Page 43 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

For the first time since I woke up in this world, I feel the truth of myself without reaching for it.

The outline of what I am settles over me like a second skin, unfamiliar only in how natural it feels to wear it again.

I was not born. I was created by gods long forgotten by the inhabitants of this planet.

I am not lost or forgotten. I was always meant to be here when the earth needs me most.

A soul stitched with purpose and placed within the planet like a final safeguard called forth when destruction tips too far, when the planet can no longer endure the weight of its occupants.

A weaver of fates, meant to watch, listen, and after experiencing, decide what–if anything–is worth saving.

I am judgment.

I am the reckoning.

I feel the pull of my purpose, deep inside my being as it settles into my chest.

Just as I breathe easier than I can ever recall doing, a thrum builds within me, followed by a warmth pushing from my chest.

Two threads, golden and gleaming, unfurl from my sternum in graceful arcs.

The peace I felt is replaced with fragile hope. I’ve seen them in other people, and each time there was a clear choice that filled me with certainty from seeing them.

These are the answers I’ve been seeking from the earth as it wept under the battlefield.

And yet in the middle of my relief, I feel a tightness beneath my ribs as I watch the threads hover, suspended in the air before me.

I let my mind drift toward the one on my left, and the thread responds instantly, the darkness around me dissolving with my acknowledgment.

I see the battlefield again with scorched earth from missile attacks and fae magic. Smoke lifting in lazy spirals through the burning forest. At the center of it all, the four kings stand together .

Riven’s chest rises and falls with the aftermath of the carnage, his hands slick with blood and steady at his side.

Sylvin’s eyes shine, narrowed in satisfaction.

Torryn’s wolf form is still braced, like he waits for another threat to rise.

Azyric’s shadows slither around his feet, each tendril seeming on alert, scanning the area around him.

They won.

All around them, the space is littered with bodies. Mostly human, but all silent and unmoving.

The vision shifts forward as the humans retreat further into their corner of the country, too few to fight, too broken to rally.

The magical factions reclaim their lost ground with swift, merciless precision.

Entire states are wiped of human life, one at a time until there’s no longer any remaining.

Across the world, the tide turns with the news of what happened in America.

I see images of news feeds glowing through shattered screens, trembling voices laced with fear, maps redrawn in real time as human lands across the globe are reclaimed by the magical.

The factions don’t stop until the last human life is snuffed out, but the war doesn’t stop with them then, where it should

The thread keeps pulling me forward in time.

What begins as triumph slowly shifts, and I start to feel the rot before I see it .

Their unity doesn’t last.

Alliances splinter beneath the weight of old grudges and greed. What once stood as one begins to divide, and from those cracks a new war grows.

I watch the fae carve forests into glass palaces and freeze lakes into prisons of ice.

I see vampires drain whole villages, not in hunger but indulgence.

The shifters claim land with tooth and claw, power shifting with every conquered border.

The wraiths move through shadows of each night, quiet and lethal, extinguishing lives with little resistance.

I watch each of the kings warring with one another for dominance, but I’m not there to plead with them to stop and see that they’ve already achieved what they wanted.

Beneath the weight of their war, the earth begins to die. Magic blooms unchecked until the land can no longer hold it and the devastation that follows. I feel the rot building from within the core of the planet. Decades condensed into moments, until slowly, the earth collapses.

All the warring entirely in vain as every life is snuffed out, alongside the planet.

The vision fades, but the churning within my gut doesn’t leave me.

I pull back from the thread, retreating back to the darkness of my mind and the two glowing threads .

My mouth parts in disbelief as I process that future.

They won and the world still died.

My chest tightens, sharp and sudden, the ache flaring brightly within.

I felt the moment their love for this world curdled into possession.

I felt the silence of the planet as it was drained of balance, of beauty, and of hope.

And I felt the cold acceptance as it gave up and let go.

Tears slip down my cheeks before I realize I’m crying. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, but more follow, relentlessly.

I turn toward the second thread that waits for me quietly, pulling out from me in a golden arch. Dread pools low in my belly, thick and sickening.

I don’t want to see it. I already feel the shape of it pressing at the edge of my mind.

But I was created to see these paths and choose, so, with the sting of hot tears still wet against my skin, I give in to the second vision, letting it wash over me.

Certainty grips me as I once again watch my morning unfold.

I see myself waking, tucked in the middle of Riven’s arm that’s draped protectively over my waist and with Torryn curled along my back, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Sylvin’s arms tangle with my legs at the end of the bed, one arm slung lazily across my ankle like he can’t bear to sleep without touching me.

They are at peace.

We are at peace.

I feel the ache start to build in my throat before anything happens. My pulse stutters as the Wren in the vision takes a deep breath and smiles before pressing her palm to Riven’s chest, right over his heart.

She smiles softly and then I watch her hand reach inward, through his chest.

No .

The vision pulls tighter, dragging me with it as I resist. I watch a golden thread pulse from within his chest and she pulls at it. I instantly know I’m watching his soul thread being pulled from him as her hand retreats. His thread unravels in a single, impossible breath.

One moment he’s warm beside her, and the next, he’s gone.

She plucked his soul from existence entirely.

I try to scream, but no sound comes. I’m forced to watch as the others follow.

Torryn stirs beside her and she doesn’t hesitate.

Her fingers trail across the hollow of his throat before her hand reaches within, and his golden eyes snap open to meet her.

I watch the litany of emotions flash through his eyes.

There’s confusion and hurt, but no anger.

No defense from him as she pulls the thread from his chest. I watch the trust in his eyes and the soul thread unravel together.

My throat is thick with the emotion clogging it, and I try to slam my eyes shut. To pull myself from this terror. Yet no matter what I do, the vision continues in my mind.

Sylvin wakes last. He sits up, blinking, that lazy grin half-formed on his lips when she reaches across the sheets and rubs her hand on his chest.

His mouth parts, and I watch him die with my name on his lips.

Azyric appears in the doorway and I run to him, unraveling his strand with a soft kiss pressed to his lips as he disappears.

The vision drags me forward. I see the confusion ripple through the factions as they suddenly don’t remember why they’re here, or what purpose they’re serving, with the kings and every moment with them stripped from their memories.

I watch the humans seize the chaos as their scouts find the factions.

They surge forward while the magical forces falter, leaderless and stunned.

The imbalance tips fast and the war turns.

I’m pulled forward in time and I watch the magical lines fall one by one across the globe, emboldened by the success of the human rebellion in America.

Across the world the factions are overrun by the sheer numbers the humans have.

There’s always a new soldier to replace the last, a never-ending loop.

The planet survives, but there’s no magic left at the end of the war. Only humans building atop their newly conquered lands.

Somewhere beneath it all, deep in the center of the earth, I sleep again. Sealed away until the earth has need of me once more.

As if none of this ever happened. As if they never happened.

There’s a sudden, staggering emptiness inside of me as the vision fades, leaving its weight behind, lodged deep beneath my ribs. I fold in on myself from grief so thick it steals the air from my lungs.

I killed them with a kind of tenderness that destroys me more than any weapon ever could. I killed them with reverent hands, with soft touches and gentle smiles, and I watched them go.

They trusted me and brought me into their lives, and this is how I repaid them.

I looked them in the eyes, and I chose to take them from this world.

That was the version of me who did it, yet didn’t cry, but I do now.

It comes in waves–choking, splintering sobs that claw their way up my throat and spill into the silence of my mind. My body shakes with grief that knows their warmth. I press my palms to my face and feel the wetness smear across my skin.

I don’t want this.

I don’t want either of the futures I’ve seen.

I don’t want to choose between the earth’s annihilation by their hands or their deaths by mine.

I want a thread that doesn’t exist. I want to go back to that house, to that bed, to that quiet breath between us and stay there. Before I knew what was to come, before my purpose wrapped its hand around my throat.

The hum of the earth begins in that low, steady rhythm as it connects to me, pulsing in the hollows of my chest.

“You are ready,” it says.

The truth sinks beneath my skin, as unyielding as the weight in my chest.

“You remember your purpose.”

The threads linger before me, golden and silent, hovering like they didn’t just show me the death of the future I found myself reaching out and claiming for myself before this battle.

My fingers twitch at my sides, but I don’t reach for them, because I’m still holding on to the part of me that doesn’t want to let them go.

“You know what must be done, Weaver. ”

I swallow down my grief and wipe my cheeks of my tears, nodding in answer.

This is my purpose and I must rise to it.

“I understand,” I breathe out and reach for the thread.