Page 31

The Fool’s Path

T he air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, enveloping me as I sprinted down the narrow, dimly lit path into the foreboding Saturnine Woods.

The gnarled trees loomed over me, their twisted branches resembling skeletal fingers clawing at the sky, silhouetted against an ink-black firmament that stretched endlessly above.

The ground beneath my feet was a treacherous web of twisted roots, each one writhing and reaching as if with a life of its own, eager to ensnare my ankles and drag me deeper into the suffocating darkness.

My heart pounded in my chest, panic coursing through my veins, as I sensed the shadowed figure closing in, only meters behind.

I stole a glance over my shoulder—a grave mistake. My boot snagged on an outstretched root that bordered the narrow pathway, and I was catapulted toward the unforgiving ground. My teeth clattered together as I slammed into the earth.

A towering figure loomed over me, its presence menacing and suffocating. Its eyes burned with an intense, fiery glow, like smoldering coals, casting an eerie light that flickered against the darkness. The figure stepped over me, its malevolence palpable, threatening to consume me entirely.

I struggled desperately as its burning, unyielding grip reached down to ensnare my arms. My movements were frantic and futile as it began to drag me further into the heart of the woods.

My screams pierced the air, echoing through the trees, yet they were swallowed by the oppressive silence that reigned over the forest. Only the sound of my own heartbeat thundered in my ears, a relentless drumming like a war march.

The darkness was all-encompassing, a heavy blanket of fear that wrapped around me, seeping into my very bones and chilling me to the core.

I woke with a start, the echoes of my screams still pounding in my ears.

For a long, disorienting moment, I lay tangled in the sheets, the remnants of terror clinging to me like shadows.

Every detail was seared into my memory as though it had truly happened, and the oppressive darkness of that forest left a lingering tension that enveloped my very being.

Gasping for breath, I sat upright in bed, my heart racing, sweat beading on my forehead. The silence of my small dorm room was almost deafening in the aftermath of the terror that had jolted me awake.

I blinked repeatedly, trying to shake the grip of the nightmare—the image of the dark figure and the Saturnine Woods refusing to fade.

My mind raced with questions: Was it a premonition? A warning? Or simply the residue of stress from the constant pressures of this damned Academy?

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet touching the cold floor. The room was dim in the early morning light, a quiet contrast to the chaos of my dreams.

As I attempted to steady my racing thoughts, the reality of the morning began to intrude. A sinking feeling settled in my stomach as I realized I had slept through breakfast.

The remnants of sleep clung to me, heavy and oppressive, as I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. With a groan, I acknowledged that I had lost precious time—and that I was now dangerously late for Divinations class.

The thought of facing another day of cryptic messages and Professor King’s uncanny predictions made my heart flutter with a mix of dread and determination. I hurriedly threw on a robe, my movements clumsy as I tried to shake off the lingering chill of the nightmare.

Every so often, a flash of that dark figure and the foreboding Saturnine Woods surged into my mind, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I paused for a moment, gripping the fabric of my robe, and silently vowed that if those dreams were warnings, I would be ready.

I hurried out of my room, barely stopping to brush my hair or gather my notes. My footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor as I made my way to the spiral staircase.

Outside, the campus was just beginning to stir, the cool morning air brisk against my skin as I rushed through the courtyard toward the main hall. I had no time to grab anything from the dining hall, and I knew I was quickly going to regret it.

My mind was a jumble of fragments—the echo of my nightmare, the press of time, and a persistent, nagging worry that this was more than just a bad dream.

With every stride, I could feel the weight of the Raven’s Echo pendant resting against my chest, its cool metal seeming to hum with an energy I could neither fully understand nor ignore.

My footfalls thundered down the corridor.

Cordelia’s portrait watched me as I rounded the corner toward the Divination Tower.

By the time I reached the looping staircase, my breath was deep and labored, but I didn’t have time to slow down.

I took the steps two at a time until I reached the classroom.

I burst through the heavy wooden door, my chest heaving with exertion.

The room was bathed in a warm, golden glow from dozens of enchanted lanterns that floated near the ceiling, casting dancing shadows across the circular chamber.

The air was thick with the sweet scent of burning sage and sandalwood, and the faint whisper of incense curled through the room like spectral fingers.

Professor King paused mid-sentence, his kaleidoscope eyes finding mine immediately. The entire class turned to stare, and I felt heat rising to my cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Professor," I managed, clutching my satchel tighter. "I overslept."

“Dreams keeping you, were they?” He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made me wonder if he somehow knew about my nightmare.

“Often the most profound messages come to us in sleep, when our conscious defenses are lowered. Perhaps you’ll share with us what visions kept you from punctuality? ”

“I—” I began but faltered as my eyes swept across the room and locked with Samael's. His gaze was dark and unreadable, his angular features cast in sharp relief by the candlelight.

“Another time, perhaps,” Professor King said softly, seeming to sense my discomfort. He waved toward an empty cushion near the door. “Do take a seat, Miss Vale. We were just beginning to discuss the Major and Minor Arcana.”

I nodded gratefully and made my way to the circular table, painfully aware of Samael's eyes following my every move.

The other students were quietly studying the various tarot decks Professor King had laid out. I settled on the cushion closest to the exit, as far from Samael as the circle allowed.

“Now, as I was saying before Miss Vale’s dramatic entrance,” Professor King continued, “the art of tarot is not merely about predicting what will come to pass, but about understanding the currents that flow beneath the surface of our reality.”

He picked up his deck, his long fingers deftly shuffling the cards. The soft whisper of cardstock against cardstock was hypnotic, almost musical in the hushed room.

“The Major Arcana are not simply pictures on parchment, but doorways—gateways to understanding the greater forces that shape our destinies.” As he spoke, he laid out three cards face down on the dark velvet cloth that covered the table. “The Fool, The Magician, The High Priestess.”

Professor King’s voice was smooth, almost melodic, as he gestured toward the first card.

“The Fool,” he announced, his fingers brushing the illustration of a young traveler poised at the edge of a cliff. The artwork was rendered in rich, deep hues, the figure's face alight with unshaken optimism, a small bundle slung over his shoulder and a tiny white dog yapping at his feet.

“This is the beginning,” Professor King continued, his silver-threaded robes shifting as he leaned forward.

“The Fool represents potential, a soul untethered, standing on the precipice of something greater than they could ever comprehend. It is neither wisdom nor ignorance, but pure possibility. When this card appears, it tells us of journeys—both physical and spiritual—of choices that define us and the uncharted paths before us.”

His fingers trailed to the next card. “The Magician.” He flipped it over, revealing a figure draped in crimson, standing before an altar adorned with symbols of each element: a cup, a sword, a pentacle, and a staff. Above his head, an infinity symbol gleamed, a quiet promise of boundless power.

“The Magician is mastery,” Professor King explained, his gaze sweeping over the gathered students.

“He understands the forces at play and wields them with purpose. Where the Fool is potential, the Magician is action—willpower made manifest. He reminds us that knowledge is not enough; we must dare to use it, to shape our reality with intention.”

The students shifted slightly, the weight of his words settling over them like a shroud. I stole a glance at Samael, who sat with an unreadable expression, his fingers steepled before him.

Professor King’s attention moved to the final card. “The High Priestess.” The air in the room seemed to change as he flipped it over, revealing a woman shrouded in deep blue robes, her face calm and unreadable. She sat between two pillars, one dark and one light, a scroll half-concealed in her lap.

“She is knowledge kept in shadows,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.

“She is intuition, the whisper of secrets beneath the surface. Where the Magician commands the world, the High Priestess understands it in ways beyond language. She is mystery, the force that reminds us not all wisdom is meant to be spoken aloud.”

He stepped back, regarding the three cards before him.

“Together, these cards tell a story: the Fool embarks on a journey, the Magician harnesses his abilities, and the High Priestess reminds us that true power comes from understanding both what is seen and what is hidden.”