I marveled at the beauty of the sprawling mansion—not to say castle—that my mother lived in. As I couldn’t be affected by illusions, I could also see the glamour spell she used to fool people into thinking that they were merely entering a cliché humble witch hut. I often wondered at her reason for that deception. A part of me believed it had to do with making people more comfortable if the setting matched the narrative they built in their heads about the Weaver being a morally-gray hag. Afterall, I could see how supplicants might find it awkward to enter the palace of a goddess to beg for a cure against the festering boils on their genitals.
I began my descent and shifted back into my human form even as I landed in front of the house. Contrary to other shifters, doppelgangers didn’t just switch their appearance at will, we could also create certain clothes and accessories in the process. Granted, they only had basic functions, but it beat walking around with your cock hanging out or your ass on full display like Remus and Lycans in general would do when shifting in and out of their wolf forms.
However, while I could create a weapon, it would be deemed flimsy at best. In weight and appearance, anyone would be fooled into thinking it was the real deal. But in a true combat situation, it would shatter at the first blow, breaking the illusion.
As I stepped forward, the door opened quietly before me the moment it sensed my approach. My chest constricted as soon as I laid eyes upon my mother. As usual, she was sitting on a cushioned stool, weaving the golden threads of a million lives on her spinning wheel. She was breathtaking, ageless with her beautiful, tanned skin, her endless silver white hair plaited into a single long braid that fell all the way to the floor. The corner of her lips quirked into a discreet smirk as she kept her purple eyes glued to the thread between her long fingers.
“And here I thought you had barred me from your home,” I said tauntingly in lieu of greeting.
“And here I thought you had forgotten where I lived or that I even existed,” she deadpanned, still spinning the wheel.
Shrugging, I closed the distance with the long table that stood between us.
“I didn’t think you even remembered me, let alone missed me,” I retorted.
“Is that so?” the Weaver asked nonchalantly.
She was still facing towards the right side of the house, leaving me with a profile view of her. Saying it pissed me off would be quite an understatement. My mother knew it was getting under my skin, but this was one of the many little games she loved playing with her children and people in general. I could never tell whether it was a sadistic trait in her or merely a mischievous side she couldn’t help.
“It is so,” I replied, my tone slightly hardening. “You never seek me out. So what else am I supposed to think?”
“I never seek out my other children either,” she quipped dismissively.
“That, I have noticed,” I hissed.
This time, my mother stopped weaving and cocked her head sideways to peer at me. The vertical slits of her pupils narrowed as she stared at me with a neutral expression for the briefest moment. Then she raised an inquisitive eyebrow, expecting me to elaborate.
“It’s been a year since you got the serum,” I said in a stern voice. “Why is Ranael still cursed?”
She didn’t answer right away. The grinding sound of wood on wood had my head jerking to the left as I glanced over my shoulder. A chair I had not noticed next to the front door glided towards me, settling at the table located a couple of meters from where my mother was sitting in front of her spinning wheel. I looked back at my mother, startled to find her still sitting on her stool but now directly on the other side of the table from me.
“It is not his time to be freed,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Her nonchalance in the face of the endless torment her own son continued to endure pissed me off beyond words.
“What does that even mean? When the fuck will it be his time?” I snapped.
Her face hardened. Any mortal would be pissing themselves were they currently standing in my shoes. The Weaver didn’tneed to raise her voice or even make a terrifying face. A single stern look from her, and the constant insane power that passively radiated from her sufficed to liquify your innards. Growing up, Mother never had to raise her voice to make us behave.
“Careful, boy,” she said in that terrifyingly gentle and soft voice that had a shiver running down my spine
Although feeling somewhat chastised, too much anger and resentment continued to brew inside me to stay my tongue.
“I understand you neglecting me. But why Ranael?” I insisted.
She rolled her eyes, which stung more than I could express. Clearly annoyed, she gestured for me to sit down. I almost refused in a childish act of defiance. However, besides the fact that aggravating her wouldn’t help my cause, I also knew my mother well enough to understand that she would not answer any of my questions or even pursue this conversation further unless I complied.
Pinching my lips, I sat down and ground my teeth upon seeing the victorious glimmer in her eyes. Her pupils dilated a little, taking on a more oval shape that was far less ominous than the narrow slit. It was usually a good sign that she was in a more cooperative mood.
“I’m not neglecting Ranael,” the Weaver replied in a factual manner. “As I stated, it is not yet his time. Fate has plans for everyone. It cannot be rushed.”
My heart sank when she didn’t elaborate further. This time, it wasn’t so much about the fact that my beloved brother would have to remain a while longer in this feral state of madness. My mother hadn’t contested my statement about her neglectingme.
She narrowed her eyes at me, her expression assessing as the silence stretched between us. I stared back at her, a million words burning my tongue.
“Go on,” Mother said at last. “Speak your mind.”
“Why did you keep me?” I blurted out.
