Page 96 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Of course, I am,” he joked, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. You will be her ruin. He shouldn’t say it—shouldn’t be leaning closer with those words in his mind—but he swallowed and said, “I’m going to protect you, Emmeline. I promised that before, and I meant it.”

She inhaled sharply, the rise and fall of her chest injecting a whole new kind of misery into his veins. Fates, he had to get it together.

“Not everything can be protected,” Emmeline whispered, eyes distant, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it.

“I swear to you, Huntress, on the graves of the Fates and the damn Narratres Fatorum themselves, I won’t let anything harm you.”

It was a grand promise, perhaps one he shouldn’t dare claim in the face of all they were up against. But as he held her gaze, a dozen flashing hazel hues against his flat grey stare, a knot pulled tight in his chest.

And despite his ruinous thoughts, not one part of his vow was a lie. It felt like it had been sealed in the stars eons ago and was only waiting for his recognition.

Emmeline swallowed, and he couldn’t help wondering if she felt the magnitude of that promise as well.

“Thank you.” Her hand slid from his, and as if the celestial beings hadn’t just shifted around his entire countenance, Roremar followed her up the path.

They caught up to the others before a circular tower that reminded Roremar of a lighthouse, a ring of cypher trees surrounding its pale facade. Their willowing branches swayed in the late afternoon breeze, the fading sun glinting off their ever-green leaves and small white buds. Finally, some normal flowers.

“The marble is almost like the Temple back home and the Accords,” Myrella commented.

“And the Trade House,” Nico added hopefully, though Myrella didn’t respond.

Desmond, picking leaves off a fallen branch, explained, “It’s modeled after the revered buildings across the isles. People call it the Lair.”

Vines wrapped around the building, obscuring the scenes carved into the stone beneath. On one side, blush hues bloomed, the other withered and brittle.

And before them, as if welcoming them all in, a tall, feminine statue stood in the center of the fountain. Her body was both slim yet curvy and dressed in an elaborate, form-fitting gown. Coins littered the water around her feet, the images along the base of the fountain eroded to time.

“Is it supposed to be Valyrie?” Nico asked.

Roremar shook his head. “No wings.” He checked the back to make sure they hadn’t been broken off, but the stone was smooth.

“Is there someone we need to get permission from to enter?” Emmeline asked Desmond, her voice reclaiming its usual confidence.

“No, the Storytellers only open the doors when they feel there’s something to share,” Desmond said.

Emmeline gave him a flat look that Roremar mirrored. “How the fuck is this helpful then?” he asked.

As if the Fates were laughing at him—which at this point, he assumed they were—a door carved into the vine-wrapped structure slid open.

“That’s unsettling,” Nico muttered. A step behind him, Myrella nodded in agreement.

“Unsettling or Fate-written,” Desmond said, an awed, eager smile creeping across his face. He strode forward, all the magic Roremar knew comprised his friend seeming hungry for answers, more alive on his home isle than ever.

But when Desmond approached the door, it slid a few inches shut.

“What in the Fates?” Des blurted, jumping back. Pivoting to face the group, he ran a hand through his hair. “Not me, I suppose.”

Emmeline stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not invited.” He tried to hide the bitterness from his tone, but Roremar saw it in his narrowed stare. He snapped, “Your turn.”

Chin up, Emmeline strode forward. Roremar held his breath, waiting for the door to react again, but the Lair accepted her with open arms, a slight hum filling the air. That alone had him traipsing after her, eyes locked on the chestnut waves falling to her lower back and the dimples at the base of her spine.

The moment Roremar was across the threshold, the door slid closed again. He and Emmeline both jumped.

“Only two, I suppose,” she commented, voice ringing in the empty space.

“As Nico said, that’s unsettling.”