Thea nods mutely, a tiny bit of coherence flaring to life in her eyes. “Yes.”
“Let’s go,” I say, giving Krystian and Zaid a pointed look.
They’ll look after Thea, while Rafe and I will look after them.
We move down a series of pathways until we reach another chamber.
A loom stands at the very center like an ancient monolithic relic, pulsing with an eerie light that bends the shadows around it. It’s not like any loom I’ve ever seen. This isn’t something you’d find in a workshop, tucked away behind a curtain to collect dust.
No, this thing is alive in a way that makes my skin crawl, like it’s been here long before we arrived and will be here long after we’re gone.
It’s massive—taller than even me, with threads of glowing light weaving throughout the air in intricate patterns that almost seem to shift as I watch them.
The frame of the loom itself is made of polished obsidian, smooth and glossy. At first, the threads don’t seem to have any rhyme or reason. They’re just delicate strands of glowing light, crossing and weaving together at random.
But when I look closer, I realize they form a kind of tapestry—a tapestry that moves, the images blurring before my very eyes.It’s unsettling. There's a rhythm to it, but it’s a rhythm that doesn’t make any sense.
“What the fuck is this?” I demand, whirling towards my brothers and the reaper.
But they’re no longer there.
“What the hell?” I bellow, realizing I’m alone.
Where the fuck did they go? Is it Thea? Did something happen?
Impulse demands I turn around. Find them.
But I can’t move.
The loom won’t let me.
I feel it in my bones when I stare at it. A cold, metallic taste spreads through my mouth.
Each thread pulses slightly, almost as if they’re alive, and weaves together intricate images. So fast it’s hard for me to make sense of them. Fragments of memories—flashes of people, places, and faces that I recognize but can’t put a name to. It’s like the loom is weaving through time itself.
And the sound…
It’s a strange melody, like weaving the threads together is also weaving the air around us. A soft, aching hum permeates the air and vibrates in my chest. It’s unnerving and pulls at something deep inside of me, at a place I try to ignore. It’s as though the loom is singing to me, calling me to see it. To see everything.
“What do you want me to see?” I demand, curling my hands into fists. “Hurry the fuck up!”
A delicate, soft thread of light slides forward, wrapping itself around my wrist. Panic sets in, and I try to pull back, but the thread doesn’t loosen. And as I’m trapped in its hold, the world around me shifts, turning inwards.
Suddenly, I’m no longer standing in this cold, winding maze.
I’m back at home—my childhood home.
“Again,” my father instructs, nodding towards the wooden practice sword I dropped.
Ever since I’ve been marked by Ares, my father has been training me to fight. To survive.
I don’t officially start training until I reach puberty, but that hasn’t stopped my father. In his mind, there’s no reason for me to have a childhood, not when my future is already so certain.
I parry each blow he delivers my way, sweat beading on my temples. But then Dad sweeps his sword towards my legs, and there’s nothing I can do but accept the hit. I fall onto my ass, staring up at the blue sky.
Father stands over me, his eyes heavy and full of disappointment. “Ares obviously made a mistake with you, Everett. If you can’t handle an old man, then how are you supposed to save our world from the monsters?”
His words are sharp. Scathing. I flinch, the hurt slicing deeper than I care to admit. But as an adult, I realize that it’s always been like that with us. He has never, not once, looked at me with pride. He saw me as weak and undeserving of my title.
