Page 97 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

From within, the circular chamber had an illusion effect. It appeared to stretch so high, Roremar was certain it reached past the tops of the hills rolling over Alvan. He could barely make out the images painted along the stained-glass dome.

Sunlight filtered through the panels, bathing the room in a rainbow of cold hues. Even the deep crimsons and oranges were devoid of warmth.

“It’s divided into twelve,” Emmeline said, and Roremar’s gaze flicked down to where she studied the floor, lines slicing the circular space into neat sectors.

“For each Fate,” he realized. “Their symbols are carved in them.” Each silvered insignia was laid in the cracked marble floors, looking for all the Fates like they’d been there for many millennia.

They wandered the space, studying each. Arenothos and Zorrahn, Hyllara and Serchus, Anhala and Pheasantos—he lingered at that one, studying the flaming hammer and throne sigil he’d memorized as a boy.

As he walked circles, assessing every detail, incense thickened in the air. A heavy mixture of scents, like it hadn’t yet decided which of the twelve it was calling to.

“I don’t like it in here,” Emmeline breathed from across the room.

Roremar’s head snapped up, chest tightening at the low tone of her voice. “What’s wrong?”

She rubbed her hands up her arms, facing away from him, looking down at the dying poppies of Metrina’s sigil. “It’s too cold. And…wrong.” Her voice had gone misty.

Roremar strode across the chamber, delicately gripping her chin and turning her gaze toward him. Her hazel eyes were dim, fogged over.

“Emmeline?”

“My magic doesn’t like it in here,” she whispered. “It feels like glass.”

He didn’t know what in the stars she meant by that, but his chest riled regardless. Aggression purred through him, dark and shadowed, begging to crush whatever threatened her. “How? Tell me about it.”

Just as she’d told the stars last night, she could tell him now. Please, let her tell him now.

“It mounted as we walked here. One push and it’ll shatter. It’ll crack and melt and become rivulets of a heated past. Fuel to Arenothos’s forge and fodder to the tales.”

Her words bordered on the verge of nonsense, seeming to maintain one foot in this reality. Clouds of incense pressed around them.

“Are you reading?” Roremar’s hand slid against her icy cheek. Gone was the warmth Emmeline burned with.

She shook her head. “No readings.”

“Then what’s⁠—”

“My, what an honor it is to welcome you,” a high voice purred.

A beam of maroon light streaked through the dome, illuminating one of the twelve panels on the floor and the woman now grinning at them from within.

Not just a woman—a Storyteller of the Fates.

Dressed in a crimson gown that left very little of her body to the imagination, the woman sauntered forward. The light followed her, rippling with red hues, but it left the upper half of her face drenched in shadow.

Like a helmet.

And the ivory jewelry draping her body…fashioned after bones. Roremar didn’t want to know if they were real or not, but he understood what was going on.

“You’re the Storyteller of Arenothos?”

She bowed, the shadowed helm following her nod and confirming she—in her crimson dress and bone jewelry—was the representative of the warlord, the Fate of Wrath and Redemption.

It unsettled Roremar that he couldn’t track her eyes, couldn’t pick up her tells and use them to frame his opponent.

“There’s one of you for each Fate,” Emmeline whispered, voice still airy, like she was barely clinging to the realm. Roremar tried to keep her a step behind him, but she wasn’t distracted enough to not be stubborn, sticking to his side.

Damn headstrong Huntress, he swore internally.