Prologue
“Tales have been spun of the legends of old, spanning centuries and centuries ago.”
“Long before your kingdoms rose and fell,”
“And before your empires swelled.”
“But it’s time for us to weave our own,”
“For the end now readily awaits.”
“I am the Creator.”
“I am the Changer.”
“And I am the Ender.”
“Together, they call us the Fates.”
“Now, come closer.”
“Listen well.”
“Let us tell you a story,”
“Of the king who thought he could trick the Fates,”
“And was cursed with his own crown of glory.”
Nyses Grimaldi dismounted swiftly,taking in the blazing flames and scorched stone.
“My King!” a priest called as he approached with singedwhite robes trailing in the dirt. The elderly man’s face was streaked with ash, his eyes full of distress.
“What is the meaning of this?” King Grimaldi boomed. His horse whinnied and pawed at the ground, wary of the burning temple before them.
“We do not know, sire,” the priest rushed out. “The bells were rung by an apprentice not half an hour ago. I only arrived moments before you.”
Nyses pulled on a pair of leather gloves and examined the destruction. Flames licked at the outer walls of the pristine temple, the scent of burnt wood enveloping him. Smoke rose against the night sky and smothered the stars looming above. A handful of priests scampered around them to avoid the inferno.
“Y-Your Majesty, please,” the elderly priest begged. “Is there anything you can do? We have already lost three acolytes to the flames. The sacred texts, our artifacts, our life’s work”—he paused and sucked in a breath, bringing a hand to his mouth as he gazed back at the temple—“ruined. There must be a way to stop it.”
“And have you not petitioned your Fates?” Nyses asked, concealing the sneer in his tone.
“The Fates have—have not heard my pleas, Your Majesty.” The priest lowered his eyes and twisted his hands in his robe.
“Hmm,” Nyses responded, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Then perhaps they will answer your king.”
He strode toward the fire roaring at the temple, his mahogany cloak swishing at his heels. “You,” he caught an acolyte by the collar of his robes, hauling him backward, “show me where the altar is.”
The boy’s eyes widened and darted to the burning building. “In—in there, Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” the king said, the word blending with the hissing of flames in the background.
The acolyte swallowed. “Won’t we be harmed?”
Nyses rolled his eyes and pushed him toward the entrance. “Ifyour Fates wish to keep their holy temple, they’ll surely protect their faithful. Now,show me.”
With trembling legs, the boy stumbled closer to the fire, bringing his robe up to shield his face from the smoke. Heat licked at the king’s skin as they burst through rubble that was once the grand oak doors. Wooden beams had fallen from the ceiling and lay scattered at the edges of the hall, weakened by the blaze. The stone columns still supported the tall arches, leaving a mostly clear path for the acolyte and king to tread. When they turned down another long hallway, a door to their right creaked and trembled with exertion as the heavy wood broke from its hinges and crashed to the ground mere inches from the boy’s feet. He leaped back in alarm with a yelp.
