It was the day we found Nara. The day after the Oracle’s birth, when a shower of stars had filled the sky with diamond-bright light, and I still believed that the female Oracle would end this endless war and herald a time of peace.
I was only five years old. My mother, heavily pregnant with my sister, had taken me out into the snow, a long way out, her footsteps stumbling, her white hair draped across her face to hide the bruises.
We walked and walked, and even as a child, I understood that she didn’t want to go back.
But then we heard the softest whimper, a sound so lost that Mother had stopped walking for the first time in hours and stepped off the path she’d seemed determined to take me along.
Beside a barren tree, we found a mother wolf, her chest still, her cold body protecting her whimpering cub.
A wild wolf. Not bred in captivity like all other white wolves I’d encountered in my young years.
The cub bared her teeth, snarling, clearly distrustful, nothing like the innocent, tumbling wolf cubs accustomed to being handled by fae, but Mother scooped her up without fear, humming…
Humming…
A melody of peace I long ago discarded because peace is fucking useless to me.
Now, I call it to mind. That simple tune. Difficult to remember. Even harder to hum. A melody that will ask the Lethian threads to spare Nara and me.
I’m rusty. I haven’t used my music since I turned my heart to ice.
I’m certain I’m missing some notes, clearly failing to hit the lilting melody my mother could when the silver needles remain taut, thrumming in the air, a continued threat.
My throat constricts again, my hum faltering, until I realize I’m still gripping the Oracle’s wrist.
She’s completely naked but held close, most of hernakedness obscured from my view while the tips of my white hair brush her upper shoulder.
Carefully, I lower her arm to her side, risking a glance at the spot where I pressed my power, expecting to see the mark of an ice burn.
Her arm is unharmed.
A part of me isn’t surprised. The Dragonstone Blade must be protecting itself. It certainly allowed the Oracle to experience pain, but the blade appears to have protected itself against any physical damage my ice could have caused.
I should be paying attention to the threads, but as I reposition the Oracle, I’m transfixed by the single tear glistening at the corner of her eye.
Frozen there.
As if my power struck through her arm and reached all the way to her mind.
My heart jumps at what this might mean. Damage. Pain. Or perhaps…
Liberation.
Her breathing deepens, and at that simple change in her inhalations, the Lethian threads relax, beginning a slow sway in the air, wafting in time to her breathing.
The tension unfurls from my shoulders, and I sense Nara relaxing a little, but I don’t take our safety for granted.
These priceless silver threads surrounding us… It’s clear to me they’ve bonded with the Oracle so deeply that their connection will only break if she dies. A powerful link, but one that could put her in more danger in my kingdom.
My people hate my Lethian heritage. For the Oracle to control so much thread that even I didn’t realize had survived the Lethians’ demise, well, the Frost Fae will despise her for it.
I don’t dare whistle a command to Nara because the sound will be too shrill, so I lean forward, careful not to crushthe Oracle, and murmur as quietly as I can, “Nara, if you are able, it’s time to walk.”
She wobbles upright, finding her feet, and then slowly, she begins to pad across the black soil, once more toward the border.
Around us, the threads continue to swirl, parting up ahead to allow us through while gathering at our sides.
Dancing closer to the Oracle, the threads shiver and shake, creating a soft rain of blood and gore, shaking it off as they ripple after us.
