‘You cut,’ Arden commanded, summoning a shimmer of golden light to his palm. ‘I’ll cast.’
Kage didn’t argue. His blade bit into the rope, thick and stubborn as old bone. Beside him, Arden hurled the golden spell across the expanse, the magic flaring outward in a protective veil. Shouts erupted from the witches behind them, and moments later, a strange dust fell upon Kage’s shoulders like ashes from a dying star.
‘Hurry,’ Arden said through gritted teeth. ‘This shield won’t last.’
Kage muttered another curse, sweat slicking his brow. A sharp caw split the air, and he looked up just in time to glimpse Spirox, his loyal shadow crow, clawing viciously at a warlock’s face. The man screamed as he toppled off the bridge, vanishing into the smoke and leaves below.
Arden joined Kage at the rope, their efforts frantic andfurious now. The witches surged forward, their spells repelled by Arden’s magic until one, more potent than the rest, struck Kage squarely in the shoulder. The impact hurled him backwards with brutal force, his dagger spinning out of sight into the abyss.
He landed hard, breath stolen, vision spinning. Behind him, he heard Arden let out a furious curse.
Kage jolted upright, the sharp sting in his side telling him he was bleeding but he paid it no mind. His gaze swept the chaos around him, hunting for the next threat. Two witches loomed above, their hands already crackling with summoned flame.
But he was quicker.
With a fluid surge, he sprang to his feet, his fist slamming into one witch’s throat. She crumpled wordlessly. The other gasped as his boot struck her hard in the gut, doubling her over. In a single, swift movement, he snatched the knife strapped to her hip, its hilt still warm from her skin.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Arden, teetering near the edge of the bridge, locked in desperate combat with three attackers. Wasting no time, Kage drove his blade into the witch’s calf. Her scream tore through the air, a brief, brutal sound, just enough of a distraction to give him his opening.
He dashed to Arden’s side, plunging his stolen blade into a warlock’s back. The second he struck with a well-aimed blow to the head, sending him crashing to the ground. Arden, without pause, shoved the last one over the edge, his breath ragged.
Panting, both men looked at each other.
Arden’s green eyes suddenly widened in sudden alarm.
‘Kage, look out!’
Kage spun just in time to see the witch with the wounded leg, fury etched across her face. Magic exploded from her palm, the force of it striking him squarely in the chest.
And before he could so much as cry out, the world slipped from beneath him.
He tumbled, backwards, over the edge.
The Moirai and Death cannot truly be slain for with every breath drawn, death follows, and with every death, life stirs anew. They are two sides of an eternal coin, bound by the same thread. Yet, the face of Fate is ever-changing. The Moirai we see may not be the same as centuries past. Gods are chosen to bear such roles, and should they accept, they must forsake all that they once were. In that sense, the Moirai and even Death can be "replaced" or rather, the deities who wear their mantles can.
When the god who walks as Death falls, another shall be summoned to take their place, for Death cannot be erased from the tapestry of existence. It is a constant. An inevitability.
Many have tried, through blade and bargain, to banish Death.
But Death, as always, remains.
And in the end, Death always wins.
Tabitha Wysteria
‘You must learn patience,’ Allegra said softly, her voice echoing down the stone corridor as she trailed behind Mal through the winding heart of the castle. They had spent the better part of the day attempting to coax forth the dormant power within Mal without success. Mal’s frustration clawed at her ribcage like a beast, restless and snarling. In that moment, all she craved was the sky, to feel the wind against her skin as she rode her wyvernthrough the clouds. But here, in the Underworld, the skies were empty and no winged beasts roamed. So instead, she stormed through the ancient halls of the wyverian stronghold, cursing herself beneath her breath.
‘I don’t have time for patience,’ she snapped, pushing open the heavy doors to the main hall with a force that made them groan on their hinges. She strode towards the vast obsidian table and dropped into a chair, her attention settling immediately on the Moirai—the three weavers of fate who sat, as they always did, by the tall windows, unmoved and eternal. Their fingers worked silently, thread of gold slipping through nimble hands, drawn and cut with rhythmic precision.
Allegra’s purple eyes widened at the sight, awe shining across her face.
‘Ignore them,’ Mal muttered, waving a dismissive hand, though she knew full well how impossible a request that was. The Moirai were impossible not to notice.
They were not truly alive nor wholly gods in the way others were, but something older, something more immutable. They could not be killed, not even by time. In their hands they held the destiny of all living things, weaving life and death with a detached elegance that bordered on cruelty. Yet they were hauntingly beautiful, beings shaped from every corner of the world, each one bearing the marks of a different realm. They were the closest thing to divine impartiality the world had ever known.
‘Sit,’ Mal said, gesturing towards the empty chair beside her. Slowly, reluctantly, Allegra tore her eyes from the Moirai and obeyed.
Mal took a measured sip from her glass of wine, the crimson liquid catching the soft glow of the torches like spilt rubies. Across the table, she watched as Allegra with hesitation reachedfor her own. The witch had clearly bathed and changed because she now wore a gown of traditional wyverian black.
