Page 27 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Wren

S ylvin lifts his free arm and opens the portal with a subtle twist of his wrist, the magic forming in a smooth arc of blue light that ripples outward.

“Shall we try the court with a little more sunlight,” he murmurs, his gaze sliding to mine, “and far fewer thorns?”

The faint smile that follows doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

It flickers softly, as if he’s trying to summon the brighter version of himself I knew before yesterday.

I don’t know if it’s the weight of the Duke’s arrogance still clinging to him, or if some part of him still replays the things I said over breakfast. Maybe it’s both.

A tightness curls low in my stomach as I stare into the glow of the portal. It’s not just another court waiting on the other side…it’s the last one that might st ill claim my powers. The final thread of hope I haven’t yet unraveled.

The pressure of that expands in my chest, but I take a breath and meet Sylvin’s eyes. I let the steady strength in the blue depths anchor me as I blow out the air building in my lungs.

Then I nod once and we step forward together.

The moment we cross the threshold, the sticky, humid air of Spring vanishes and is replaced with a dry heat that settles into my skin.

The wind meets us immediately, much stronger here on rugged cliffs that stretch high above the ocean below.

It’s salt-laced and untamed, threading through my hair and tugging at my dress in welcome.

Wind-swept grasses cling to the edges of the rock, bending low but never breaking.

Far below I hear the waves crash against the base of the cliffs.

Just like that, Spring is behind us, and Summer begins.

It’s beautiful here, but not in the way I’ve come to expect from fae courts. My spirit lifts with the untamed scene before me.

In both the Winter and Spring Courts, the beauty was curated to make others stare in awe.

But here...here, the land is left as it is.

Rough cliffs, pounding waves, stone cracked and weathered by time and tide.

There’s no illusion of control, only power and the unspoken feeling that if you stay, you must either bend to its rhythm or be swept away by it.

This beauty doesn’t ask for attention. It's fiercely, unapologetically alive, the same way it feels when I connect to earth.

Hope swirls in my chest as Sylvin walks a few paces ahead, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path that winds along the bluff’s edge. I follow him until he stops near that edge, where I see a sharp decline with stone steps trailing down toward the sandy beach.

“The Duchess will meet you at the base,” he says. “I’ll remain nearby, but I won’t interfere with her. I trust her the most out of all magical beings in this country.”

The words land softly knowing he trusts this fae so much, but they still make my stomach twist.

He won’t be by my side.

I nod again, slower this time, and glance out at the ocean for the first time.

“I didn’t think I’d feel hesitant,” I admit, before I can stop myself. “But I do.”

“Because you don’t trust what’s waiting ahead?”

I shake my head and glance back at him through my wind-swept tangles of hair. “Because I didn’t realize I still trusted you this much, despite what you did.”

It isn’t a compliment, or forgiveness. Just the truth .

He inclines his head as the first genuine smile I’ve seen since he greeted me at breakfast appears.

“I’m only a portal away. Nothing could keep me from getting to you,” he says.

The words are barely a whisper in the howling wind, but they land harder than any gusts could.

He turns and walks the opposite way, disappearing into the golden light that spills across the vibrant green valley.

I straighten my spine and begin the descent into the Summer Court.

The stairs are steep and jagged, as if they were created by swells of an ocean that used to reach the height of these cliffs. Beneath me, the dark stone lights up with streaks of burnt orange and gold, veins of the earth itself seem to pulse faintly within.

It reminds me of the shifter lands–of wind that doesn’t ask permission, skies that stretch without end, and a life built around what nature offers.

My hand skims the cliffside as I descend, fingers dragging across the rough stone for balance. When a sudden gust rises, fierce and unpredictable, I brace myself, nails digging into the rock until the wind eases and I can move again.

The sand finally meets me, glittering and inviting, and I don’t hesitate to unlace my boots and step free, letting my feet sink into the heat of it.

The grains are soft and fine, clinging to my skin as I walk slowly toward the tide as I watch as the waves roll in and out–steadily, endlessly, like a breath that never pauses.

It stretches so far I can’t see where it ends once it meets the horizon.

For a moment, I can’t breathe beneath the scope of it and how small it makes me feel. It’s nothing like the dark ocean I saw at the edge of the Winter Court’s territory in my vision, littered with ships.

The wind rushes toward me off the water, warm and briny, curling through my hair and slipping beneath the collar of my dress. It drags the sun’s heat into my lungs like it belongs there.

“I never tire of that view,” a voice says behind me, low and full of reverence.

I turn as a lone figure approaches, without guards or fanfare, her presence quiet but commanding.

The wind pulls her copper hair back from her face, strands streaked with deeper tones.

Her skin is sun-warmed and richly bronzed, scattered with freckles that trace across her cheekbones, shoulders, and collarbones.

Gold jewelry coils around the curves of her pointed ears and wraps her wrists, glinting softly in the light.

She wears no crown, but she doesn’t need one.

There’s a quiet strength in her gaze, a burnt gold that looks like fire trapped in her eyes, and the longer I hold it, the more certain I become that she’s nothing like the fae I’ve met so far.

A soft respect blooms in my chest instinctively as I realize I’m standing before a woman who carries great knowledge, yet never wields it maliciously.

“You’re Wren,” she says.

I nod, digging my toes deeper in the sand. “And you’re the Duchess of Summer.”

She walks to my side and turns her eyes toward the ocean. Her clothing is simple compared to the embroidered finery I’ve seen in other courts–a sleeveless white dress that splits on one thigh and ends just below her knees.

“It’s your first time seeing the sea,” she surmises. “I can tell.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” I murmur and cast my gaze back out to the water. “So loud and alive. So endless.”

She hums a quiet note of agreement. “It’s the oldest thing we have left. One of the only things in the world that doesn’t care what you are. It treats each living soul the same.”

I glance at her and the easy way she stands like she could be rooted to the spot forever and not voice a single complaint.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admit before I can think better of it.

That earns me a wry, side-glancing smile. “Good. If you considered me anything like the Duke of Spring, I’d consider that a failure. Sylvin informed me you’d be ending in my court.”

There’s a deeply grounded warmth about her. It doesn’t feel performative or like she cares to prove anything.

“You’re here to see if Summer calls to you,” she says after a moment. “To test if its magic answers when you reach.”

Nerves erupt in my stomach at the reminder. “Yes.”

“Then you can stay as long as you need until you find those answers.”

No questions or threats. No expectations hidden beneath her words. Just a sincere invitation.

“Let’s walk to my favorite stretch of the beach and I will show you a glimpse of my power. You can simply watch, or participate when you feel ready.”

She turns, and for a moment I hesitate, still caught in the sound of the waves crashing far below.

But then I follow her, feeling a spark of hope in what I might find waiting for me at the end of this path.

I leave my boots behind, not caring to feel confined and cut off from my connection to the ground through my feet any longer.

We walk in silence, the only sounds are the steady hush of the sea and the wind. It doesn’t feel like she’s leading me to a lesson, but as if she’s sharing a sacred part of herself.

“This is where we begin,” the Duchess says finally, her voice gaining a touch of excitement as she looks back at me. “Summer does not respond to brutal control. It listens when you ask without expectation.”

She lowers herself to kneel on the sand, one hand pressing gently into the soft grains and the other lifting, palm up, toward the open sky.

“Our magic isn’t conjured from nothing,” she says. “We draw from the energy that’s already here, and we never expect, only ask.”

Light begins to gather in her outstretched hand, slowly at first, a shimmer building into more. As the glow intensifies, an orange flame forms that is white-hot at its center.

At the same time, she lifts her other hand from the sand and a second flame blooms upward from where her hand touched the ground. The two fires–one skyborn, one earthborn–balance in her outstretched palms.

She closes her fingers slowly around each flame, and they vanish without a trace before she stands and gestures to the same spot. “If you feel ready to try, the energy is waiting for you.”

I don’t move at first. I just stand there in the heavy silence, hesitating.

A spark ignites within my chest and I decide I’m done hesitating. Either this will be a fit for me or it won’t be. I can’t delay the inevitable, and answers hold power, even if they aren’t the ones we want to hear .

I kneel in the same spot and my hand lowers to the sand, pressing against its surface where the heat lingers just beneath the skin of the world.

I lift my other hand toward the open sky, fingers spread, trying to mimic the balance she showed me–ground and sky, fire from both, power only borrowed, never owned.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

I think of the warmth pressing into my palm from the sand. I think of the sun burning against my cheekbones. I try to gather it and pull it into focus. And for a moment, something stirs.

The wind stirs in my palm outstretched in the air and heat coils around the edge of my hand against the ground. But the moment I try to guide it, it slips away.

All I’m left holding is nothing.

No flame. No flicker. Not even a thread of light.

I let my hands rest against my thighs, careful not to let the frustration rise too quickly.

“You’re holding on too tightly,” she instructs. “Is a part of you scared?”

My throat tightens, and I drop my gaze to the churning water just a few feet away. “This is the last place that might still claim me,” I say quietly, unable to stop the truth from slipping free. “If I don’t belong here, then I don’t know where else there is.”

The words sit heavily between us, not dramatic or desperate, just raw.

“Have you considered that maybe you were never meant to belong to a single corner of this world?” she asks as she lowers herself to my side.

A soft tremble runs through the ground and she doesn’t skip a beat, as if she doesn’t feel it.

“Maybe the earth doesn't respond when you ask it to serve you. Maybe it answers when you offer to serve it.”

I close my eyes and reach out for the ties that have spoken to me and hope somehow it can hear me now.

If I’m meant to be here as your vessel, to serve a purpose I don’t understand yet, please give me a sign. I want to understand so that I can help you. Please.

Warmth rises slowly from the sand through my legs, threading upward within me in a thin thread of heat until it passes through my chest and outward through my arms.

I open my eyes and lift my palms, expecting to see nothing, but small radiant flames spark into existence. It’s not the same white-hot heat the Duchess produced, but tinged in blue with a white center.

Something shifts inside me then, quiet but undeniable as I keep my mind and soul open to this moment. For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for an explanation of who I am or what I can offer.

I don’t feel like I’m trespassing in a world that never asked for me.

I don’t know how long I sit there, watching the flames dance in my palm, but when I finally blink and close my hands, I feel the wetness trailing down my cheeks.

The Duchess says nothing about being right or any words of what this moment means. She simply steps beside me and lifts one warm hand, brushing my tears away with a practiced touch that doesn’t demand thanks or recognition.

“We belong to our factions,” she says softly. “But you my dear…you belong to the earth itself, and that’s more beautiful than anything else I could imagine.”

The earth sees me and chooses me.

As I let the tears continue to fall, I finally feel what it means to belong–not to a crown or a court, but to something older, deeper, and infinitely more true.