Page 187 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Occasionally—and I mean occasionally—a tie will still occur to Pheasantos in that time surrounding solstice. It isn’t entirely impossible. But thirty-two years ago was a quarter centennial of the anniversary of when the daughter was stolen. Every twenty-five years, even his constellation disappears from the sky as he retreats into his home in the Fate Realm to honor her memory.”

She pointed to the star map of the summer solstice seven years ago, the last quarter centennial that marked exactly that—a large blank spot took up residence in the sky, precisely where Pheasantos’s major constellation should have been.

“So Roremar had a rare Fate tie, what’s wrong with that? You and I both have two, that’s pretty fucking rare.” Desmond’s voice wavered, though. Behind him, the soft bubble of boiling water picked up.

Emmeline went on, her magic an aching pulse within her now, palms tingling. “Without a constellation, it’s impossible for any Fate tie to be forged. I teach my students about it all the time. The constellations are the grounding forces. Their positions at any given moment and the will of the Fates ruling them determine how a tie will be woven at birth.”

“What about one of his minor constellations? Was the Hammer there?” Every Fate had their main symbol—their namesake—and a series of smaller ones.

“The minor constellations don’t write Fate ties.” Emmeline’s fingers fluttered over the maps, mind racing as the kettle whistled fervently. She wished Roremar were here. He would have already been completing her theory. “Sure, I suppose, hypothetically, the other Fates could have written some sort of connection in his absence, but it would have been extremely intentional. Or Pheasantos could have woken his constellation for the day Roremar was born, pausing his vigil, but I’ve never heard of that occurring. And if it did, it begs the question of why. Why Roremar? Why then?”

Desmond shoved the kettle off the stove and crouched beside her for a closer look, tracing the different lines that embodied this version of the night skies. “What are you saying, then? Roremar lied to me about his Fate tie? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, scanning the maps again. “It’s a rare enough phenomenon for constellations to disappear that maybe he didn’t realize it happened during his birth year when he first told the lie. You said it yourself, many think these are no more than stories. Not everyone believes in the myths of the Fates.”

And Roremar less than most. He wasn’t a skeptic, but she’d noticed how often he’d tried to distance himself from the celestial beings.

“I’ve never seen him read,” Desmond admitted, his brows pulling together.

“Never?” Emmeline’s brows shot up. “How in the stars is that possible?”

“I’ve always had to conduct sessions more frequently because of the two ties. Roremar always said he read when I did or on his own, but I suppose I’ve never seen it. He rarely has his own incense or tinctures, and he fucked around in as many classes as possible when we were at the Academy…”

She’d never seen him read either. Every time she did, he observed her. At first, she’d assumed it was because he was trying to figure her out. Then, because he seemed to love trying to put her pieces together.

“He faked it.” Emmeline’s heartbeat pounded, the thread in her chest that Roremar had tried to sever pulsed with magic, begging her to keep going. “Do you think it’s possible he doesn’t have a Fate tie at all?”

“Could be.” Desmond shrugged, seeming at an utter loss.

“It would be extremely difficult to get past all his schooling and the Fatorum Revelus without one though. The tests are all meant to prove the strength of your alignment,” Emmeline mused, spinning her ring around her finger as she hunched over her maps. “I’m sure it’s been done, but why would he bother?”

“He’s never liked talking about his own magic. I thought it had something to do with his father.”

“His father?”

“When he died, he said some things to Roremar that stuck with him.”

Emmeline straightened. “He told me his last words were to take care of the family.”

“Of course, that’s all Roremar repeated,” Desmond grumbled. “He did tell him that. He also told him something about the Fates being inevitable, that fortunes can be changed but not once it’s too late. I think a part of it made Roremar feel disgraced for letting his death be unstoppable. He took it personally. He never really liked speaking of the stars after that, and I never forced him to.”

The Fates being inevitable.

Those words clawed through Emmeline, trying to dig up some truth. Her chest tugged, a lock begging to spring free.

Frustrated, she pulled the notes Regina had given her on the symbol representing the Warders of Selene closer. Various renditions of the winged insignia stared up at her, notes scrawled beside each in both her handwriting and Regina’s.

One for each Fate, the history instructor had written.

“One for each…”

You speak of our purpose? That’s how the Storytellers had referred to the Warders. As if they were not the Warders themselves, but they were made in their image.

“Our purpose,” she muttered, gasping as the sigils clicked into place. “It’s the Fates.”

“What?”

“The Fates—they are the Warders of Selene. These symbols are all for them. It wasn’t a cult—it’s the Fates themselves.” Her mind was spinning faster than she could speak, blood pumping with the realization. “Let me try something.”