Page 4 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Unknown

T he large coat hangs heavily on my frame as I slide my arms through the sleeves, the fabric swallowing me whole. I hold it closed with trembling fingers before I slowly push myself to my feet.

The movement takes effort. My muscles protest, my ribs throb, and the air feels too thick as I rise. When I finally manage to stand, they all tower over me. No longer distant silhouettes but solid figures, imposing and far too real.

I tip my head back just enough to meet their eyes, and in doing so, I feel it–how small I am in their presence. Not just in stature, but in power. Whatever they are, whatever I might be…I am not their equal.

The mountain stands up and his golden eyes meet mine with a steadiness that continues to ground my nerves.

“I’m Torryn,” he says, voice low and rough, though not unkind. “That’s Sylvin.” He jerks his chin toward the white-haired one with the gleaming smirk and sharp cheekbones.

Sylvin gives a shallow, theatrical bow, lips curving like this is all a performance.

Torryn doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. He just continues, flatly, “Riven.”

The one who gave me his coat doesn’t speak. He watches me still, his red eyes fixed and hungry, like he hasn’t blinked since I stood.

“And the one back there pretending not to listen is Azyric,” Torryn finishes.

I turn to glance at him. Azyric hasn’t moved from his place at the edge of the group. Shadows cling to him like armor once again. He doesn’t even glance my way as he’s introduced.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and taut as I swing my gaze back to look at them, noting the careful distance they each keep from one another.

They aren’t comfortable in each other’s company. That much is obvious. No camaraderie. No shared glances or trust.

“Do you remember what you are?” Torryn asks, drawing my focus away from the others. “Riven says you aren’t human. ”

Before I can answer, Sylvin steps in. “Or where you come from? Surely something stirred when you looked at us. Or was the awe too overwhelming?”

I hesitate as a new emotion rises within me with his last question: annoyance.

“No,” I answer flatly, not appreciating his self-inflated ego. “Nothing.”

Sylvin hums softly, like my emptiness is something to study.

Torryn nods once, as if he’s not surprised.

Azyric prowls behind them, scanning the unscathed forest in the distance.

And Riven…he watches me, still. Unmoving and unblinking.

His gaze is like a snare around my throat. There’s hunger in it, slow and simmering, like he’s savoring something no one else can taste without even touching me.

“Then perhaps,” he murmurs, stepping forward as my skin pebbles, “you’ll let me help you decide who you’ll become.”

The weight of his words sinks into my chest.

It’s not a question or a threat, but I shiver nonetheless…because a part of me wants to say yes.

He keeps his distance, eyes trained on me, but Sylvin and Torryn both step closer. A rumble comes from the latter and my gaze swings to his. His eyes are narrowed, lingering on Riven as a snarl curls his scarred lip.

Apparently, he doesn’t like Riven’s suggestion.

They may stand on the same scorched earth, but they don’t stand together.

Sylvin breaks the tension with a sigh and a dramatic shake of his sleeve, like he’s knocking off invisible debris. “Well. Now that we’ve all had our brooding moment, might I suggest something useful ?”

His blue eyes slide over me, glittering as sunlight begins to break through the clouds. “We can’t call you ‘the girl.’ It’s terribly impersonal.”

Riven huffs a quiet breath, seemingly in agreement.

“She doesn’t know her name,” Torryn says, voice flat.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t give her one,” Sylvin counters. “We’re kings, not a pack of wolves. We should at least attempt civility.”

Torryn’s chest puffs up as he takes a deep breath, and my eyes can’t stop volleying back and forth between the three of them and their simmering animosity.

Why are they all together if they hate each other? Are they allies or enemies?

“What would you say to Liora?” he continues. “It means my light. Given the way you rose from the earth, it feels poetic. ”

Frustration flares up within me at the casual use of the information they have on me, but I push the annoyance down, hoping they will willingly discuss the information they have with me soon.

The name he offered is beautiful. Ethereal, even, but it hovers in the air like a crown too heavy for my head.

Torryn grunts and shakes his head. “You want her to carry a soft name like that into a world at war?”

He doesn’t wait for Sylvin to reply, turning his attention to me as he crosses his arms against his chest.

“Branna,” he offers, voice full of confidence. “Strength and fire. That’s what you’ll need to survive this.”

That name is heavier and like it was forged for someone else’s battle.

Before I can respond, Riven steps forward, his eyes gleaming with that same, sharp hunger. “Seraphine,” he murmurs slowly in offering. “The helpless look in your eyes makes me ache with reverence.”

Torryn lets out a heavy sigh. “She’s not yours to star in some twisted fantasy role.”

Riven smirks at him, raising an eyebrow as he retorts, “Says the wolf who wants to name her like a weapon to use.”

Sylvin’s voice cuts through next, cool and clipped. “Your options are inconsequential. I don’t know why either of you even bothered after my choice, it clearly fits her.”

I shrink back a little under the weight of it all–their voices, their judgments, their expectations.

They aren’t offering names.

They’re offering versions of me that they picture, and none of them feel like mine .

Azyric hasn’t spoken. He’s still half-turned from the circle, his gaze scanning our surroundings like none of this concerns him.

Then I hear it, just barely floating on the wind.

“Wren.”

I turn toward him, startled by his sudden contribution. His silver eyes flick toward mine, just for a second, but it’s long enough to see a softer expression hidden in their depths.

A beat passes. One breath, then another.

“I like that,” I mumble, nodding to myself.

Wren.

“It would be him,” Sylvin mutters, folding his arms as he casts a sideways glance at Azyric.

“Of all of us, the one who won’t even look at you chooses the name that resonates.

” His voice is light and teasing, but I sense a bitterness beneath the words.

“How fitting. A shadow names a girl born from the depths of the earth.”

Riven’s jaw tenses, red eyes narrowing just slightly. He says nothing, but the silence feels sharp .

They don’t argue my decision, but they don’t celebrate it either. It’s clear that none of them expected it to be him who offered a fitting option.

I watch Azyric’s shadows climb higher, obscuring everything but his face.

Then the moment fractures as Torryn’s voice breaks through, gentler than before.

“Now that we have that settled, I’m sure you’d like to know what we know about you, Wren.”

Warmth floods my chest as I meet his gaze and whisper, “Thank you, I would.”

This is what I’ve waited for. To see if they would willingly share the knowledge they have, to help me piece together who I am and where I come from.

From their actions and offerings of names, I was beginning to wonder if they didn’t have any interest in my truth.

If maybe they were getting caught up in these fantasies they constructed of me in their minds.

“My second was flying overhead when the battle began,” he says.

“He said the ground shifted of its own accord. It didn’t split open from a barrage of magical attacks.

It didn’t split open in cracks, like a natural disaster meant to swallow all in its path.

It moved gently and slowly, like it chose to open and offer you to the world. ”

A breath sticks in my throat at these details, but his initial words slam back into me .

I blink, struggling to picture what he said. “Flying…?”

“We’re shapeshifters,” he explains. “Born to shift into the animal spirits we bond with. It’s our second form, and some of us have more than one.”

The word shapeshifter lands with a thud in my mind. My brain doesn’t rebel against it. It folds in around it, like it accepts it as the truth I already knew deep down.

Something in me knows shapeshifters, like a hazy memory of a dream I woke from too fast.

I look between them all, voice quiet as I speak. “You’re all shifters?”

Sylvin chuckles under his breath. “Hardly.”

Riven’s scoff slices through the space with an air of arrogance. “Do I look like a beast to you?”

Torryn’s jaw clenches as his hands ball into fists at his sides. “Watch it, fangs. Your primal urges aren’t too far off.”

Riven sneers. “Our kind could never be confused, mutt.”

Before the tension can dissipate, Sylvin lifts a hand, voice slick with amusement. “Easy now. No need to bruise your egos in front of the girl.”

The air in my lungs tightens and I bristle at his clear choice to not use the name I chose.

“It’s Wren,” I whisper quietly, but none of them stop to listen .

“I’m not the one confusing bloodlines,” Riven mutters before looking out at the battlefield. “She asked and I answered. Simple as that.”

“And you answered like a petulant child,” Sylvin replies smoothly. “Try not to embarrass yourself in front of the first female outside of your own kind to look at you like you aren’t a monster.”

“Say that again,” Riven’s attention snaps to him as he growls, fangs flashing faintly behind his taunting smirk.

“I’d rather not repeat myself for someone who hears with his teeth,” Sylvin goads.

I stand frozen, coat tight in my hands as the air sparks with an air of violence. It feels old and bitter, like there’s hundreds of years worth of history driving their clear disdain of one another.

These men are not allies. They barely tolerate one another.

Did I make a mistake in thinking they could help me?

Once more, I hear Azyric breathe out quietly, “How did I get stuck with these children?”