Page 9 of A Fate Unwoven
Her mother’s face surfaced in her memory, grim in the darkness of the forest as a younger Lena told her about the dreams she’d been having. It was the only time they’d ever spoken about what it might mean. Kelia Vesthir had instructed her daughter on two things that night: the first was to never tell anyone about her visions, a lesson Lena had abided by ever since.
The second was that if she was ever in trouble, she should head to a place called the White Bear in Deyecia and find a man by the name of the Raven.
She’d heard whisperings of him over the years. Rumors of a man helping heretics escape the empire. In the first few years after her mother’s disappearance, Lena had thought about seeking him out herself. Of finding a home in a place where her fate could be her own. But the idea of giving up on her mother’s legacy, of leaving the people of the Wilds behind, had always kept her from doing so.
Now she didn’t have a choice. She could either leave her homeland and the people she loved behind, or she could stay and let the Ehmar heir turn her into a monster.
“Somewhere the emperor can’t follow,” she said. “There are … rumors of a smuggler working out of Deyecia. If I can find him—”
Realization dawned in Finæn’s eyes. “You’re going to leave Wyrecia? Lena, youcan’t! It’s too dangerous.”
Lena shook her head. “What choice do I have?” she asked, knowing he wouldn’t be able to answer.
Finæn stared at her for a heartbeat, and then his expression hardened. “Maia and I will come with you—”
“No.” The word was out of Lena’s mouth before her heart had the chance to agree. Her selfishness had put the siblings in enough danger already. “It’s too dangerous. And the village needs you here.Maianeeds you here. You have to make sure they’re safe.” She’d been a fool to ever think she had any control over her fate. A fool to think Finæn and Maia would always be in her life. “I’m sorry,” she whispered through the tightness in her throat. “I have to go.”
The Fist were at the village gates now. Lena could just make out the silhouettes of a half dozen armored hunters. She was out of time.
Finæn seemed to realize it, too, because he closed the distance between them in one stride and pulled her flush against him, his body crushing against hers with a fierceness that stole the breath from her lungs. It was the kind of embrace that chased away the lingering pain of their earlier conversation. The kind of embrace that reminded her that no matter what, Finæn would always be on her side.
It ended too soon.
“Safe travels, Lena Vesthir. May the threads of fate bring us together again.” His jaw clenched, and something in his expression made Lena’s heart ache.
She’d heard those words a dozen times during her travels. It was a saying all Wyrecians uttered when leaving someone behind, whether they worshipped the Fateweaver or not. So why did the sound of it coming from Finæn’s mouth send a shiver down her spine?
There was no time to dwell on it. The Fist were already in the center of the village. They hadn’t noticed her and Finæn yet, but it wouldn’t be long before they did.
It was time to leave.
With a final brush of his lips against her cheek, Finæn let her go.
And when Lena stepped into the forest a moment later, she did not allow herself to look back.
THREE
DIMAS
The Goddess of Fate was testing him.
It was the only explanation for why she’d sent Dimas to such a miserable place. Beyond the window of his carriage, the Wilds stretched before Dimas in an endless sea of muddied snow, stormy skies, and a haggard expanse of emaciated trees.
The prince pressed his forehead against the window, letting the ice-cold surface soothe the headache behind his eyes.
He and Ioseph had arrived in the Wilds three days after leaving Novobyrg, and so far they’d found no sign of the heretic who was to be his Fateweaver. Even the Fists he’d sent to search the forsaken place ahead of his arrival had been unsuccessful. A snow eagle had brought word of their failure just hours before Dimas left the palace: they’d raided the first of two major villages so far, and whilst they’d found plenty of heretics, none had been a stormy-eyed girl with a scar on her cheek.
Dimas had crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the fire before anyone else could read it. And then he’d penned his reply, ordering the hunters to stand down.
On his arrival to their camp, Dimas, exhausted and more than a little irritable, had met with his cousin, Milos, a hunter who had been appointed the Fist’s leader. They’d sat around a small campfire that did little to ease the chill in Dimas’s bones as Milos had confirmed what he’d written in his letter: whilst they’d found plenty of evidence of people worshipping the Lost Sisters, there’d been no sign of the girl from his vision.
Dimas was running out of places to search. According to the map he’d found in the palace archives, there was only one village left before they reached the edge of the Wilds.
Which meant he only had three more chances to find his Fateweaver.
They’d set out that dawn, just as the sun was beginning to rise and a fresh flurry of snow started to fall, and had come to a stop less than a mile outside of the next village—a small, unremarkable dot on his map by the name of Forvyrg. Ioseph had insisted Dimas stay out of sight whilst the Fist carried out their search, claiming his presence would only raise questions he couldn’t answer. Not without confirming the rumors that for the first time in over a century and a half, the heir to Wyrecia was without a Fateweaver.
“This is impossible,” he muttered, the fog from his breath obscuring his view of the gray world outside. By this point, the snow had stopped, but there was a fierceness to the gusting winds that rattled the walls of Dimas’s carriage.
