Page 98 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Another nod from the Storyteller of Arenothos. “Apparently,” the woman intoned, “I am at your service today.”

“Why you?” Roremar asked.

“Ask your questions and we shall see. But I have not been sent alone…”

Another beam of light streaked down a few panels over, this one gold and illuminating a coiled snake etched into the floor with an arrow through its neck, a lyre atop it and setting sun beyond, the rays angled to stretch through the wedge on the floor. Emmeline flinched at the image, and Roremar stepped closer as another woman came into view.

“Aevollon,” he greeted, recognizing the sigil of the Fate of Artistry and Trickery. Where the fuck were they coming from?

The presence of these two particular Storytellers had him planting his feet. Why them? Was it because of the isle they were currently on, or was it…

He cast a glance toward the sealed door but shoved that thought aside.

The newcomer, wrapped in a gown nearly identical to the Storyteller of Arenothos but in shimmering gold silk, stepped forward. Her face was entirely visible, skin a rich tan and hair bright blonde, like she basked in the sun for long days as her Fate was rumored to enjoy.

“Hello,” Aevollon’s Storyteller greeted. “Why have you come here today?”

“We have questions,” Emmeline began.

The two exchanged a curious glance, and Arenothos’s Storyteller answered with a hungry smile, “Ask and we will see if we can provide guidance.”

Emmeline leaned against Roremar ever so slightly, but the discomfort rolled off her in thick waves, so he said, “On Lyra, women have been turning up dead. Three bodies so far with a few others missing.” Tension bracketed both of the Storytellers’ jaws. “All the women have been from Alvan, and we were denied more information on them from the Accords, but we need to know if there is anything you can tell us about them. If there is any connection to the Fates as some evidence has indicated.”

Aevollon’s Storyteller tilted her head, blonde curtain of hair sliding around her frame. “The Fatorum?”

Roremar told them the details of each body that made up their theory. The tattoos and wounds, the ashes. When he finished, both of the Storytellers considered, seeming to search their infinite minds.

“Please,” he begged. “We need to find the person responsible for this.”

“Our expertise lies in our Fates,” Aevollon’s said.

With a swing of her long ponytail, Arenothos’s added, “Not in the realms of the present.”

And though they both spoke with a haughty, all-knowing tone, apology rang rich in their voices.

“I understand, but anything you can tell us may be of assistance,” Roremar said. “Maybe some reason anyone here would want to hurt them? To summon the Fates to this realm maybe?”

Instead of an answer, a third Storyteller stepped into a fountain of pale pink, shimmering light between the other two. This one was a shirtless male with flowers similar to those coating the building’s exterior draped along his sculpted torso like a woven scarf. With sultry eyes and a lick of his lips, he assessed Roremar and Emmeline. A growl rumbled in Roremar’s chest.

And with that light, the flowers, and the air of vicious seduction, Roremar immediately recognized this man for the Fate he represented.

“What does Anphrosia have to do with this?” Roremar asked of the Fate of Cruelty and Adoration. The fountain outside flashed through his memory. The flowers adorning the building…the ones coating the hillside leading to the Lair…

“Is this whole place dedicated to her?” he accused.

“Only a heart of it,” Anphrosia’s Storyteller declared, lips quirking into a smile Roremar thought was supposed to be flirtatious. “My Fate has always been keen on dabbling with love, as her name implies.”

“Dabbling?” Arenothos’s Storyteller scoffed, the crimson trail of her gown sliding across the floor as she spun toward the male, toes meeting the edge of her panel but not daring to cross over. “She did more than dabble. She wore down the hearts of legends and spun them to their graves.”

Anphrosia’s Storyteller laughed, crossing his arms. “Always so dramatic.”

“You know I tell no lies.”

Somewhat detached, Aevollon’s added, “Anphrosia earned her title.”

“Cruelty and Adoration is a devout way to live, is it not?” the male mused, running a hand over the soft petals against his bronzed chest.

Roremar exchanged a glance with Emmeline, whispering, “Do they even remember we’re here?”