Page 22 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Wren

T he moment I step through the portal, winter wraps around me in a breathless gasp.

It’s the type of cold that bites at any skin not covered by clothes, brushing over it with a delicate sting.

The magic from the portal lingers as it drifts behind me, brushing over my arms like threads made of mist and ice.

I exhale slowly, my breath blooming into a cloud that vanishes just as quickly.

Sylvin waits with one hand extended toward me, the pale light of the portal painting his skin silver-blue before dissolving in the next heartbeat. Behind him, the world unfolds into a kingdom kissed by frost and magic, illuminated by the perfectly clear sky and the moonlight streaming down.

My mouth parts in awe as I take in the snow- dusted evergreens and the way their limbs bow beneath the weight.

The castle looms, elegant and deadly in its beauty.

Dark towers wrapped in climbing ice, spires sharp enough to pierce the sky.

Every inch of it glows faintly, like starlight caught in glass.

The windows flicker with blue-white light and frost curls along the edges in spiraling patterns.

Sylvin’s expression softens into a smile that feels almost real.

“Welcome to my land, little echo.”

His voice slides around me like silk, and just as I lift my hand with the intent to place it in his, my body tenses up. Any wonder I felt is quickly snatched away and replaced with the subtle dread coiling in my chest, sending sharp pains through me.

Beneath the snow-covered splendor, there’s something wrong.

Before I can step closer to Sylvin or give voice to that unease, a figure rushes around the castle’s outer wall.

Snow kicks up in a plume behind him as he sprints toward us, panting hard.

His uniform is dark navy with perfectly pressed lines to his pants.

A silver insignia shines on his chest where it’s pinned.

“Your Majesty!” he calls, skidding to a halt, eyes wide with panic. “Human naval vessels have made landfall after approaching from the Pacific.”

Sylvin’s entire demeanor shifts.

Gone is the teasing smirk and constant mirth dancing in his eyes.

He steps forward once, his boot crunching into the snow.

“How many ships, Grayson?” Sylvin’s voice is quiet but cuts through the howling wind.

A shiver runs down my spine, not from the cold, but from this new version of Sylvin emerging in front of my eyes.

The general’s face blanches further. “At least five ships made it to shore. They’re advancing. Units are being deployed to intercept but…we were caught off guard.”

A low boom shudders through the night like underwater thunder, and the ground jolts beneath my boots.

I stagger, breath catching as the shockwave pulses outward, rattling the air and splitting the stillness.

Beneath the stone and snow I feel it…the earth crying out.

It doesn’t hum this time–it screams .

A deep, aching pulse throbs in my chest, and my hands curl into fists at my sides. The pain of the land coils through me and tears spring into my eyes.

I watch the rise and fall of Sylvin’s chest as he takes rapid, short breaths, glancing between me and the direction the attack occurred.

The wind sharpens without warning, rushing down from the cliffs like it’s answering a silent summons. The trees bend beneath it, groaning softly as snow flurries lift in a sudden spiral around us, swirling up into the night.

I feel his power pulsing in slow, dangerous waves. It’s heavy and invisible, but thick enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

Frost blooms outward from beneath his boots in icy vines, racing across the stone path in jagged branches.

Each crack hisses softly as it spreads, a sound like water freezing in mid-air.

The temperature plummets and I instinctively wrap my arms tighter around my chest, but the chill already sinks beneath my clothes and settles in my bones.

The tears falling down my cheeks suddenly halt their descent but I don’t need to reach up to confirm that they’ve frozen.

“My king?” the general asks hesitantly. “What are your orders?”

Sylvin’s hands curl slowly into fists, and ice creeps over his knuckles in glistening sheets. It spreads like armor, encasing his fingers until they gleam under the moonlight like sculpted glass.

His bright blue eyes glow now, threaded with veins of silver that seem to pulse with each heartbeat. Every trace of warmth is gone from his face.

“How,” he says, voice dangerously soft when everything else is sharp and jagged, “did this happen? ”

The general’s mouth opens once, closes, then opens again as his shoulders tense.

“I rotated the guard too early,” he says quickly, voice cracking as his head hangs. “There was no one on the northwestern post tonight. I made an error when writing out the schedule for the guards. It’s my fault we didn’t see them coming, leaving us without warning.”

Another gust of wind tears through the clearing, lifting the snow in violent spirals. I can’t tell if it’s from the mountains or from Sylvin himself.

My breath catches as a familiar sight takes shape.

Two glowing strands of gold once again reaching out to me through the air itself and thrumming. They shimmer into view in front of the general’s chest, calling to me.

The world around me stills.

Sylvin. The general. The wind. The castle. All of it fades to silence as the first thread opens like a door in the air, and I step through consciously without moving at all.

The scene plays out before me.

It begins with a single decision.

The general, in his office two nights ago with his head bowed over the duty ledger, a cup of tea steaming.

He rubs at his temple, sighs, and makes a note to rotate the guards early in two days time in preparation for the upcoming full moon.

A simple adjustment that only needs an extra guard to make up for the new time slot.

But he doesn’t fill it.

The northwestern tower sits dark and silent beneath the stars.

The scene surges forward, sweeping me into it like the river’s current.

Dark waves pound against the snow-blanketed shore as human naval vessels slice through the water. Low, flat silhouettes–five, maybe six–approach, heavy with soldiers and gear.

By the time the first boots hit the frozen beach, it’s already too late.

I watch as a young fae warrior charges toward the shoreline, only to be struck down mid-spell by a bullet to the chest. A burst of ice arcs upward before shattering in the air like brittle glass as he falls to his knees.

Another soldier screams, too slow to summon a shield.

His body hits the snow hard and doesn’t move again.

The humans don’t hesitate. Fire canisters are lobbed into the treeline and the forest erupts in sheets of flame that melt through the underbrush and blacken the bark in seconds. Snow turns to steam. Branches crack and fall.

Deeper in the valley, near the cliffs, I see the lights in cottages begin to ignite with terrified life. Families waking too late .

The fire will tear through the forest and reach them all.

Fae and human alike perish in the battle. Children. Warriors. The innocent and the armed.

And beneath it all, the land screams.

This is the future from a decision made in error.

Unless…

A second thread pulses as I’m drawn from the first.

A new scene pulls me in.

The same room. The same general. The same desk and steaming tea.

But this time, when he rubs his temple and leans over the duty roster, his pen hesitates. He double-checks the schedule, frowns, then flips a page in the log and writes out a correction, assigning a pair of guards to the northwestern tower for the midnight shift.

The scene shifts to the tower now filled with a guard. A fae woman with snow in her braid and a keen eye on the horizon. When the first dark shape breaches the distant sea line, she tolls the heavy bell and yells.

A wave of light crackles along the cliffs, alerting every patrol within miles.

The court doesn’t scramble in defense this time…this time they deploy.

Frost spreads over the shoreline before the ships can even reach it, locking the ocean in a prison of ice. The boats creak and groan, trapped mid-current. Their hulls shudder as sheets of frost bloom upward, engulfing the decks and immobilizing the engines.

No fire. No bloodshed. No burned forest. No bodies in the snow.

I see fae warriors forming a wall across the ridgeline, magic glittering along their skin as they watch from a distance. Ready, but still.

And this time, the earth is quiet. Still strained and watchful, but not wounded.

This version of the night holds its breath in tension, not pain.

I feel the pull as the scene fades away, leaving me staring at the two glowing threads.

The second hums louder, pulsating like it wants me to reach out…like it needs me to.

My hand lifts slowly, like my body is responding before my mind can catch up. I don’t know what will happen if I touch it. I don’t know if this is real or complete madness, or something in between.

My fingers brush the thread, and the moment I make contact, a pulse surges up my arm, threading heat and ice through every nerve until my breath catches sharply in my throat.

Light blooms across my vision in gold and blinding white, swallowing everything else.

I stagger, or I think I do, but there’s no longer ground beneath my feet.

The sensation is like being pulled backward through time by the spine .

The air collapses around me in a shriek of movement. Wind howls in my ears, breath is stolen from my lungs as my heartbeat stutters against a current I can’t fight. The world blurs in reverse, not just rewinding, but unraveling.

Then…silence.

The pressure in my chest releases all at once.

Snow crunches beneath my boots, soft with fresh layers settled atop old stone.

Frost clings to the evergreens in thick spirals, their branches heavy and glittering, needles dipped in silver and ice.

The castle rises before me again, its towers coiled in blue-white light, their ice-covered spires reaching toward the stars like spears tipped in moonlight.

In front of me stands Sylvin.

His white-blond hair gleams like snow under the moonlight, and his smile is soft, lazy, entirely untouched by everything I just witnessed.

One hand is outstretched, waiting, as if I haven’t just stepped through a different version of this very moment.

“Welcome to my land, little echo.”

My hand doesn’t move.

I just stare at him–at his outstretched palm, at the moonlight that paints the high cut of his cheekbones and the lazy curve of his smile, as if this very moment hasn’t happened before. As if this is the first time he’s welcomed me into his kingdom.

But it’s not. This is the same moment I lived before–the same welcome, the same waiting hand, the same hush in the trees.

Footsteps crunch softly against the frost-dusted path.

“My king,” a voice calls out. “We’ve received word from the northwestern watch.”

The sound of it nearly knocks the breath from my chest.

It’s him. The same general, but with a succinct, clipped tone. This time there’s no panic. No stammering apologies. No shame.

Sylvin lowers his hand, turning just slightly to face him. “Report.”

The general inclines his head. “A fleet of human vessels attempted to approach from the sea shortly after dusk, but they were sighted well before they reached the shore. Our guards responded instantly. The ships were halted offshore and remain frozen in place. No landfall was made.”

My ears ring and I stumble back as my hand presses to the tight pain coiling in my chest.

I didn’t imagine any of that.

Did I?

I can still feel the scream building in my lungs from the pain the earth felt with the attack that shook the ground. I can still see the wide eyes of the young guard before he fell from his bullet wound. I can still hear the cry of the forest as it burned.

No…I didn’t imagine it. I lived it, even if no one else did. Even if this world wants to pretend it never happened.

The cold wraps tighter around me, seeping into my bones as I listen.

Sylvin nods once, his expression unreadable. “And casualties?”

“None on our side,” the general says. “They didn’t get close enough to engage.”

I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath in an attempt to anchor myself in this version of the world.

Because it’s real–this moment, this quiet, this breath of peace.

But so was the other one.