Page 99 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

She smiled weakly, her eyes still fogged over, and panic ratcheted through Roremar’s chest. He barked, “Someone explain it to us.”

Arenothos’s Storyteller did, thank the stars, her bone necklace clacking as she turned to them. “You know of our Fates as those who wind fortunes through the paths of stars, but they are much more than that. Each Fate holds legends of darkness, and the Fate of Cruelty and Adoration was worthy of her name. She attracted many lovers over the years, but while their infatuation ran as deep as their bones, hers did not. Not for most of them at least.”

Emmeline’s hand landed on Roremar’s arm, gripping tight, just as she had on the path outside. “Was that it? Was Anphrosia the great love of Arenothos that Desmond spoke of outside the Accords?” she asked, blinking heavy-lidded eyes so full of trust up at Roremar.

But the Storyteller continued, “No. She was a much later entanglement, under much different means.”

“She involved herself with many of our Fates,” Aevollon’s female said, a hint of bitterness indicating he was also a victim of Anphrosia’s cruelty.

The Storyteller of Wrath and Redemption said, “When it came to Arenothos, Anphrosia was already promised to another—to many in her twisted games, but one in particular—and the affair with my Fate dropped doom upon the realms.”

“Anphrosia is at the heart of everything held dear,” the flower-draped Storyteller praised, still assessing Emmeline and Roremar with a too-enthusiastic curiosity. “She has defined bonds, spun love stories, and written the fortunes of their perilous truths.”

“And left ruin in her wake,” Arenothos’s Storyteller added with a disdainful twist of her lips.

Something shifted behind Roremar, and he turned, keeping Emmeline at his side and an eye on the three people in their illuminated wedges. He hadn’t realized a fourth Storyteller had entered the chamber. Directly across from the other three, the panel entirely drenched in shadow, someone stood atop the sigil of the jungle cat wreathed in ivy, two wine jugs at her feet—one overflowing and one shattered.

“Do not mind him,” the Storyteller of Anphrosia instructed, his smile a viper’s. “He does not speak.”

“He doesn’t speak?” Roremar asked, a floral note he couldn’t name deepening on the air.

“Not in a very, very long while,” Aevollon’s said. “He has simply come to observe.”

“Observe what?”

A shrug from Arenothos’s Storyteller. “We cannot know.”

“Do you know anything about the Warders of Selene?” Emmeline asked, voice strained.

Shocked silence coated the room, grating on Roremar’s patience. “You speak of our purpose?” Aevollon’s Storyteller asked, and it landed like a punch to Roremar’s chest.

“It’s you?” he accused. “You are the Warders?”

“Not us,” Arenothos’s corrected, “but that which we are made for.”

Fuck, what was it with all these riddles and vague statements? Now more than ever, Roremar was fed up with the Fates. He hadn’t been lying last night when he told Emmeline he didn’t always trust them, but now? With their Storytellers seeming to enjoy dragging them around by their necks?

No, Roremar was out of his very limited amount of patience.

“Do you know anything about the women that have gone missing or not?” Roremar snapped.

The golden Storyteller of Aevollon ignored him, her gaze locked on Emmeline. A serpent slithered lazily along her shoulders, draping her frame like some predestined notion of the very Fate’s sigil that marked her bare feet. A tremor wracked Emmeline’s body as it climbed, and she pressed tighter to Roremar’s side.

He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her, her nails feebly digging into his forearm, but her attention was homed in on that snake’s glittering scales. The Storyteller smirked, dragging a delicate finger over its iridescent head.

“Our magic differs from typical Storytellers,” Arenothos’s reminded them. “We can only share that which pertains to our Fates.”

“Tomorrow night,” Anphrosia’s added, and Roremar’s attention whipped over so quickly, Emmeline nearly stumbled. The pink-tinged incense around the Storyteller thickened. “Go to the Mourning Gardens beyond the Steel District and find that which reflects her. If there are answers to be given, that is where you will find them.”

“What are the Mourning Gardens?” Roremar asked. What in a Fate’s starry-eyed fuck did any of that mean?

Emmeline’s skin grew colder, her form shuddering against him until she went utterly still.

“Your friend will know,” Aevollon’s Fate said, exchanging a glance with Arenothos’s. “He who speaks to both of ours.”

That was enough for Roremar. Scooping Emmeline into his arms, he carried her from the hall. But not before casting one last glance at the shadow-drenched, silent form in the darkened wedge. He couldn’t help but feel that while they’d finally gotten a hint—finally earned a step forward—every inch was being watched.

And while he’d told Emmeline he wasn’t afraid of entering the Lair, as she became heavy in his arms and her breathing slowed, he admitted to himself that perhaps he should have been.