he whispered as he read each vial. It was a collection of the most common scents, many both mentally and physically soothing. His fingers deftly picked over each, pulling a few from the back row.
“Spiced citrus,” he muttered. It wasn’t typically one he would choose—it was a better scent for an Aevollon tie—but given the lack of anything with vanilla, cinnamon, or rich fruits, it would have to do.
Roremar uncorked the vial of broken incense sticks and sniffed from a few inches away.
“Fuck,” he exhaled as the fiery notes ripped through him and stars crackled in his mind, a rusted lock being pried open.
Even from here, with a low potency, it was a hit of a drug he’d avoided for so long, he forgot how good the high could be. With it came dependency. It could unlock a dark, dangerous path within his bones that he couldn’t risk exposing too often.
But for Emmeline, he would.
Roremar didn’t dare actually light the stuff, reactive as his Fate tie was. That was what he got for rarely reading for years.
Dryvius barely spoke to him anyway, even when Roremar was younger and had tried to read. When the Fate of Chaos and Revelry wanted to share something, he ripped into Roremar’s mind of his own accord.
You will be her ruin.
Roremar’s fist clenched around the vial as the Fate’s threat burned through him. He inhaled deeply, head tipping back as the magic raced through his blood.
The high of tapping into his Fate tie was unlike anything else. Where recreational drugs were relaxing, this was like shooting starfire into his veins. It woke up parts of him he hated. Parts he never touched hummed in satisfaction, had his shoulders rolling back and fingers twitching.
A desolate grey world wavered before him, solidifying more by the second. A grand stone chamber, tinted red at the edges like he was viewing it through bloodied starfire. Towering columns lined the perimeter, reaching up toward—
“Fates,” Roremar whispered.
The ceiling had been torn away, exposing a star-scattered sky, the inky depths bleeding crimson.
Overturned tables and ripped linens scattered the stone floors; flowers crumpled and withered like a garden torn to shreds and sprinkled over the scene.
And everything was doused in the wine of the Fate of Chaos and Revelry.
As Roremar prowled between the mess, he could envision Dryvius striding lazily through and spilling that nectar himself.
This was different than the plane Roremar usually saw the rare times he read. That was bursts of white fire and falling stars, nothing real and tangible like this. No glass and flowers crunching beneath his boots. No drafts on the wind that rippled the shredded curtains.
“Dryvius,” Roremar growled, daring the Fate to appear, to actually fucking answer him.
There was nothing but eerie silence.
“Dryvius!” Roremar shouted, the name bouncing off the stone and into the sky above.
He stalked to the head of the room where a massive seat was overturned, tentatively testing the bounds of his placement on this realm. Pools of liquid splashed with his steps, but there was no one else here.
He was entirely alone.
There were twelve chairs. Maybe this was some Fately event—a revel gone wrong. Maybe it was Dryvius’s reunion in the Fate Realm with his fellow celestial beings after it was revealed he wasn’t dead.
Roremar blinked, and he could almost see it. Eleven faceless Fates at this table. Dryvius striding through the door with a careless air.
The shock.
A fight broke out.
Crouching, Roremar picked up one of the flowers, pink petals falling from the stem in his hand.
As they floated to the puddles, a feminine voice pierced his mind, mad and giggling: He comes for me. And madness descends.
Pain sliced through his skull at the unnatural voice. “Who the fuck was that?”
No one answered, but a chill worked down his spine. Roremar’s gaze tipped toward the inky red sky.
He’d never heard from a Fate other than Dryvius. The fact that he had now solidified his theory about where this reading had taken him. This wasn’t the plane between realms where readings were passed.
This was the Fate Realm itself.
And he was being shown this scene because he needed to know what happened.
Something wet slid down Roremar’s cheek, and he flinched. He swiped away the thin, fruity liquid with his thumb, bringing it to his lips.
Red fucking wine.
The symbol and taunt had anger pounding in his chest.
Roremar bellowed, “What do you want?”
His words echoed back at him, heart pounding as he spun around. Whether it was the stars above or the Fate himself, Roremar felt watched.
“You fucking coward!” he roared. “Dryvius! Why are you doing this?”
A low, familiar chuckle rippled over the air.
Roremar blinked, searching, but instead of the Fates, a familiar face formed out of the stars.
Nico.
Roremar blinked again, and his brother vanished, replaced by all the women he’d killed, cracks spreading out from them until the sky looked like it would shatter.
“What do you want with me?” Roremar panted.
His chest tightened, panic digging its claws in.
Making it hard to breathe.
Stars flashed, and his head spun. Until the connection with the Fate snapped.
Roremar came up gasping in the empty barracks, hands pressing to the cool glass in the dim blue glow of the mystlight lamps outside. Sweat clung to his brow, body aching after being stretched between two places. He took calming breaths.
Dryvius hadn’t even deigned to show himself.
But Roremar swore, as he closed off his connection with the Fate, it whined in protest. And he could still feel that wine on his cheek.
He was shaking off the sensation when a note flared beside the mystlight lamp on his bedside table. Grateful for the distraction, he strode across the room and grabbed it, stuffing the spiced citrus oil beneath his thin mattress.
He unfolded the crumpled parchment, four words looking up at him in his sister’s handwriting:
Get to the roof.