Page 11 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Wren

“ H e was not pleased with us being there,” I whisper, ducking instinctively as we pass an attendant who gives us a suspicious glance on the way out of the kitchens. “That chef looked like he was ready to gut us with a knife.”

“He was ready,” Ilyria retorts as she offers me a wink. “He just couldn’t catch us.”

We hadn’t meant to sabotage the meal being prepared for tonight. It was supposed to be harmless, having Ilyria help me remember more things about this world…but the bottle she accidentally dumped into the pot from a loose lid turned out to be a heavily concentrated spice blend.

Accident or not, it’s in the stew now and we may have started a small fire in our rush to leave.

We slip into the dining hall that’s full of heat from a flame-lit hearth and quickly close the door behind us.

Candles flicker in silver sconces, casting long, golden reflections across the glossy obsidian table in front of us.

Three places are set, each marked by black linen and polished cutlery.

A clear container of red wine glows from the light of the fire in the center.

After exchanging a knowing smirk in the tense silence of wondering if we were followed, laughter peels out of us. It flows through the room, and there’s an unfamiliar lightness in my steps as we head toward the table.

I’m actually…enjoying myself.

I may not know who I am, or if anyone out there is even wondering where I am, but for now, I’ll soak in this moment of joy. In contrast, every moment around the kings earlier had felt so heavy. Every word and movement from me had been heavily watched and read into.

Right now, I can just exist. I can just be Wren–whoever I decide that is for now, until my memories return.

Ilyria kicks off her boots before sitting and leaning back in her high-backed chair. I quietly sit and fold my hands in my lap as a nervousness settles in me.

What will this dinner with the wraith king bring?

“Az is late,” Ilyria says, as if sensing my thoughts. She pours herself a glass of wine before filling a second and pushing it toward me. “Probably sulking over a ledger or glaring at his council again.”

I glance at the empty seat to my left, where the third place setting waits untouched. I know that the moment he arrives his energy will consume the easy-going nature that Ilyria and I have kindled together.

The thought makes me sad, but for a more complicated reason than that I will miss it. More so, it makes me crestfallen to think that every room he walks into has no joy.

Maybe it’s better to not know who I am or what responsibilities come with a life I don’t remember. If Azyric and I were to trade places and there were no expectations placed so heavily upon his shoulders, who would he be?

Just as I lift the glass to my lips and swallow the sweet liquid, the doors swing open. It feels as if all the air in the room is sucked out, and the hair on my arms stands on end.

Azyric enters as I place my glass down. His button-down shirt is black with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He doesn’t speak as he approaches the table, but his silver eyes flick briefly to Ilyria as he rounds her to his spot at the head.

“I thought we agreed on a quiet service and modest clothing for Wren,” he says, voice smooth but tired as he lowers himself into the seat beside mine .

My eyes widen in confusion as I look between them and then down at my dress. Ilyria had reassured me that this cut that allowed the top swell of breasts to be shown was a common style for ladies in the court.

“We also probably would have agreed not to set the kitchen on fire,” Ilyria says sweetly, lifting her glass. “And yet, here we are. Life’s full of broken promises.”

I try not to meet his gaze as I feel the weight of it turn to me. I also try not to think about the fact that his shadows curl toward my chair before slipping back.

Attendants emerge with silver trays, blissfully taking his attention off of me as they place three bowls of dark, fragrant stew in front of us.

Steam rises in lazy curls, rich with the scent of meat and spiced broth.

The moment the bowls touch the table, Ilyria’s eyes flick to mine.

There’s no mistaking the scent we’d been consumed in a cloud of.

We both avoid our meal and sip on our wine.

A fuzzy feeling begins to prickle my mind the more I drink. It’s soothing, the way it helps alleviate some of my unease around him.

Azyric picks his spoon up without hesitation and our eyes dart to him. The first bite lands without reaction. On the second bite, he pauses and his jaw tightens. His cheeks turn pink as he clears his throat. Then, very calmly, he sets his spoon down, folds his hands, and looks straight at Ilyria.

“What did you do?”

Ilyria hums innocently and tears a piece of bread from the basket placed in between us. “Oh, is it too spicy? That must’ve been the chef’s doing. We wouldn’t know anything about spice blends.”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. My shoulders tremble with the effort.

Azyric turns his head toward me slowly. His expression is unreadable, but the tiniest flicker of confusion is apparent from the slight pinch of skin between his eyebrows as he stares at me.

“You’ve become fast friends,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now as he glances between us. It’s dry, though not unkind. “I’m not sure if that’s a miracle, or a regret. Perhaps both.”

Is that…humor I detect in his words?

I take another sip of wine to help hide my small smile. I almost don’t want him to realize that he’s showing this part of himself, because the moment he does, I know a wall will rise up in its place.

“I’m delightful,” Ilyria says before licking a drop of stew from her finger she dunked in. Her nose wrinkles at the taste before offering a dazzling smile to Azyric. “You know this, even though you don’t like to admit it. So of course Wren likes me. ”

He doesn’t argue. He simply watches her for a few seconds before nodding and looking at his stew.

“It's good to see you laugh again, Ilyria,” he murmurs, so low I’m not sure I was meant to hear it. “Even if it comes at the cost of damage to the kitchen and my stomach.”

His admission does something strange to my core and I avert my gaze for a moment. Heat flares at my cheeks and my stomach seems to flip around at this display of…love he clearly has for his twin.

I glance at him again and this time, he’s already looking at me.

Our eyes lock, and the space between us tightens, like we’re being drawn together by a single thread. His gaze is blank as it searches my face, and for the first time since I met him, I think he might be trying to understand me. To see me.

He blinks, breaking the moment.

Ilyria breaks another piece of bread in half as her voice dips into something less playful. “The fae refused the proposal at the borderlands yesterday. I thought this alliance for the war was going to smooth out these issues, Az.”

Azyric’s body straightens as his attention snaps to her. “You’re certain?”

Just like that, the king is back in full force. I take a large sip of my wine and wonder if my head is supposed to feel this tingly .

“I was there ,” she replies, her tone edged with irritation.

“You sent me as your envoy, remember? I stood in the dreary weather while Sylvin’s advisors smiled through their teeth and promised nothing.

No reinforcements and no magical artifacts.

No clarity on why. Just the same vague excuses the fae love to give. ”

His jaw tightens and I watch a small tendril of shadow leave the ink on his arm and trail toward me on the table. Neither of them notice it, and for the first time, I wonder what it will do if I play with it.

“They’re delaying on purpose,” she continues as I slide my hand flat on the table toward his shadow. “I think they want the other magical factions to face losses first, considering they are the furthest from the human occupied states.”

The shadow crawls on top of my fingers and I instantly splay them, testing if it will fall between. They stick to me and I turn my hand over. Just as it begins to pool in my palm, the shadow is yanked back as Azyric clears his throat.

We’ve been caught.

His gaze is still on Ilyria as he says, “It was supposed to be a part of the pact that Sylvin agreed to.”

I sit back in my chair and try to focus on their conversation. I wanted information, but after having a taste of fun with Ilyria, a part of me doesn’t want to return to dwelling on the heavy topics right now .

Maybe it’s the wine talking.

Ilyria shrugs and says flatly, “I chose not to stand around and argue with those silver-tongued fae. We were getting nowhere.”

The words land with the weight of finality in my chest as I observe her. A decision made and a door closed, but the moment after she says it, something shifts.

The air feels heavy and a faint glow appears.

A golden thread rises from Ilyria’s chest, so delicate it could be mistaken for a trick of the candlelight. Yet it pulses, slow and rhythmic, like it's alive. It twists and loops slightly in the air between us, like it’s waiting for me to reach out and touch it.

My heart stumbles as they continue their conversation like nothing is happening.

Neither of them see it, but I do.

The thread pulses again and something inside me pulls my hand to lift into the air, as if on instinct.

My vision slips and the room tilts and becomes blurry at the edges. The table, the firelight, and Azyric’s voice all recede into a kind of muffled background.

Suddenly, the thread splits into two and I see scenes playing out in front of each thread. I glance at the left first.

A beautiful forest tinged with the frost of a cold climate.

Ilyria stands tall with drops of rain rolling down her face and dripping from the ends of her hair as she argues with three men I assume are fae, from the same pointed ears Sylvin has.

They frown at her before eventually the middle one nods. He reaches out a hand and she shakes it.

I watch a spark flare between them before the scene morphs to them pressing their lips together.

The scene fades completely and I glance to the other thread still playing a moment for me to watch.

It’s the same beginning of their meeting and in the same forest, but instead of staying to fight for the proposal, Ilyria tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and fades into a mass of shadows.

I watch a new picture appear. Sylvin and Azyric shout at each other, only a few inches apart.

“I told them to sign the proposal!” Sylvin shouts. “I cannot lie.”

Azyric seethes. “You are a master of bending the truth. All this proves is that the alliance is a lie. Why pretend our factions can ever unite under one cause?”

Once again the scene morphs.

The same dark stone that I’ve seen in the wraith’s castle appears and I know I’m looking at the exterior now. It’s missing chunks from the massive walls and the dark forest surrounding it is on fire .

My chest tightens as I’m left looking at the two split threads, glowing and waiting for me to reach out.

I can’t tear my gaze away from them, and then a voice breaks through.

“Wren.”

My name.

I blink but the threads stay.

“Wren!”

This time, louder. Urgent, as if someone is worried about me.

A warm hand settles on my arm as the cool touch of shadowy tendrils wraps around my ankles.

I blink hard, and the world snaps back into place.

Azyric’s hand is on my arm, steady, but not gentle. He grips me like someone truly worried.

His shadows flicker around his wrist, one of them curling toward me again before twitching back as I glance up at him.

They’re unsettled and so is he.

I blink, but the room feels wrong as I look around. My skin prickles as I try to decipher why. I’m still seated and the stew still steams before us. Ilyria looks at me with wide eyes and no threads in sight.

“Wren, what happened?” Azyric’s voice is low now, but tight. “It’s like you were gone.”

My gaze jerks to him. “What?”

“You weren’t responding.” His eyes narrow, searching my face. “You didn’t blink. You didn’t move. My shadows…” He stops and clears his throat. “They noticed first.”

I can’t seem to swallow. “It was nothing. Just…a moment. Perhaps it was the wine, or exhaustion.”

The lie tastes brittle on my tongue, but I don’t know what I saw, or even if it was real. I would just sound crazy if I tried to explain it.

Azyric’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, then shifts toward the doorway where an attendant stands dutifully.

“Dinner is over,” he says, standing so suddenly his chair scrapes faintly against the stone. “She’s done for tonight.”

Ilyria frowns. “Az–”

“She needs rest,” he cuts in, voice low but not cold.

“She needs someone with her who doesn’t treat her like a threat!” Ilyria’s voice sharpens, quiet but edged. She stands too, moving to go around him. “I’ll take her.”

Suddenly a wall of shadows blocks her path.

“She’s with me,” he says, sharper than anything I’ve heard from him before. His silver gaze locks on Ilyria’s. “I’ll see her to her chambers myself.”

I feel like I can’t breathe through the tension, and shame courses through me for causing this moment.

Ilyria blinks at him. Her mouth opens slightly before quickly closing. She studies him and then slowly, without a word, lowers herself back into her seat.

Azyric turns his attention toward the attendant. “Bring bread, soft cheese, and cured meat to her room, now. Also a pitcher of water.”

The attendant bows and vanishes into the shadows.

“Come, Wren.”

It’s a demand, but a soft one. I rise to my feet and offer a look at Ilyria, hoping she knows I’m sorry for ruining our dinner before following alongside him in silence.

The castle corridors are completely empty now as I walk without looking at him and without saying a word.

Something brushes the center of my back, gentle but constant. Not guiding. Just…there. A soothing presence.

I glance out of the corner of my eye, noting his hands at his sides.

Instead, his shadows are reaching out, as if steadying me before I have a chance to stumble or fall into a trance again.

I let them as unease circles tightly within my chest.

Somehow in less than a day, I went from screaming in fear of his shadows to soaking in the comfort they provide me now .

As my eyes drop to the smooth stone floor, I wonder just how much more will change in the days to come.