“Ah,” she crooned, her voice creaking like the hull of an old ship surrendering to the deep. “Right on time.”
The words rippled through the water, heavy and certain, as though they had waited centuries for it to be spoken. Starfire glimmered faintly behind her eyes, caught in glass.
“Tell me," she said, tilting her head. “Do you still dream of a sky that sings your name? Or has the ocean taught you to forget?”
The Oracle’s gaze lingered on my mark too long.
Her fingers stilled mid-pattern. The humming stopped. “You want answers,” she said.
“Ineedthem.”
“Need,” the Oracle echoed. For the first time, something like pity crossed her face. “Understand this—every truth you take will take something back.”
The water tightened around us. My chest constricted, pressure curling inward like a fist.
“What does it take?” I asked.
She leaned closer. “Certainty.”
My mark flared—hot. Furious.
Her smile bent like the horizon before a storm.
“Child,” she murmured, “chasing answers in a world that cannot hold you.”
The currents stilled. Even the seaweed at her feet seemed to listen.
“Threads of fate twist tighter around what does not belong,” she continued. “And you—child of the convergence—you were never meant to fit beneath these tides.”
The water shivered between us, a quiet hum threading through my bones. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look away.
The currents surged violently.
“You are not meant to know everything,” she said, her voice rising with the water. “Only enough to choose.”
“You’re not helping,” I snapped. “If you know something, just tell me!”
My mark blazed brighter, casting rippling beams through the abyss. The light wove patterns through the water like a map I couldn’t yet read.
Shadows twisted and fled. Power thrummed outward, vibrating through the sea itself.
The Oracle’s milky eyes widened. For a fleeting moment, fear—and recognition—rippled across her face. Her hands trembled.
“You mistake my silence for mercy.” My mark pulsed—angry. Alive.
“Tell me one thing,” I demanded.
She hesitated.
“What waits beyond the Veil will not save you,” she said softly. “But it will answer you.”
Then she was gone—swallowed by the dark.
Her words tolled through my chest like a deep-sea bell, reverberating with meaning I couldn’t yet grasp.
I floated in the calm she left behind, heart pounding. The warnings—shadow and sea, veils and tethers—spiraled through my thoughts. Each word touched fears I hadn’t fully named: that my mark bound me to a fate I couldn’t escape. Or worse, one I couldn’t control.
Those fears had always lingered. Quiet. Persistent. Shaping every careful step I’d taken toward understanding who I was. They drove my search for answers—and shackled me all the same.
