Page 127 of Hero of Havoc

“That's because your ancestors are not here to guide the way.”

My pulse quickens. “Where are they?”

“Locked in the Phoenix Tomb.”

“Phoenix Tomb.”

“Phoenix Tomb.”

I rear back in surprise, but before I can question them further on it, the Fate straight ahead explains.

“Your mother's craft.”

“It is not our desire to help the phoenix beyond their true natural being, but I feel your suffering should come with a reward.”

“A reward.”

“A reward.”

I wish they would stop freaking doing that.

“I bless you with a vision, but what actions you take are yours, and yours alone,” the Fate to my left declares, pressing the tip of their finger against my forehead, and the room dissolves into nothing.

Just like when I press a relic, the ground shifts around me, and I find myself trapped in a space not much bigger than this, but I'm not alone.

Women lie around the room, exhausted and drained, as green flames hover overhead.

In my gut, I already know where I am.

My mother's Phoenix Tomb. Or as the dragons like to call it, her torture chamber.

“Sapphira will find her way,” a lady states, and the one beside her scoffs.

“Sapphira will never know her way. No matter how much we have explored and explained the errors of our ways, she will only learn from her own mistakes, and with those come more pain.”

“I can only hope The Fates bless us with another chance,” another woman asks, her voice almost sleepy as her eyes remain closed.

“Maybe this time they’ll do it differently.”

The first lady shakes her head, the move fragile. “We were created to balance the energy, but that's impossible to do when we're trapped in here. The corruption will never weaken while we're hidden behind these walls, burning with our own powers. The greed will only fuel the kingdoms and poison the waters.”

“War is inevitable.”

“It's always inevitable when it comes to these sodalities and their need for more.”

“We can only hope that they'll do things differently, that they'll bless us with a grace greater than ourselves.”

I shake my head, distressed by the fact that nothing feels different.

If they’re talking about me, about what I could represent, then it’s pointless.

I stand before these women, all with the same blonde hair and the same green eyes as mine, no stronger, no wiser. I’m just as weak as they are after my mother’s touch.

Desperate for more, to understand what they're saying, I take a step forward, silently pleading for them to know I need every last detail, when the vision evaporates before me and I fall to a heap on the engraved floor, back where I started.

I don’t have time to create my own wisdom and mistakes; I need theirs.

I need my ancestors.