In a secluded corner of the Worcestershire countryside, far removed from the presence of pesky mortals or the snooping eyes of lesser Old Ones, a small, impeccably manicured garden suddenly sprung into being. It was deliciously lush, packed with a riot of colour and looked like somewhere you might expect to find a family of particularly smug garden gnomes. The sort who sent their little gnomets to private school and holidayed in Lapland in order to sneer at the elves. In addition to these irritating little fuckers, white marble statues posed serenely among carefully pruned hedges, and a lovely breeze rustled the leaves of perfectly symmetrical trees. It was the epitome of fated, controlled order. Nothing as random as dandelion would ever dare set foot here.
And yet, for all that, there was still something a little off about the place. For one, if you spent long enough there, you'd sense that the statues occasionally twitched when you weren’t looking. Flipping the bird here, crossing their eyes there. Essentially, lots of little movements designed to unsettle and bemuse. Then, if that were not bothersome enough, you'd also notice that the millions of flowers in the garden bed kept changing, blooming in shades of colour that had no business existing in any sane universe. Oh, and of course, there was the hum—a low, ominous vibration that suggested a fat lady might not yet be singing, but some significant vocal warm-ups were certainly going on.
Basically, what you need to take from this little preamble is that the garden’s ordered peace was really only superficial, like a placid lake concealing a writhing mass of tentacles just beneath the surface. Funny that . . .
At the very centre of the garden, on a throne made of vines and gilded bones, sat Fortuna. She was currently wearing her avatar of a striking woman in her early thirties, golden hair cascading in waves down her back, and a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She was dressed in a flowing red gown that shimmered like a chest wound, and her eyes sparkled with the sort of mischief that every late-night gambler would recognise meant nothing good for the next turn of the card. Luck was not feeling so ladylike tonight.
As if on queue - fortunately, she had been prepared for just this moment - a sudden chill swept through the garden. The statues stiffened, the flowers recoiled, and even the ever-present hum grew significantly quieter. If Sergio Leone did Goddess face-offs, it would have gone something like this. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” Fortuna said, eyes flaring, “And here I was, thinking, after my latest epic victory, I’d have a quiet moment to myself.”
A portal snapped open, and a figure emerged from its maw, striding into Fortuna's garden with the grace of a panther on the prowl. Moira, the Weaver of Fate, looked every inch the supermodel teenager she chose to embody—tall, slender, with raven-black hair that framed her porcelain face. Her eyes, however, were anything but youthful. They burned with the unyielding fire of millennia. It might even be said it was the gaze of someone who had watched civilisations rise and fall and cared little for the outcome. But that might be a touch on the nose.
“How fucking dare you!” Moira’s rage melted the grass under her feet as she stalked towards the seated Fortuna. “You have no right to throw your little pet project in the way of my plans.”
Fortuna didn’t bother to stand. She simply leaned back on her throne, crossing one leg over the other with effortless confidence—Ms Stone would have approved. “Ah, Moira, darling. I was wondering when you’d show up. I assume this is about that little unpleasant kerfuffle down the road?”
Moira’s lips curled into a sneer, and the statues in the garden trembled as her gaze swept across them. “You know exactly what this is about. You just cannot help yourself, can you? Maintaining the Threads of Fate is my role, and you are repeatedly interfering in that!”
Fortuna chuckled, the sound light and airy, like wind chimes tinkling in a summer breeze. “It strikes me you seem to have become more than slightly obsessed with the 'threads of fate' on this little planet, my dear. It’s a big, wide universe! Do you not have anything else to do other than follow around my Herald? In fact, I’m starting to think you might have a little bit of a crush on her. If so, let me know, and I'll have a word. She strikes me as a broadminded girl; after all, once you go Old One, you never go back. No. Hang on. You go mad, that's it. You go stark raving, howling at the moon mad."
Moira’s face darkened, and the garden responded in kind. The sky swirled with storm clouds, and the gentle breeze turned into a biting wind that tore through the trees, sending leaves spiralling to the ground. Where they touched down, jagged roots sprung through the turf to stab into the air. “Your obsession with this . . . thing will be your undoing, Fortuna. Do you think you can use her to shake things up in the structure of the Old Ones? To disrupt order and carve out more power for yourself? It’s reckless, and I will not be allowing it.”
Fortuna’s smile faltered for just a moment, her eyes narrowing as she felt the threat in Moira’s words. In theory, they were reasonably equally matched one-on-one. However, the other Old One had far more . . . reliable allies to call upon. It was fun being the Goddess of Luck and all, but it did mean you tended to attract the sort of supporters who were the very definition of wild-eyed chaos monkeys. Making sure they'd all turn up on time for a ruckus on any given Thursday was tricky, whereas Moira's squad was punctuality personified. Literally.
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However, she quickly regained her composure, flashing her trademark grin which was equal parts charm and defiance. “Me? Reckless? Of course, I am. That's pretty much my job description. And as I always tell you, luck favours the bold, my dear. But I don't need to remind you of that, do I? Because look at you being all interfery with a new integration. You’ve got your own little schemes in play here, haven’t you? What was the plan again? Push the Charm Leech towards the amulet and hope he’d help you take down my Herald? All a bit convoluted, I think, even for a twist of Fate.”
Moira’s eyes flared, and the statues nearest her cracked, thin fissures appearing on their surfaces as if they were made of brittle glass rather than marble. “I had a plan,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a low growl. “A plan that was perfectly calculated, perfectly controlled. And then you had to go and meddle, as always.”
Fortuna shrugged, her nonchalance only serving to infuriate Moira further. “You should know by now, Moira, that I can’t resist tweaking Fate a little. It keeps things interesting. Besides, I'm not keen to let you turn Kris into your puppet. That boy has potential, but not in the way you’re thinking. If he wants to serve you, fine. But it seemed fair to shuffle that deck up a little.”
Moira’s hands clenched into fists, and the ground beneath her feet began to crack, deep, jagged lines spreading out. “You’ve spoilt everything! I had that boy exactly where I wanted him. With my other champions, they would have made a perfect unit. Together, they could have won the Week One tournament, and then—”
“And then what? You have your little trio strike down my Herald? Fuck's sake, Moira, that's an awful lot of effort. I mean, she's basically one bad call away from taking herself off the board without you needing to do anything! All my Heralds are! How do you still not understand how this all works? If you weren't so desperate to stamp out anything that doesn’t fit your perfectly ordered universe, you'd see that by fucking around, you always end up just making things worse. How is all the finding out working out for you?”
Moira’s fury reached boiling point, and for a brief moment, the illusion of her supermodel facade flickered. The statues in the garden shattered, crumbling to dust as the true essence of Moira, the eldritch nightmare beneath the surface, began to seep through. Her eyes were burning twin stars, and her hair writhed as if it had a life of its own, dark tendrils curling and snapping around her. Fortuna, too, began to lose her grip on her human form. Her golden hair darkened, her skin taking on an otherworldly sheen as her smile stretched unnaturally wide, revealing rows of sharp, glistening teeth. The very fabric of reality in this part of the cosmos strained under the weight of their argument.
“You will regret your meddling, Fortuna,” Moira’s voice was a deep, rumbling echo that seemed to come from the very heart of the universe. “You think luck will be enough to save you when the Others become involved? To save your pathetic Herald?”
Fortuna’s laugh was no longer light and airy. It was a dark, guttural sound. “Oh, Moira, you really should learn to relax. What’s the point of all this power if you can’t have a little fun with it?”
But before Moira could respond, the System—ever the reluctant mediator—chimed in with words that quivered on the edge of panic.
*** SYSTEM ALERT! ***
Look, getting into the middle of this is the last thing I want to do, but we're basically at the stage of waking up First Desk to ask for advice, and you know how pissy she gets if she doesn't get a solid three millennia of beauty sleep. Is there any danger you could take this off-world? I can't keep either of your presence down here hidden any longer. As it is, I'm going to have to throw a bunch of beings to the wolves for letting a rupture in space and time occur. And those wolves are fucking hungry.
“Listen to the A.I, Moira,” Fortuna teased. “We wouldn’t want to break this iteration, would we? After all, it’s such a pretty little place.”
Moira snarled, her proper form flickering through once more before she forced herself back into the shape of the supermodel teenager. The ground stopped trembling, and the air grew still again. “We will return to this, Fortuna,” Moira spat, her voice venomous. “I will restore the Threads of Fate to good order. Your Herald won’t survive the tournament, and once she is gone, there won't be any reason for you to hide on this planet anymore. Then let's see what happens.” With that, Moira turned on her heel and stormed out of the garden, her portal swallowing her up as she disappeared.
Fortuna watched her go, her playful grin fading as genuine concern crossed her face. She ran a hand through her hair, the golden strands shimmering once more as she regained control of her appearance. The garden slowly returned to its previous state of artificial serenity, but the damage had been done. Statues lay in ruins, the ground was scarred with cracks, and the flowers had withered and died.
*** SYSTEM STABILISED. WORLD INTEGRITY RESTORED ***
Thank fuck for that. Is there any chance you can keep these little hissy-fits to a minimum? If there were anyone halfway decent keeping an eye on this integration it would already have been shut down!
Fortuna ignored the message and sighed, leaning back on her throne as she considered the mess she’d made. Moira’s anger was no small thing, and the threat she’d made was not one to be taken lightly. The tournament was looming, and with it, the fate of her Herald—and perhaps her own power on this world as well—hung in the balance.
“Well, Lorelei,” she muttered, "I hope you're feeling up for a tussle."