Chapter 33 #4
Finnley stands behind Kingston, his hands on both shoulders, pushing him to his knees.
My jaw drops slightly.
Kingston isn’t moving. Finnley’s fingers are digging into his shoulders.
There can only be one reason Kingston isn’t moving.
Finnley is siphoning.
Holy shit. He’s the siphoner.
Kingston won’t be able to move. Not as long as Finnley maintains direct contact. He’ll render Kingston helpless, and if it goes on for too long, he’ll render him unconscious.
Kingston’s jaw clenches, and pure hell rages in his eyes as they meet mine.
Rhett punches the air with his fist. “Yes, I knew you had it in you! You should have told me you manifested!” he yells, jumping up and down like a child. He reaches into his cloak for the dagger he was trying to retrieve. “Now’s the fun part,” he singsongs, walking up to Kingston.
“Fuck you,” Kingston growls, looking up at him.
He punches Kingston hard, causing his head to whip to the side.
He spits blood into the sand and glares at Rhett. “You’re a dead man.”
While Rhett’s distracted, I slowly push Ambrose to the sand, gently laying his head down and stand.
Finnley is too focused on draining Kingston, his eyes closed with the need for concentration.
I slip behind Rhett and punch him in the back of the head as hard as I can.
He curls inward, giving me just enough time to jump on his back and try to wrestle the dagger from his grip.
Kingston thrashes under Finnley’s grip.
His shadows start to emerge from his hands regardless of the siphoner at his back. They’re dark as midnight and angry. The temperature drops drastically around us, and the sky above darkens like death on swift wings.
I can hear Finnley yelling at me to stop, but I don’t let go.
I release Rhett’s hands just long enough to dig my fingers into his eyes instead.
He grunts in frustration before throwing me over his shoulder, causing me to land on my back and knocking the air from my lungs before kicking me multiple times.
I can hear Kingston roaring through the haze of trying to catch my breath.
It’s freezing in this pit. Shivers wrack my body as I roll to my knees and push myself up, gulping for air.
Rhett walks over to Kingston and brings his fist back, punching him. Again and again. When he’s almost out of breath, he strides over and pulls the dagger from Yaretta’s throat before returning to stand in front of Kingston.
Kingston looks up at him, disheveled and bloody.
His lips pull into a sinister smile, his canines on full display.
He’s kneeling with the blade pointed under his chin. But the only thing on his face is the promise of what’s to come.
“Why are you smiling?” Rhett demands.
“Killing you is going to be the highlight of my entire existence,” he answers through bloody teeth.
Rhett pulls the dagger back, and a scream tears through the air.
It’s coming from me.
Time slows.
Slender lines of starlight and shadow wrap around me like the webs of a spider.
Some are warm, vibrating softly like the promise of a new dawn.
Others are dark, so dark they almost appear blue.
Cold and void. Both kinds pulse with purpose.
Memories. I’m surrounded by a kind of magic that doesn’t manifest into powers but undoes them.
A soft voice echoes around me.
Norissa, weaver of threads, it whispers like the delicate wings of a butterfly.
We’ve been waiting for you. The one that does not control fate but repairs it.
Light and dark. Not one but both. The voice is comforting.
Familiar. Only a weaver can repair the invisible threads of fate.
Or undo them altogether. Few are trusted with such a responsibility.
To do so incorrectly results in chaos. War. Famine. Destruction.
A breeze wraps around me, blowing my hair in an arch of crimson.
You can correct what was woven in error. Unravel fates, undo wrong pairings, reinstate legacies.
A thread appears in front of me—frayed, dull and coming apart at the edges. It shimmers in onyx shades, blowing in the breeze as if it’s lost its purpose. It calls to me. It vibrates with urgency.
I brush my fingertips around the thread, and the room tilts.
I’m thrust back into the throne room, where the little boy looked so sad. An obsidian crown lies in shattered remnants upon the velvet cushion. There is grief in the room, too old to be mine. The little boy stands beside the throne. Shadows swirl around him, and anger burns in his eyes.
Wrong cannot rest, nor ill deed stand. When it is corrected, a crown will be restored, a legacy will be returned. The soft voice wraps around me. The Arcane Heir will be found. He was meant to rule, and you were meant to find him.
The thread hangs low in front of me. Waiting for me to choose.
There are pivotal moments in our lives that shape the legacy we leave behind.
This is one of those moments. A choice.
I reach out and hesitantly touch the pulsing thread again. The breeze stops, and the thread vibrates beneath my hand. Fury and revenge.
His.
Somehow, I know without a doubt that it belongs to him.
There’s a price to be paid. Although the voice is delicate the words are not. One must give to take. To repair the bridge between what is and what should have been. The weaver must become part of the fate. Forever tied to the thread restored.
I should turn back and go the way I came. But I can’t resist the pull the same way my lungs can’t resist the urge to breathe.
A gold thread, shimmering like stardust and embers, floats toward my hand.
I must pay the price.
I take the light and dark threads and twist them together. I’ve made my choice.
Power radiates up my arm and through my chest. Light erupts all around, and shadows coil over my skin. The wind thrashes across my face and through my hair.
Then silence.
The threads woven together pulsate in front of me—a living thing.
I reach my hand out to trace the threads. Instead, I’m yanked from the throne room and thrown back to the present.
I fall to my knees in the frigid pit.
I raise my head and look up at Kingston, who’s standing above me. Rhett’s head dangles from his clenched fist. Finnley is missing.
A black locket hangs from Kingston’s neck.
A crown the color of obsidian sits on his head.
A sinister smile pulls at his lips. “They forgot to kill a prince, Heathen,” he growls softly.
Kingston is royalty.
Immortal.
Vengeful.
And now our fates are intertwined.