Prologue
The Moirai
We have been called many things.
Fates. Sisters. Matchmakers. Meddlers.
We rather like the last one.
You see, threads are our domain. Every life begins as one, thin, fragile, trembling with possibility. We spin them, measure them, guide them…and when the time comes we cut them.
But not before we have our fun.
Love, in particular, is such a delicious thing to work with. So many people believe it is chance. A meeting. A moment. A spark.
It is not.
It is tension pulled tight across time. It is threads tangled, knotted, and drawn together whether you like it or not.
And sometimes…we help it along.
Of course, nothing we give is ever free. A price is always collected. A favor, a promise, a future yet to be named.
We are not cruel.
But we arefair.
And fate?
Fate always collects.
So step inside. Tell us what you desire. Let us see what threads we can pull for you.
Just remember, when the time comes to pay your debt…we will come to collect.
—The Moirai
Chapter one
The Demon in the Doorway
Magnur
The last place I expected to find myself on a Tuesday evening was outside a fate-weaving shop, contemplating the merits of supernatural matchmaking. Yet there I was hovering on the sidewalk like an awkward shadow as dusk bled purple across the sky. The Golden Spindle. Even the name made me want to roll my eyes, but desperation has a funny way of making even the most ridiculous options seem reasonable.
I'd walked halfway across the city to get here, passing through districts that grew progressively more magical with each block. Now the air smelled of incense and possibility, the storefronts glowing with enchanted signs and windows displaying wares that occasionally moved of their own accord. Every few minutes, I caught someone staring, a quick glance, then the hastyaversion of eyes when I turned my head. I was used to it. Demons weren't exactly rare in this city, but one my size tended to draw attention.
"Asking Fate for a mate," I muttered under my breath, adjusting my tie. "Absolutely absurd."
Dating hadn't gotten any easier the older I got. People either wanted the demon experience, the danger, the thrill, the ability to tell their friends they'd fucked a creature from the infernal planes, or they feared what I was capable of. Neither was particularly conducive to building anything real.
The Golden Spindle sat nestled between an herb shop and a bookstore specializing in grimoires, its storefront understated compared to its neighbors. No flashing enchanted signs, no displays of bottled emotions or luck charms. Just a simple wooden door painted deep blue and a small golden sign. Most passersby would walk right by without a second glance.
My fingers twitched as I studied the protective wards etched into the doorframe, I stepped back, clearing my throat. The longer I stood here overthinking, the more likely I was to talk myself out of this entirely.
The memory of binding circles rose unbidden in my mind, phantom pain tracing along the scars that covered my body beneath my clothing. For decades, I'd been property, not a person. A tool to be used, a weapon to be wielded, my will subsumed under the commands of the warlocks who'd trapped me. The scars they'd left weren't just physical—they were a map of ownership etched into my skin, a constant reminder of what it meant to be bound to another's will.
And here I was, voluntarily seeking to be bound again. Not in the same way, of course, but still the irony wasn't lost on me.
