"Cozy," I murmured, my voice sounding strangely muted, as if the room itself absorbed excess sound.
Cleo gestured to one of the chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. Lacey will be with you in a—"
The door on the far wall opened without a sound, cutting Cleo's sentence short. A tall woman stepped into the room, long locs fell past her shoulders, delicate golden threads woven through them catching the amber light. Her eyes, dark and thoughtful, settled on me immediately.
"—moment," Cleo finished with a grin. "And there she is. Perfect timing, as always."
"Clotho," the newcomer acknowledged with a nod, her voice smooth and measured. "Thank you for bringing our guest back." Her gaze never left me.
"Of course!" Cleo bounced on her toes once before backing toward the beaded curtain. "I'll leave you two to the boring part."
The beads clinked softly as she disappeared through them, leaving me alone with the woman I assumed was Lacey. The air in the room seemed to settle with Cleo's departure.
"I am Lachesis," she confirmed, approaching the table with unhurried grace. "You may call me Lacey, if you prefer." She gestured to the chair Cleo had indicated. "Please, sit."
I lowered myself into the chair as Lacey took the seat across from me.
"Your hands, please," she said softly. It wasn't a command, but there was something in her tone that made it clear she expected compliance.
I hesitated. My hands were currently hidden beneath the table. The scars that covered them were just a small sample of the extensive network that marked nearly every inch of my skin. They weren't something I displayed.
Lacey waited, patiently. Her eyes held no judgment, no curiosity, only professional interest.
With a slight exhale, I placed my hands on the table, palms up. In the amber light, the network of raised white scars stood out starkly against my pale skin—some thin as thread, others wider, the warlocks had carved their ownership into my flesh, and while I'd broken their power, the marks remained.
Lacey reached forward without hesitation, her fingers gently taking my hands in hers. Her touch was warm and firm, neither avoiding the scars nor fixating on them. She turned my hands over, examining the backs where more marks continued up beneath my shirt cuffs, then returned them to their original position.
Her fingertips traced the largest sigil, a broken circle on my left palm that had once anchored the primary binding spell. I fought the urge to pull away, to hide the evidence of my past vulnerability. Her touch wasn't invasive, but the intimacy of having someone examine these marks made tension crawl up my spine and settle in my shoulders.
"These run deep," she observed quietly, her eyes widening slightly as her fingers paused over a particularly complex scar pattern on my wrist. I knew what she was sensing, the echo of the warlock magic still lingered in those marks, a phantom reminder of chains long broken.
I remained perfectly still, keeping my breathing even despite the memories her touch stirred. This was necessary, I reminded myself, I could end it at any time by simply pulling my hands away.
"Yes," I answered. "They do."
"Warlock magic," she said. It wasn't a question. "Old magic. Powerful. And yet..." Her eyes met mine, searching. "You broke it."
I nodded once. "At considerable cost."
Something shifted in her expression, not quite a smile, but a softening around her eyes. "Freedom usually comes at sucha price." Her fingers gave my hands a gentle squeeze before releasing them. "Thank you for showing me. It helps me understand the pattern of your thread."
I withdrew my hands to my lap, resisting the urge to tug my cuffs down to cover the exposed skin. "You can read all that from scars?"
"I can read much from many things," she replied. "Scars. Choices. The way you hold yourself. The way your energy responds to memory." She tilted her head slightly. "Your thread is strong, Magnur. It has been severed and rejoined many times, yet it continues. That speaks to remarkable resilience, you should be proud."
The tension in my shoulders didn't ease, but something in my chest loosened slightly at her words. It was...refreshing.
"These marks," she continued, "they inform who you are, but they do not define what connections you may form. Do you understand the difference?"
I nodded again, finding myself oddly willing to trust her assessment. "I do."
"Good." She sat back in her chair, her posture still perfect. "Then we can begin."
Her fingers hovered over the table's surface, not quite touching the wood but sensing something I couldn't see. "I need you to be present. Fully present. Many clients come to us with their minds elsewhere, thinking about what they'll say, what they should hide." Her eyes met mine. "I need you here, Magnur. All of you."
"I'm here," I said.
The light from the amber lamps seemed to intensify, the shadows deepening around us until it felt like we existed in a pocket separated from the rest of reality. Lacey's fingers traced invisible patterns above the table's surface, and I could feel thesubtle hum of magic gathering around us like a lens sharpening an image.
