Page 58 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Roremar cleared his throat, blinking a few times as if forcing his eyes to refocus on the words before him. “It’s described as an approximate estimate of a mark of the Warders of Selene, a fanatic group that existed in the rumored time that the Fates walked Ambrisk many millennia ago, but that was disbanded upon their ascension. Many believed their strongest foothold was on Lyra and that is where their most common festivals of reverence and worship occurred.”

“Sounds like sacrifices to me,” Emmeline said.

“But they’ve been disbanded for centuries. Since the Angels ascended and the Fates assumed their realm.”

It was believed that the Fates had once inhabited this realm with the Angels, but many millennia ago they had all disappeared. Though the Angels had since returned, the Fates were yet to be seen.

Scholars on Alvan and Epi, known for magic and mythological studies respectively, claimed it was to protect the Balance. The Angels engaged directly with their warriors sometimes, but if the Fates did outside of readings, it could have cataclysmic effects on the paths of fortune, altering the delicate scales the realms hung upon. They were meant to be as distant as the stars in the sky, not personally involved.

It made sense why a group such as the Warders of Selene would have faded over time, but Emmeline had no idea who or what Selene may be.

If this was their symbol, though…

“Maybe they’re back,” Emmeline hypothesized. “If the Warders of Selene are the ones doing this, and they were known for their proximity to the Fates, it would make sense why the twelve-pointed star was their calling card.”

“What do you think they’re trying to do, though?” Roremar asked. “Remind us of the power of the Fates?”

“Maybe open up some new channel of communication with them? Like creating Fate ties?” Emmeline’s blood ran cold at the consideration of how powerful that magic would have to be.

Roremar’s steel eyes widened for a beat before sliding back into his typical assured skepticism. “That can’t be done.”

“You can’t prove that something is impossible,” Emmeline claimed.

“Short of doing it, can’t prove it’s possible either,” Roremar argued, and Emmeline had the distinct feeling he was doing so for her benefit, no matter what he believed. Just as she’d allowed his fear at the mention of Anphrosia and Serchus to fade into the blanket of theories they were weaving, he was soothing her worries.

“Outside of the medallion and the means of, which I’ll admit does seem ritualistic now,” Roremar said, drumming his fingers on the table so his rings chimed against one another, “what evidence is there? We don’t even have any proof that they’re back.”

“The second body was found near the Cursed Markets, which would be the easiest access to nefarious supplies for cults settled in the jungle.” Emmeline bit her lip. It did feel like a bit of a stretch, but in her bones—in her magic—she was certain something was there.

“There were no candles or incense at either site,” he reminded her. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, I’m just saying we need more before we assume someone is trying to wield Fateblessed magic, or whatever it would be considered.”

With that, she agreed. Emmeline sighed, but it took significant effort to keep her tone light. “Who knows, Roremar the Reckless, perhaps someone out there can make star bonds fall and rise again.”

His expression flickered with what she thought was annoyance, but he concealed it quickly, leaning on the arm of his chair so he was once again in her space. “Trust me, Miss DeLeoste, if they believe they can, we’ll find them.”

“How are you so certain?” she whispered, letting a hint of fear slither into her words.

A wink. “Because everyone makes a mistake eventually.”

A mistake. She straightened.

Why was she sitting here getting cozy with this warrior when she was supposed to be tracking down a murderer? She was making a mistake. They agreed to work together, but getting close to him, comfortable around him—it couldn’t happen. Especially not now that Desmond, his best friend, was a suspect.

Endless ruin.

The vanilla and cinnamon scent was heavier in the air than she’d intended, warmth and comfort swirling through her senses, luring her in. By the looks of it, it was doing the same thing to Roremar, his eyes glazing over.

Emmeline stood to give herself room to breathe. His heady sandalwood scent was becoming another too-comforting presence.

“Any mentions of a twelve-pointed star in that passage?”

Roremar scanned it briefly, shaking his head.

“I’m going to gather more books on the Warders now that we have a specific group to look for. Maybe there will be an explanation for it in there,” she said, breathier than she intended.

“We should leave soon,” Roremar reminded her, his voice more distant than a moment ago. Perhaps he’d realized the mistake occurring between them, too.

“I’ll be quick,” Emmeline said, leaving before he could respond.