Page 24 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Wren

S harp, anguished screams ring in my ears before fading into the sound of gunfire and the crackling roar of burning forest. Smoke clings to my throat even as my eyes fly open, breath catching hard in my chest as I bolt upright in the bed.

I take deep, ragged breaths in an attempt to calm the staccato rhythm of my heartbeat.

I'm not on the shore.

I'm not in the forest.

The nightmare doesn’t let go so easily.

My breath stutters. I press trembling fingers to my chest, trying to ground myself in this version of the world. The one I…rewrote.

A warmth spreads through my body as a thought settles: I will take the nightmares, every single night, if my power truly saved all the lives that would have been lost, and the lands that would have been burned away as collateral damage.

A knock sounds at the door.

When the door opens, the fae woman who enters is nothing like the tall, statuesque figures I’ve seen in this court.

She’s smaller, shorter than even me by a few inches, with a rounded face and soft purple eyes.

Her silver hair is woven into a single braid that rests over one shoulder, tied at the end with a thin chain that dangles with charms. She has the classic pointed and elongated fae ears, but a warmth emanates from her that is decidedly not fae.

I’d wandered the halls last night when sleep escaped me and none I passed had given me a second glance or nod. They simply acted like I didn’t exist, which was jarring after the warm reception I received from the shifters.

The small fae woman carries a collection of fabric in her arms, each piece shimmering faintly in the morning light.

“I hope I’m not intruding, my lady,” she says gently. “The High King asked that I bring this newest design for your first full day in court.”

My brows lift at her formalities and I manage a weak smile as I brush a loose, frizzy strand of dark hair from my eye. “You’re not intruding. I’m just still waking up, and please, call me Wren.”

She nods and steps lightly toward the wardrobe in the corner, lifting a gown that gleams like polished snow. Sapphire silk, sheer sleeves embroidered with frost patterns, and a corset that looks like it was sculpted out of starlight.

I blink at it. “Is that…for me?”

Her head cuts toward me quickly with wide-eyes. “Of course, my lady. The High King wasted no expense on this for you. Your entire wardrobe, actually.”

The choice to not call me Wren, despite my instructions to, must run in fae blood.

“It’s lovely,” I say, carefully. “But I’m not sure I’d survive more than twenty minutes without ruining it by accident.”

I mean every word. It’s truly exquisite and a part of me wants to see what it would look like on me, but it’s far too nice for someone who frolics in fields, trips on roots, and is constantly playing in dirt and rivers to try to commune with the earth. I’d never forgive myself if I ruined it.

The fae woman pauses, clearly unsure how to respond. I offer her a sheepish smile to take the edge off.

“Can we look through other options, please?” I implore. “I will take all the blame for not wearing it, when his dramatic royal highness sees me.”

That earns me a small twitch at the corner of her mouth–half amusement, half pity, if I had to guess–as she turns back to the wardrobe .

She begins pulling options, one after another. Each just as elaborate as the last.

We go through at least a dozen. I lose track somewhere between the gown with beaded sleeves heavy enough to double as armor and the pale green thing with layers of chiffon stacked like petals on a dying flower.

She holds them up one at a time with quiet reverence, waiting for something in my expression to shift.

It doesn’t.

Eventually, she pulls out a simple silver, silky dress. No beads. No gems. Just a clean silhouette. It’s still fancier than anything I’ve worn since waking, but at least I won’t feel as bad if something happens to it.

I nod. “Let’s try it.”

She helps me without a word. Her fingers are deft and gentle as she works the back closures, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders. A chill brushes over my exposed arms and she rushes to the wardrobe.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she huffs, digging through the piles of fabric. “I forget you aren’t built to withstand our temperatures. The High King also had coats made for you.”

“You’ve been patient with me…” I trail off quietly, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “What’s your name? I’d like to know who I’m thanking fo r not throwing the initial dress over my head just to get it over with and follow his orders.”

“My name is Natasha,” She lets a smile tug at her lips. “It’s a rare thing to see someone treat the finest display of fae wardrobe with…hesitation. You’re much different than the previous court lady I attended to.”

“Between you and me, Natasha,” I murmur while putting my arms through the fluffy white coat she holds open for me, “I’m still trying to decide who I am, but I know that wearing that would be pretending to be someone I’m absolutely not.”

Her gaze flicks toward me, curious but not invasive.

I pause, then ask, “Do you think you could get anything less…” I gesture vaguely toward the closet. “...expensive?”

She blinks. “You mean…simpler?”

“I mean trousers, if I’m being honest,” I say, half laughing. “Something I can actually move in, easily.”

The surprise on her face is immediate. “Only warrior women wear trousers.”

That stops me cold for a breath as the scenes from the threads full of fae warriors roll through my mind. I stare at her, then down at the dress, and shake my head in an attempt to focus back on the present.

“Can you ask if there’s anything like that tucked away somewhere?” I ask gently. “Pants, boots, maybe a tunic without six layers of lace. ”

She hesitates but inclines her head. “I’ll try.”

We step into the corridor a few moments later, where I find a castle that already stirs with quiet movement.

Elegant fae pass us in pairs or trios, all dressed in shimmering robes or embroidered dresses.

No one meets Natasha’s eyes as we pass and I notice she tries to keep distance between us, like we aren’t supposed to be seen as equals.

I thought perhaps they’d treat her differently than me, considering she’s fae, but as I watch her shoulders fold in and her chin tucking closer to her chest…it becomes clear they don’t accept anyone who doesn’t fit the mold here.

I hate it.

Without thinking, I step closer to her and loop my arm gently through hers, matching our strides.

She startles at first, eyes lifting to mine in question. “My lady?”

“It’s just Wren,” I murmur and lift my chin as a towering fae curls his lip in disgust when his eyes fall to us. “Don’t let these entitled, arrogant fae make you feel less than. We are all equals in this world.”

Her expression softens and I catch the rush of tears pricking at her eyes. She quickly brushes them away with her free hand before letting a soft smile lift her lips.

“You’re quite beautiful.” I say before leaning in to whisper, “Lift your chin and let them all bask in jealousy of your uniqueness.”

A flush stains her cheeks and I see a momentary panic in her wide eyes before a shift takes over. She pulls her shoulders back as she lifts her chin. “Thank you, Wren. I needed to hear that.”

We walk a few more steps in companionable silence before a thought slides an ache into my chest I wasn’t expecting.

Ilyria would like her.

An image comes to mind–my wraith friend throwing an arm around this gentle fae girl’s shoulders, cracking a joke, and telling anyone who looked at Natasha sideways to take up their problem with her. The thought pulls tightly, a bittersweet tug against the hollow ache I hadn’t noticed growing.

I miss her.

But with Natasha’s arm linked with mine all the way to the polished doors of the breakfast chamber, just like I had with Ilyria, I don’t feel entirely alone in a new place. Despite the warmth it gives me, my gut churns with a growing dread as my thoughts return to last night.

The threads had altered history, providing mercy, and preventing the loss of life.

I swallow the lump of emotion growing in my throat as I remember the first threads I saw from Ilyria.

I hadn’t altered that projection for the future from her choice to not argue with the fae generals, and it ended with a disastrous attack on the wraith’s castle.

My stomach tightens.

Do I tell Sylvin what happened? I did alter his people’s fate…but I’m not sure if he will believe me. I hardly believe it myself, despite the memories burning brightly in my mind. If I do…maybe I can tell him about the wraith’s fate and help usher them to sign the proposal Ilyria had brought.

Would that be enough to alter it?

Natasha slips her arm from mine just before we reach the doors and bids me goodbye with a quiet promise to work on my wardrobe.

Two fae guards stationed outside bow to me without a word and push the polished panels inward. Frost curls along the carved edges, blooming outward in delicate spirals as the chamber is revealed.

The space beyond is regal without being overwhelming.

A tall ceiling paneled in pale wood. Wide arched windows that fill the room with natural light and a fire crackles low in the hearth–one that I assume is typically for decoration when I’m not here and in need of warmth.

A long table rests in the center, topped with fine crystal and dishes that shimmer with steam.

Sylvin sits at the far end, angled toward the windows, one elbow resting lazily on the table while the other hand lifts a teacup to his lips. His short, pale hair shimmers in the light, a stark contrast against the deep blue of his robes.

When he sees me, a warm smile curls his lips.

“Ah,” he says, setting the cup down. “I was beginning to worry you might not feel well enough to come.”

I almost smile, but the heavy feeling pressing against my ribs keeps it from fully forming.