Page 9 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Nico swiped Roremar’s abandoned ale from the table and downed half of it in one go, continuing to grumble.

Roremar ignored his brother, turning to Desmond. “You don’t have to teach the class. Just take them. They need things to do while we figure out a long-term schedule.”

Desmond scoffed. “We’ll decide who’s teaching once I see how competent an instructor they’ve been stuck with.”

“I’ll leave that argument to you.” Roremar huffed a laugh, his chest unknotting. “Maybe take Leo with you. Take him to the library or something while you wait for the girls.”

Siblings all accounted for, Roremar scanned the letter again—the very brief letter. No more than a three-word summons, addressed to him and signed by Aldryn Falliare, the Master of the Lyra Temple Academy and one of the only people who could lodge such a quick, substantial knot in the gut of Roremar the Reckless.

“Fates, what could he want?”

Chapter Four

Emmeline

Emmeline cleared her throat as she stood at the front of her classroom, waiting for her rowdy students to find their seats for the first class of the day. They filed into the tiered rows, two dozen pairs of curious eyes turning up to her.

Before she could even begin, a hand shot into the air. Her brows raised. “Yes, Brynn?”

The scrawny twelve-year-old leaned back against the bench. Gemma, the girl who shared the desk with him, scowled as he propped his elbows on the wooden backrest, but Brynn didn’t even notice his desk-mate flick his papers to his side as he said, “My older brother said the Remembrance Revels are going to be huge this year.”

“Did he?” Emmeline led.

He bobbed his white-blond head, curls dipping into his angular eyes and bronzed cheeks tinged pink. “He said the entire isle will be partying for a whole week.”

“The festival is a week every year,” Gemma said with the kind of dramatic eye roll ten-year-olds loved.

“The festival is,” Brynn retorted, over emphasizing his words, “but my brother said this year there’s going to be extra celebrations because it’s a special anniversary.”

Every head snapped toward Emmeline as if for confirmation, a mixture of dubious and curious stares blinking up at her.

“Who can tell me what the Remembrance Revels honor?” Emmeline asked, striding around her neatly organized desk to the board. This may not have been her original lesson plan, but it was important information.

Twirling a piece of chalk between her fingers, she studied her pupils. At least seven hands shot into the air and wiggled around, even those at the back of the room close enough to be seen.

She’d specifically requested this classroom when she arrived at Lyra Temple Academy six years ago. The school itself was grand, with sweeping staircases, towers, and wide, art-adorned corridors, not to mention the ancient temple itself that was attached to the courtyard. But this room was intimate and cozy, filled with anywhere from three to six classes per day, their promise and anticipation as they learned to navigate their Fate ties warming the abandoned space. Light streamed through the rippled glass windows, highlighting their wondering expressions.

Scanning the class, Emmeline pointed to a dark-haired, lanky boy in the back row. “Yes, Issac?”

“The Remembrance Revels celebrate the rightful execution of the corrupted Twelfth Fate,” Issac stated proudly.

Emmeline’s chest pulled tight at Issac’s explanation of the loss of such a valuable magical source, but she cleared her throat. “And which Fate was that?”

“Dryvius, the Fate of Chaos and Revelry,” Issac answered, his voice deeper than most of the other boys. At fourteen, he’d come into his Fate tie older than some, meaning this was his first year with Emmeline.

Fate ties typically revealed themselves between the ages of ten and fourteen. For this branch of Magical Studies, students spent their first year at the Temple Academy with Myrella. Then, they moved on to Emmeline for the next three to refine the practice, all training for their Fatorum Revelus rituals when they were eighteen.

“Very good. Does anyone know what happened to him that causes us to host this festival every year on the Constellation Isles?”

Again, hands waved, and Emmeline pointed to a girl in the front corner, Aviana.

“No one knows exactly what happened,” she answered. The sun streaming through the high windows caught a prism on the shelf beside her, sending a rainbow over her dark skin and the collection of incense, tinctures, and candles lining the shelves. “Rumors claim he was dishonored and cast out of the skies by the other Fates, his constellations darkened for eternity. Some even believe the Angel Valyrie herself decreed him unworthy of his status.”

“Thank you, Aviana. Though to clarify, the lost Fate’s minor constellations can still be found in the skies, though his major constellation was carved from existence. The Myths of the Fate’s Death actually includes twelve different ways that he may have been banished or killed.” Choosing not to dive into those gruesome stories so early in the morning, Emmeline turned toward the board, writing the title of the Twelfth Fate across it: Chaos and Revelry. “We all know that the Fates pass along readings about a range of topics, and while they have their respective territories”—she canted her head toward the three words she’d scrawled—“all can convey any path of the future. It will simply be twisted by the spectrum they exist on. In this case, Chaos and Revelry.”

Emmeline unrolled a chart across one side of the board, revealing a list of the twelve Fates, the bottom most one crossed out with a thick, brutal line. Constellations, coordinates, identifying history, and sigils of each celestial being were organized beside their names, a graph the students memorized last year with Myrella. Greedy eyes drank it up now, each latching onto their own tie.

Were they feeling the buzz beneath their skin of an encroaching reading? A restless, ceaseless pounding of their hearts?