Rune worked his jaw. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”
“Still stubborn as a mule.” Sunnëva shook her head. “At the very least, stop treating her like a prisoner. That girl has had her choices taken from her all her life. Never wanted, never seen. All she wants is a place to belong. I think both of us can sympathize with that.”
Rune didn’t respond. He never did when the words stung.
With a soft smirk, Sunnëva stepped back.
“Wait.” Rune’s eyes narrowed. “If I was cast a hundred and fifty years into the past, then what became of the future?”
The Goddess of Death tilted her head, a sharp smile curling her lips. “The future has not changed, Rune. When Argyle was consumed by the curse, it was sealed within a veil of magic—frozen in time, forgotten by the rest of the world”
“Yes, I know.”
“And did you know the spell was so powerful it fractured time itself? When you were thrust here, your past began again. Everything outside of it still moves forward.”
Rune stared at her, the weight of her words sinking like lead. “What do you mean?”
“The curse created a rift in time.” She wandered around his bedchamber. “For try as you might, no one can leave.”
“I had no trouble leaving before.”
“As you have already begun to notice, things are different now.” Sunnëva gave him a sly smile and motioned to the doors of his balcony. “But by all means, do attempt it. I would love to witness this.”
Rune certainly would have taken the challenge if not for the cold amusement in her gaze. He’d take her word for it.
“Then how do I stop it?”
“By breaking the curse, of course,” Sunnëva said ironically and turned as if to leave.
Rune caught her wrist. “Don’t mock me with your riddles. This is easily mended by the God of Time.”
She slipped easily from his grasp, shaking her head. “I am afraid not. This is beyond Hiram or the other gods. But his daughters did leave you a message.”
Before Rune could demand more, Sunnëva’s eyes rolled white. Her voice fractured, layered into three, echoing eerily through the chamber as the Fates spoke:
When storm-winds swarm and the Heavens bleed,
The curse will wake, and the dark will feed.
To tip the scales, the star must rend,
Or thy bloom will wilt to Death’s own end.
Then silver mist and frost flashed, making Rune rear back with a hiss, and she was gone.
The chamber fell silent, shadows settling back into place.
He remained seated, breaking shakily as those words echoed through the mountain itself. Rage drowned out the fear. He needed it so he wouldn’t acknowledge the last line of that prophecy. If he didn’t break the curse by the Blood Moon, Alora would die.
But break it how?
Damn the Fates. Why couldn’t anyone simply tell him what needed to be done?
But he did have his first clue.
Rune reached into his front pocket and drew out the spindle. The thick needle was an odd thing, made of scarlet crystal that glinted in the firelight. Deep-rooted magic thrummed within like a heartbeat. An ancient power far older than his own. And it was created with ore not found in the Mortal Realm.
How did it fall into Alora’s hands?
