I pause for a second, absorbing this. It lines up with everything I’ve learned so far. But if I’m one of these star touched, then why…
“My thread is wrong.” I point at the loom, where the scorch marks are cutting across the silver.
Circe rises and moves to the tapestry, her fingers hovering over the damaged area.
“Your thread keeps tangling and burning,” she says slowly. “Every time I weave it into the pattern, it catches fire, leaving these marks behind.”
“That… doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s most unusual.” Her brow furrows. “It didn’t happen with the other three. Their threads wove smoothly into the pattern, their fates clear and bright. Yours, however, fights me at every turn.”
Of course it does. Nothing about me can ever be simple, can it?
“Is something wrong with me?” I’m on my feet now, moving to the loom. “Or with my magic?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes soften, her expression sad. “I’ve been weaving fate for millennia, and I’ve never encountered a thread like yours. It’s as if your destiny is at war with itself, powerful forces pulling you in directions the pattern cannot accommodate.”
I stare at the scorch marks that look like lightning strikes frozen in thread.
“Can you contact T? I mean Tempest?” I ask, the question bursting out. “Can you get her to come here, or talk to her about what’s happening with my thread, or tell me what I’m supposed to do next?”
Circe’s expression softens in a way that looks almost human. “The gods rarely visit the Lost Islands. Even I, with all my power, cannot summon them here.”
“Then how do I find her?”
“You’re most likely to reach Tempest in the mortal realm.” Circe moves back to the table, lifting her cup. “The storm goddess walks among humans more freely than her sisters. She’s been known to appear as a lighthouse keeper, a pilot, a stranger, or a voice in the thunder. If she wishes to speak with you, she will find you.”
“But what if I need to talk to her now? What if I have questions that can’t wait?”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient,” Circe says, gentle but firm. “The gods speak to mortals when they choose, notwhen they’re called upon. You can pray, you can rage, and you can beg, but ultimately, Tempest will come to you when she decides the time is right.”
Frustration burns in my chest, electric and sharp, and it takes everything I have not to let it spark from my fingertips.
“There has to be more you can tell me,” I say, hating how desperate I sound. “Something about what I’m supposed to do next, or about how to stop the Revenants.Anything.”
Circe studies me for a long moment, her golden eyes so intense that I start playing with my rings.
“The other champions have been fighting this war for longer than you have,” she finally says. “Two years ago, Ruby interfered with Ambrogio’s resurrection, weakening him so he couldn’t immediately create Revenants. That summer, Amber destroyed the shadow army Ambrogio created in the Underworld and released into the mortal realm. Last year, Sapphire infiltrated the Night Court and stopped their kingdom from allying with the Blood Coven.”
She pauses, the weight behind her eyes making my chest tighten.
“Your thread is different, Jade Harrington. The role you’re meant to play isn’t the same as theirs. It’s not... clean.”
Not clean.
The words echo in my mind, and suddenly I’m seeing Oliver’s body turning to ash on the Crown, Elizabeth dying by my hand, and feeling the weight of every secret I’m carrying pressing down on my chest.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Clean isn’t really my thing.”
Circe gives me a sad smile, not bothering to refute my statement.
Evie cuts through the heavy silence. “What about Oliver and Thad?”
My whole body goes rigid.
“Oliver Thorne and Professor Thaddeus Morgrave,” she continues, and there’s so much hope in her eyes it makes me want to throw up. “They disappeared from Blaze Academy nine days ago. We thought they might have ended up here.”
Circe’s brow furrows. “I know of no Oliver Thorne or Thaddeus Morgrave.”
