Page 22 of Stolen By the Reaper

What the fuck do I do?

“Only a proven adversary can truly challenge a demon.” Veridian’s voice remained maddeningly calm.

“I know that.” I pressed the heels of my hands against my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. I took a deep breath, then another, willing the rising tide of panic to recede. “I don’t know how that helps me.”

But every second brought us closer to the end. If I ever wanted to see Azrael again, if I ever wanted to avenge the fate of the nameless others who’d suffered before me, I had to act. Now.

Centuries, Azrael said. Just for him.

A nice cave with all the illusion of fixings didn’t make a king. My personal savior, sure. But he still served another and still spoke of others doing the same.

And I still didn’t know the full score. I’d been kept from the knowledge to choose any of this for myself from the moment Alain entered my life.

Alain, who also didn’t act alone. Not him, or the ones who came before with their knives and lies and bargains made with the blood and souls of others.

“Do demons get anything out of their followers?”Outside of me.“Outside of their sacrifices?”

Veridian bent back over the loom. The disembodied whispers hummed in the background the moment her fingers grazed the shimmering threads. “Demons feed on the energy of their followers,” she said. “Each prayer, each sacrifice, another morsel.”

My mind raced. “So, if they lose followers, they’re weakened?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out a hand and plucked a single thread from the shifting mass. The pattern around the missing thread shuddered and quivered.

Snip.

The thread parted. A burst of color rippled outward, rearranging the design. The hair on my arms lifted, and I shivered.

“The sudden severing of fate’s threads can be catastrophic, child,” Veridian said, still holding the cut ends in her fingers. “The magic is raw. Potent.”

I crossed my arms. “And you want me to... what? Cut Clauneck’s threads?”

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. She dropped the threads and dusted her hands before reaching into a pocket of her dress. Veridian held out a small silver object. “To help with your weaving.”

I closed the distance between us, taking the item into my hand. A thimble. Small, simple, and unimpressive. I rolled it on my palm, the metal cool against my skin.

Veridian hadn’t said it outright, but the message was clear. To weaken Clauneck, I had to sever his connection to his followers. And where better to start than the very place where this nightmare began?

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I closed my hand around the thimble. I closed my eyes and pictured Graywick Hall’s stone walls. The green paths. The bubbling fountain.

The altar where they held me down and offered me to their master.

This time when reality shifted, I did not fall.

I opened my eyes to the grand staircase at Graywick. Memories flooded back—Alain’s lies, the chanting cultists, the blade raised high. Azrael, snatching me away in the nick of time.

I took a deep breath and slipped the thimble onto my finger.

The world... shifted. Inky tendrils of darkness stretched through the manor. I spun in place, trying not to let them touch me. They pulsed and seemed to swish in one direction or another, as if they were tugged along behind something.

Or someone.

The end of one thread faded as it flowed out of the entrance hall.

I crept after, careful to keep my steps quiet. My eyes were wide, scanning for the owners of the strands. I was halfway down a long hall when a whisper reached my ear.

I paused. The voices were faint and muffled, but the threads coalesced at the end of the hall, gathering at a door.

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