Chapter 2
Something is wrong.
I can feel it in my cold bones—a brutal stab through every inch of me, like a thousand razors tearing at a heart I haven’t used in a millennium.
I haven’t felt this way in over six hundred years, not since him.
This isn’t the usual scatter of souls rerouted—those little glitches that nature corrects on its own, steering souls back into my waiting arms.
This is a hemorrhage.
Souls slipping through my fingers, shredding the order I’ve commanded since the beginning of time. It’s as if the universe has dared to wound me.
Death is supposed to be a ceaseless hum, a relentless tug at every life, every moment. I am the tide of endings. A pull in every direction, I am everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Every scream, every gasp, every last heartbeat drumming out of rhythm—I feel it. All of it. A thousand endings at once—there’s a plane crash in the Pacific, a girl who slips under bathwater in some lonely apartment, and an elderly man whose body just gives out mid-dream.
I feel everyone.
Every ending.
Every time.
I am all of it.
I am Death.
The symphony of final heartbeats doesn't tire me.
What drives me to madness is the clench and claw of mortals who refuse to yield to their fate.
Panic. Denial. Fear. Petty human desperation.
They beg and bargain for a crumb of peace, praying for answers that will never come.
They should bow and thank me for the release.
Instead, they scream, and this is pain I am forced to live with. No, not a physical pain but the constant weight of mortals unwilling to meet their end.
And now, to make matters worse, I have to go collect mortals who have tried to cheat my order and design.
I snap my fingers, and my ledger floats toward me. My eyes fall upon the pulsing, glowing essences—my ledger does not hold names but pulsing aura of each being that has been slated to come to me. There are twenty—fuckkkkk, fucking, fuck— eight stubborn souls who have refused to come willingly.
And thanks to this anomaly, I have to actually do the reaping myself—because these particular souls aren’t just overdue, they’re trapped. Locked inside bodies that should have released them when their time came.
One soul in particular’s essence glows above the rest, a celestial glow, the kind that indicates this soul is mortal but something…
else. An urge to know more about the lingering pest overcomes me, and before I know it, I’m waist-deep in the River Styx, seeking answers that only three beings in existence can give me.
I’ve asked my sisters for their sight dozens of times before, but this soul, this arrogant gnat, something pesters me about it—the need to know more about this one is almost urgent.
Wading through the tepid waters, I call on my older sisters in Khthonic, our ancient tongue. The warm waters of the River Styx lap against my chest, as I wait for them to acknowledge my presence, but they continue to ignore my call—it's just their luck, I’ve always been persistent.
I urge deeper into the seas until I’m completely submerged under the obsidian waters that twinkle akin to our night skies.
Most mortals believe the Styx is plagued by ghastly entities, or is poisonous enough to kill—well, it might be, but not to anything that inhabits the underworld.
Gods and creatures alike walk into the waters that run along The Underworld and meet Falls of Aramageddeon, not only for its restorative properties, but deep beneath its waters is a court unto itself—The Court of Destiny—of which my sisters, the Fates, rule supreme.
This is where every creature’s—living or dead—story begins.
This is where souls are tethered, or as mortals would say, married.
Strung together, forever intertwined as one.
Finally, one of my sisters speaks. “What do you want, Thanatos?”
Clotho’s voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, threaded through the current like silk pulled tight. Not unkind. Not particularly welcoming. Just…infinite.
I sigh and let myself tip forward, swimming deeper. The river lifts me instantly, suspending me in stillness. I float there, arms loose at my sides, cloak drifting like smoke. The stars above fracture into ribbons. Time stretches thin.
“I want to talk,” I say, because it’s easier than explaining myself.
Silence.
Then, softer—closer.
“You always want something.” Atropos sighs.
“Correction,” I murmur. “I always want to seek counsel with my big sisters—you are the most intellectual of us after all.” I grin, trying to soften them with my charm.
There’s a pause. I can feel Lachesis measuring it. Atropos, sharpening her patience like her sheers.
The water tightens around me. Clotho drifts into view, her midnight skin forming from light that is almost thread-like, pale eyes bright with amusement she will never admit to.
“You could have sent a message,” she says.
“And miss the fun of seeing you?” I tilt slightly, bobbing once in the water. “Besides. I’m your baby brother. I’m allowed to be irritating.”
Another thread flicks to my side. And the river trembles with it.
“You are allowed to be brief,” Atropos replies coolly, coming into sight.
I grin, even as the water presses closer to my throat.
“See? This is why everyone prefers Clotho, so beautiful, so understanding.” My sisters look the same, triplets in every sense of the word except their hair.
Clotho has strands of onyx that remind me of our youngest sister, Nemesis.
She also has a deep gash that runs from the arch of her left brow to the apple of her cheek.
We do not talk about that, though, and we definitely. NEVER. Stare.
It seems all my flattery has paid off; the pressure releases all at once. The river thins, folding inward, and an archway of pale light blooms in front of me. I drop gently onto solid ground, water vanishing as if it never touched me at all.
The Court of Destiny is timeless, no matter where you enter the river, you exist where my sisters want you to, giving their court a vastness that no god or mortal has ever been able to map.
The space seems to breathe around us. Clotho steps aside, shaking her head. “You are exhausting.”
“And yet,” I say, pushing my long platinum hair out of my eyes, “you always let me in.” I give Atropos a quick kiss on her cheek, which finally cracks her solemn gaze.
Lachesis watches me with that knowing, measuring gaze. “Only because you would not leave.”
I smile, slow and fond. “You know me so well.”
“To what do we owe the honor, brother?” Clotho rolls her eyes.
The triplets lead me into The Nervarium, a room I’ve been in wonder of since the beginning of my existence.
A vast, impossibly cavernous space where the threads of all destinies are woven.
The ceiling stretches so high it disappears into darkness, while countless threads—some thin as spider silk, others thick as rope—crisscross in patterns too complex for even immortal minds to fully comprehend.
The air here vibrates with potential, with lives half-lived and fates yet determined.
“I’m curious about a soul,” I admit, finally getting to the point. “A mortal one.”
Lachesis’s fingers work methodically as she measures a length of thread. She doesn't look up, but I catch the slight curve of her mouth as she says, “You’re always curious about souls, Thanatos. It’s your occupation.”
“This one’s different.” This gets their attention. Three identical faces turn toward me, three pairs of eyes narrowing in perfect synchronicity.
“Different how?” Clotho asks.
I move toward the central loom where the most vibrant threads are currently being worked, suddenly uncomfortable under their unified stare.
“Different as in…unusually bright,” I say, moving closer to the loom, pacing in front of them.
“Like it’s calling to me specifically. Not just ready to pass on, but—”
“Special?” Clotho suggests, her fingers never stopping their rhythmic weaving.
I frown. “I don’t believe in special souls, just inquiry as usual.”
“And yet here you are,” Atropos observes dryly, scissors gleaming in her hand.
“Shuffling around like an impatient child.” She snips a thread, and somewhere, worlds away, a life ends without my direct involvement.
I feel it anyway—a small tug at my consciousness, another soul crossed from my endless list.
“Show me,” I say, gesturing toward the vast tapestry.
The sisters exchange glances—a silent conversation I’ll never be privy to despite sharing their blood.
Finally, Lachesis nods and reaches into the great weaving, her fingers dancing across thousands of threads that bow to her call until her fingers close around one that pulses with a light so vibrant it makes me squint.
The thread is unlike any I’ve ever seen—not just luminous but somehow resonant, humming with a frequency that seems to call directly to something deep inside me.
“This one,” Lachesis says, and it’s not a question.
I nod, transfixed. “Yes. Who is it?”
Clotho leans forward, her eternal youth making her seem almost childlike in her curiosity.
“A mortal woman—Mackenzie Vidente.” Lachesis continues, “Nineteen years of age. Currently residing in New Jersey—a clairvoyant who just changed the course of twenty-eight souls.”
“Help me understand, is she solely responsible for all twenty-eight?”
“Yes,” Lachesis says coolly. “But we know you can remedy that easily.”
The thread gleams like a beacon, of something I lost but never thought I’d find again. Its pull is steady and warm under my cold skin. I watch my sister gather more knowledge from it, until I find myself reaching toward it.
Lachesis pulls it away. “No,” she whispers, holding it closer to her face. In a flurry of flowing black-and-white hair, Clotho and Atropos rush to her side.
“No,” they both gasp in unison, sounding almost surprised, and it is quite hard to shock my sisters.