Chapter 40: The Dangers of Messing with Spirits
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Darcy exhaled. His breath curled in the frigid night air. The silence pressed against him like a crashing wave. A sense of foreboding weighed heavy, as it did before every great mission.
He stole a glance at the dozen guards crouched low behind him.
The figures pressed themselves close to the worn tiles of the rooftop, blending into the dark shadows. They remained unseen by the drunken festival-goers below, oblivious to storm brewing above their heads. It was fortunate they didn’t have the sense to look up... or else they’d find themselves at the mercy of the best soldiers Feldgrau had to offer. They were strong and efficient, honed in the art of silence, deadly as the blades at their sides.
Dark cloth wrapped their face, leaving only their eyes exposed. Smudges of black paint had been drawn beneath the lids, dulling the reflection of the lantern light. They were ghosts in the night, faceless and nameless. Their expressions were cold, unreadable except for the steel-like determination that shined through.
The eye-patched man glanced to his side. “Are you ready?” His words were quiet only meant for the person beside him. “Cristin?” he nudged the other man’s frozen form.
The attendant had not said a word since he parted from his liege. Cristin only gave a single curt nod.
Darcy’s gaze returned back towards the street below, then darted up at the row of terraces. Despite his misgivings, their lord would not be joining them tonight. It had taken Darcy and Cristin an entire night of well-rounded arguments to persuade the stubborn Ice Prince.
Darcy sighed, suddenly grateful. At the very least, if things went wrong on this mission… they would not drag Feldgrau down with them.
His single eye landed on their target. The Lucky Charm.
Lanterns of every color bathed the building in an ethereal glow, their shifting lights reflecting off the incoming fog. But beauty was a deception. Tonight, the building would be their battlefield. And failure was not an option.
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Neither was being captured.
Darcy beckoned the other guards closer. “Pair up,” he said, low and steady, cutting through the hush. “Each team takes a floor, send the signal when you’ve located the target. Complete the mission, then return to base.” His eyes hardened. “Protect your partner. Protect yourself. But do not be seen.”
His eyes shifted to the two women crouched by Cristin. “Decoy team, you stay here. If things go south, you know what to do.”
Firm nods answered him, without a hint of hesitation.
The glint of steel caught on the moonlight, as daggers were gripped tightly and muscles coiled, poised to strike. Shadows moved as the guards shifted into position like a controlled storm brewing on the horizon.
Even before the operation had begun, they were ready. They stiffened.
Each pair waited silently for Darcy’s command. Their ears strained for the words that would set everything into motion.
The eye-patched man closed his eye. Pressing one hand to his heart, he rested the other on the hilt of his sword. His lips barely moved as he whispered a prayer, the words swallowed by the noisy chatter below them.
Cristin watched the familiar ritual, a knowing smirk tugging at his serious expression. When the other glanced back up, he noted, “You always do that.”
Darcy shot the other man a wry smile. “It’s good luck.” He clasped a heavy hand on Cristin’s shoulders. His grip was firm. “We won’t start this operation until you’re ready.”
The attendant exhaled slowly. Shaking himself of the weight of doubt, his jaw tightened. Cristin nodded sharply. “Give the command, Darcy.”
At those words, the commander raised his hand, holding it steady as a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him, straightening.
The entire team held their breath.
Darcy’s hand dropped.
“Go.”
Like shadows, the guards sprinted off, vanishing into the night, their presence erased in an instant.
Cristin flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar weight of his concealed dagger. He tugged the dark cloth around his face.
“Let’s go,” he murmured. A dark hunger burned in his eyes. “I want to find them first.”
Darcy didn’t respond. He vaulted over the rooftop’s edge, landing soundlessly on the open terrace of the Lucky Charm. Cristin joined his side with barely a grunt, his impact softer than a whisper.
“Remember the mission,” Darcy reminded lightly, though he didn’t sound the least bit worried.
Cristin’s fingers tightened around the blade strapped to his chest. “I’ll remember,” he swore. The thought of sharp blue eyes flashed in his mind. He pushed open the screen door.
This time, there would be no failure.
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The heart of the Lantern Festival was a sight to see. Attractions filled every corner. Every merchant boasted that their wares would bring the most prosperity and luck.
“Come get your fortune told by the mystical Ama Zhula!”
Outside the vibrantly tasseled tent, a long line of eager festival-goers waited with bated breath. The giant red tent was perhaps the most attractive sight of all. Hundreds of couples whispered to each other in excitement and trepidation, pointing eagerly at the tent flap embroidered with twisting foreign symbols.
“Ama Zhula has never been wrong! The gods have blessed her and the spirits speak through her!”
At those words, the tent flap burst open. A man stepped out, steadying his pregnant wife as she sobbed hysterically into his chest.
“What did she say?” someone asked, craning their neck. “What did Ama Zhula tell you?”
“We’re doomed!” wailed the woman. “He’s going to love another woman!”
The husband ran a hand down his face despite the smile on his face. “She told us we’re having a girl, not that I’m going to find a mistress!” He shot an apologetic look at the line. “It’s great news. Really!”
But the woman sobbed harder. “I wanted twin boys!” She straightened suddenly, an idea forming in her head. “Maybe we should get Ama Zhula to confirm again!”
Her husband rolled his eyes. His voice was soft as he gently pulled her away from the tent. “You’re just upset my mother was right all along.”
"No, I'm not!" came the protest. "And she isn't always right!"
"Whatever you say, dear," came the comforting reply.
The line murmured with intrigue, eyes glued to the drama before turning eagerly back towards the tent.
It was this scene that Nikolai and Faye walked into. In the general's arms were an assortment of festival treats and trinkets. By her side, the masked man finished the last bite of butter bread, before tugging his mask back into place.
Faye squinted at the bold lettering on the tent’s sign. “
A fortune teller?” She glanced up at her companion. “What does that mean?”
The masked man crossed his arms. “They claim to see the future.”
Amber eyes widened. “A wizard! Is it real?”
A half-hearted shrug was his only response. “Perhaps.”
“Come get your fortune told by the great Ama Zhula!” A deep, theatrical voice rang out. “She can see into the thread of your soul and bid the spirits to reveal your fate!”
Faye shuddered. “Only fools mess with the spirits,” she muttered darkly. “No good can come of it.”
The masked man chuckled. “Don’t take it so seriously, Princess. It’s just a festival game.”
Faye straightened, eye flashing. “Messing with spirits is no game!” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I’ve seen fierce warriors fall to stray arrows for mocking them.”
“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, rubbing his chest where she had poked him. “I believe you.”
There were still plenty of other things to entertain her.
Before they could turn away, firm hands clamped around both of their wrists. The surprisingly strong hold yanked them forward.
Both stiffened, spinning to find an old woman with pale, milky eyes. Her short, curly white hair was wrapped in a vibrant cloth. Despite her small stature, her grip was unyielding. She dragged them towards her tent easily. The old woman pulled the duo towards the entrance, ignoring the indignant protests from those waiting in line.
“Make sure we’re not disturbed,” she instructed the man by the entrance.
He grinned. “Of course, Ama Zhula.”
Faye gasped. She twisted against the iron clamp hold. “I’m not going with someone who messes with spirits!” she protested noisily.
The pale eyes regarded her curiously. “Calm yourself, Yelani’s daughter.” The old woman’s gaze was sharp. “I do not mess with spirits, I merely ask them for guidance.”
Faye stiffened at the mention of her mother’s name.
Still, the young woman dug her heels into the dirt, forcing them all to a halt. Ama Zhula had impressive strength, but Faye was a force of nature.
The old woman sighed impatiently. “What is it now? Hurry, we do not have all day.” Her eerie gaze slid to the masked man. “Wouldn’t you agree, son of Feldgrau?”
The masked man shrugged.
Beside him, Faye still looked troubled. She shifted uneasily. “Snowfox,” she shot him a weary glance. “I’ll only go if you think it’s a good idea.”
His eyes glinted behind the smooth metal as he considered the idea. “If she’s a fraud, she’s a well-informed one.” He offered another helpless shrug, “She knows more than she should. My curiosity is piqued.”
Still, Faye looked reluctant. She rubbed her arms uneasily.
The masked man lowered his voice. He leaned in, the teasing note fading. “We do not have to go if you are against it. But,” his tone edged into a subtle challenge, “it is tradition to visit a fortune teller during the festival."
He couldn't help but add, "I thought you wanted to experience everything.”
Her amber gaze narrowed. “Fine,” she grunted.
But as Faye pushed open the tent flap, she tossed a dirty look behind her shoulders. “If this goes badly, Snowfox,” she muttered darkly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he smirked, “Princess.”
With a huff, the Raven General moved, "You go in first!" Her arm darted out to pull the masked man into the tent. He barely stumbled, half expecting the move.
The moment they crossed the threshold of Ama Zhula’s mystic domain, they choked on the thick cloying scent of incense.
Faye coughed loudly. Beside her, the masked man hid a grimace. The smoke curled lazily, wrapping around them like a phantom embrace.
Ama Zhula’s blank smile greeted them. Something flashed in her pale eyes.
“Sit,” she commanded. The fortune teller gestured sweepingly towards the two stools before her, one was dyed a deep crimson red, while the other had a bright, rich blue pattern.
As if stuck in a trance, they obeyed, perching onto the stools without question.
With a sweep of her sleeves, Ama Zhula reached for their hands. She turned their palms upwards.
Faye hissed quietly. The woman’s touch was freezing. A glance at her companion told her he felt it too, his posture shifting every so slightly back.
On the fortune teller’s table sat a colorful tablecloth, embroidered with tiny figures. They blurred in the smoke, changing ever so slightly at every glance. At the center sat a tangled web of intricately braided red and green strings. The threads were loosely tied together, trailing endlessly into one another, making it impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.
Ama Zhula’s smile faded.
“Let us begin.” Her pale eyes closed as she murmured a low, growly incantation. The smoke seemed to thicken as the temperature within the tent dropped. “Spirits, I summon thee to this realm.”
Faye gulped. She nudged the masked man’s shoulder.
He glanced back at her.
“If we are cursed,” she leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I will haunt you for eternity.”
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Elody heaved the bucket over her shoulders. The courtesan stepped into the cool night air. Her expression twisted into a dark grimace.
The weight of the bucket pressed against her arms like heavy weights.
Madam Athena always had the worst punishments. She grunted, shifting her grip as she waddled toward the gardens. Within the bucket, the chicken feed sloshed. Why was it so heavy?
Thankfully, the coop was already within sight. She exhaled shakily. Just a few more steps.
Above her, a dark flash darted across the rooftops.
Elody froze. It must have been a trick of the eyes... But her skin prickled uneasily as the hairs on the back of her neck rose.
A shiver crawled up her spine. The air felt wrong. Elody had the sudden feeling that she wasn’t alone.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Setting down the bucket, she scanned the courtyard filled with beautiful flowers and trees. Despite the graceful beauty, it was far too still. Her pulse quickened as a sudden realization hit her.
The garden was empty.
Where were the bustling masses of cooks and servants that always filled it? The distant hum of conversation was suddenly missing. At this hour, the Lucky Charm was always at its busiest.
The silence pressed against her, louder than the blood pounding in her ears.
Elody hesitated. She took a step back. And then another.
Her eyes narrowed as she lifted her skirts, pivoting sharply toward the door. Every instinct within screamed. Run.
She barely had time to call for help before a figure in black dropped from the roof, blocking her escape. A rough shove sent the artist flying. Elody cried out as her back hit the dirt. The bucket of feed scattered, staining her evening dress.
Elody gasped, scrambling back. The shadows twisted above her as more figures descended from the rooftops like bats. Too many to count. Her chest tightened. Elody was surrounded.
“Who are you?” she shrieked, fingers grasping wildly in the mud until they closed around something solid. There! Her fingers curled around the jagged rock. “What do you want?”
There was a low chuckle. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.”
The leader crouched and gripped her chin harshly. “This is the right sister, isn’t it?” The rough leather of his glove scraped against her skin.
The artist spit in his face.
Elody smirked slightly, delighting in the other’s grimace. The grip on her face tightened. She sneered, “Did the Lord of Feldgrau send you?”
A harsh, mocking laugh answered her. “So smart for a pretty thing,” the figure cooed, voice dripping with amusement. “But I’m afraid you have the wrong royal.”
He turned to nod at his partners. They approached, arms full. Elody shook as she recognized the items. Rope. And a gag.
"Help! Somebody!" Her frantic mumbles grew into desperate screams, fighting against the grip on her face. “Get away from me! By the gods, I swear if you touch me, the matron will-“
“Shut her up,” came the harsh command.
With a desperate cry, Elody lunged forward and slashed the rock across his face. He immediately released her and recoiled, cursing loudly. Blood spurted from the wound. She didn’t wait to see his reaction. She pushed herself to her feet.
Driven by sheer survival instinct, she dodged the other intruders and sprinted for her life. As long as she reached the door, she could get help. She’d have a chance. The mantra pounded in her head, louder than the fear choking her lungs. She forced her legs to move as fast as they could. Her muscles burned. The combination of adrenaline and panic made her heart clench.
A sharp yank at her scalp wrenched her backwards. Elody yelped as white-hot pain seared through her skull and strands of hair tore free. Elody barely had time to cry out before she was slammed to the ground.
A boot collided with her side.
“Stay down.” It was a woman’s voice this time.
Stars burst behind Elody’s eyes as a punch socked her right across the face. Blood pooled on her tongue. Through the haze of pain, she could make out the shape of someone standing over her, eyes glinting from beneath a dark mask.
Elody spat a glob of blood onto the dirt. “At least tell me your names,” she rasped, voice hoarse but defiant. “Does your master reward you for taking down an unarmed women?”
“You think you’re so clever,” spit the one who had punched her. The woman scoffed, “We have no names.”
Another kick drove the air from Elody’s lungs. She curled instinctively, choking on tears as agony bloomed across her ribs. Her vision swam. The true blow came not from the fists or the boots… but the realization that made her stomach lurch.
She gasped for breath. “You’re the Hounds.”
Their silence was confirmation enough. It was why the gardens were empty. The matron had known.
It was why she had been sent out in the first place, Elody realized with a start. A trap.
Madam Athena was not a kind woman, but whether out of greed or ambition, she was fiercely protective of her girls. There was only one person powerful enough to convince her to betray one of her greatest assets.
The queen.
Despite the logic of it all, Elody couldn’t stop the sting of betrayal.
But why?
Rough hands yanked her arms behind. Her shoulders protested as they bound her wrists with coarse rope. She moaned pitifully. They hauled her to her knees, forcing them into the dirt.
The woman loomed above her, their dark masks covering everything except for piercing eyes and a sharp nose. They toyed with the gag in their hands. “If you don’t want to end up on the executioner’s block, you’ll sit quietly in jail and behave.”
Elody tried to speak around her swollen jaw. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she glared, “why should I go to jail?”
“She hasn’t told you?” The cruel laugh was grating to the ears. “You have your sister to thank for all this.”
Elody’s stomach dropped. Harmon. Her mind raced to piece together the fractured clues. Suddenly, it all clicked into place.
Harmon was going to testify for the queen. The queen had sent the Hounds to silence her sister. No, Elody corrected herself, not silence, but leverage.
They were going to use her as collateral. Tears burned her eyes.
“That’s right,” sneered the female. She shoved the gag into Elody’s mouth, ignoring her muffled protests. Another sharp kick sent her sprawling into the mud. “You better convince your sister to speak well.” The or else was left unspoken.
Elody sobbed, in part from the pain but more from from the unbearable weight of what was to come. Every ragged breath felt like a tightening noose. Even after Harmon testified, they would never be let out for fear of leaking the truth. This was the end.
"Who goes there?" barked the leader.
Elody choked on her breath as she lifted her gaze.
As if the night itself was splitting open, more dark figures emerged out of the shadows, dropping soundlessly from the rooftops. They wore the same dark uniforms. But to her surprise, the Hounds seemed taken aback by the new group.
The first figure turned to the newcomers, his voice filled with displeasure. “We didn’t request backup.”
The leader of the new arrivals stepped forward. They held out a parchment covered in tiny, cramped script.
“Come closer,” snapped the first man. “Do you think I can read from so far away?”
The second leader lowered their head and obliged.
The original group exchanged uneasy glances. They watched silently as their leader snatched the message, scanning through its contents. A flicker of confusion crossed his face before giving way to shock. "This-"
Their eyes widened, and they hurriedly looked up. But it was already too late. Before they could utter another word, a sharp shadow struck from above.
With deadly precision, they dropped from the sky, striking at the base of the man’s neck. Like a crumpled puppet, his eyes rolled back, and he was knocked out.
Through her blurred vision, Elody gaped at the sight unfolding before her. Like an unleashed storm, the courtyard erupted into movement as both sides charged.
The night suddenly filled with the clash of daggers and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground. The allies turned on one another, brawling with fists and daggers.
Some seemed confused as to who they were supposed to fight. They lashed out blindly, attacking anyone within reach, clearly losing track of who was the enemy.
The female that bound Elody abandoned her, launching herself at the figure who had attacked their leader. Clearly skilled, she struck fast and aimed a flying kick at their chest. But the other was even quicker.
They dodged, narrowly twisting out of the way. Ducking low, the cloth covering their face snagged, slipping just enough to expose a sliver of their face.
Elody’s breath caught.
But in an instant, the figure pulled the silk back into place. Their focus never once faltered as they retaliated with a sweeping kick at the female’s legs. Not expecting it, the woman collapsed and knocked herself unconscious.
Elody's mysterious savior surged back into the battle, going after the others. They struck with precision, able to pick out his enemies and aid his comrades.
The ringing in Elody’s ears grew. She panted, desperate for air. Shadows at the edges of her vision darkened. Before she succumbed to the exhaustion, a single name pressed past her gagged mouth in a trembling whisper.
“Lord Cristin…”
A faint, desperate hope flared with her fading consciousness.
“Please win,” she thought before the darkness swallowed her whole.
---
Ama Zhula took Faye’s palm with a featherlight touch. Her weathered finger traced over the pattern of raised scars, following the faint blue of her veins up to the young woman’s forearm. “You’re a fighter,” the fortune teller murmured.
The masked man snorted.
Faye’s eyes narrowed. “Did the spirits tell you that?” she asked cautiously.
Ama Zhula was undeterred. Her finger glided back to Faye’s palm, circling it twice. “No,” she hummed, “but there is a spirit who won’t stop warning me of the harm that will befall me should I bring you pain. The little one is a fighter, he says.”
Faye stiffened.
The fortune teller smirked, “You must relax.”
Faye exhaled sharply. “What did you just call me?”
“In truth,” Ama Zhula’s pale eyes gleamed, glittering unnaturally. “It is the other one I am more wary of. He watches in silence, but his aura is strong for such a young spirit. If I were to cross him, I suspect bad things would truly happen.” She tilted her head to the side. Ama Zhula inhaled deeply, as if scenting something beyond the cloying incense that clouded her tent. “His spirit bears an uncanny resemblance to your soul,” she chuckled, ”though you look more like the other.”
“They care for you. Deeply." Ama Zhula tapped two fingers against the inside of Faye’s wrist bone. "Are they perhaps your past lovers? The two have been following you for years, I think.”
Faye’s breath caught. “Do you speak of Ada- and Leif? They are here?” Her heart pounded against her ribcage, threatening to burst out. “Are your words true, wizard?” She glanced around the empty tent, panting harshly. “Are they truly here?”
But Ama Zhula only smiled, “Like all spirits,” she mused, picking up a red string and crossing it twice over Faye’s pinky, “they are, and they are not.”
Suddenly, the fortune teller’s body went rigid.
The cord tightened around Faye’s finger, biting into her flesh.
Ama Zhula’s pale eyes widened. She grasped the general’s hand and her grip turned vice-like.
The masked man shifted forward, ready to intervene, though he knew Faye was more than capable of disarming the old woman easily.
Ama Zhula’s voice dropped, hoarse and urgent. “Child, your fate it’s- It is not an easy one.” She swallowed, faltering slightly. “I must warn you! But I am bound by the laws of the spirits.” Her tongue darted out to lick her lips nervously. The fortune teller’s expression was clouded with unease. “What I tell you may alter the course of fate. But if you are willing to hear it, I will tell you what I see.”
The air within the tent thickened as the incense curled into lazy tendrils. The dim lantern flickered and dark shadows twisted across the fabric walls.
"I think we have heard enough," came a calm voice. The masked man turned to the frozen young woman. He made to stand. “My lady, I was wrong about this. Let us go.”
Before he could rise, Ama Zhula’s hand shot out. With uncanny precision, she bound the end of Faye’s string to the man’s pinky, looping it twice.
He turned to stare icily.
“Your fortune,” the old woman intoned, “is one you will refuse to accept.”
The masked man was unshaken. “My fate is clear,” came the even response. “It is a path I have chosen for myself.”
Ama Zhula twirled a finger in the air, making the curl of incense swirl into odd shapes. “Fate is fickle,” she murmured. “Some things are like the river, difficult to divert, but possible with great force.” Her gaze slid back to Faye, who sat rigidly. Sorrow pooled in the pale eyes. “And others are like the foundations of a mountain, set in stone before our births and remaining long after our bones have turned to dust.”
Ama Zhula reached for him again, fingers closing around his wrist. “Your bones are strong.” Her smile grew as he let her pull the wrist closer for inspection, undaunted by her eery ways.
“Stronger than the others,” she nodded to herself. Her voice dropped even lower. “And that is why your brother will never be what you wish him to be.”
The smooth metal glinted in the candlelight as the masked man leaned forward challengingly. “I have many brothers,” he said flatly. “Which do you mean?”
Ama Zhula laughed. It was a raspy sound akin to grains of sand blowing across the desert. “All of them!” she exclaimed like she had heard a great joke. “None of them will sit on your father’s seat for more than three days.” She leaned forward to match him, her grin widening. Her two canines were sharp like an animal’s. “And Malakai will never be king.”
At that, his fingers twitched. The masked man tore his hand out of her grasp, standing abruptly. “You were right,” he gestured to Faye, offering a hand to pull her up from her seat. “Let us go.”
But the fortune teller was not finished. “Young lady,” she leveled a piercing stare at Faye, gaze heavy. “You must tell me whether you wish to know your fortune.”
The young woman was staring down at her lap. A haunted expression filled her expression, dark and heavy. “Tell me one thing, wizard.”
Ama Zhula nodded for her to continue .
Faye lifted her chin. The red string was still attached to her pinky. Her voice was quiet, fragile like delicate glass. However, a sharp edge was hidden within, capable of drawing blood if the glass was shattered.
“The two spirits you see,” Faye started. “Does one bear a gash on his throat, and the other a missing right eye?”
There was silence.
With deliberate slowness, the fortune teller turned to look at her right. Her pale eyes narrowed, searching.
“Child,” she turned back to the young woman. “Are you testing me?”
Faye set her shoulders. “Tell me what you see,” she demanded sternly, a stubborn frown set on her lips. “Then I will decide if I’m willing to listen.”
The fortune teller rolled her eyes to the ceiling, muttering under her breath. With a sigh, she murmured, “A gash to the throat and a stab to the eye, you say?” She let out an audible exhale. “No, they do not bear those wounds.”
Faye straightened, fingers curling into a fist.
“The taller one has both his eyes but green taints his skin,” Ama Zhula continued. “The smaller has blue around his lips and throat, as well as a scar above his right brow,” She paused for a moment. Something dark and knowing lurked behind her milky eyes.
“It was poison that killed them, wasn’t it?”
The words struck like a vicious blade.
Ama Zhula leaned forward. “Tell me, Raven General, did I pass your test?”
It was not a question. The old woman knew. The certainty in her voice was absolute.
The proud general lowered her head in acknowledgment. “You did.”
Her shoulders squared as she met Ama Zhula’s gaze once more. “Please,” her voice was steady. “Tell me my fortune, madam.”
The masked man stared at the interaction with silence. But his posture had stiffened, an almost imperceptible shift.
Although she had offered, Ama Zhula exhaled heavily, as if reluctant to speak the words aloud.
“You are marked for sacrifice,” she said, gazing past Faye as if the truth were too heavy to meet her accepting eyes. “To win the war, you must die at the wall. And you must die before the eyes of your loved ones.”
A solemn hush fell over the tent.
Faye did not ask when or where. Even though they lived in a time of peace, she did not even ask which war it would be.
The fortune teller’s voice grew quieter, weighted with something almost regretful. The gift of prophecies was both a blessing and a burden.
Ama Zhula waved a hand in the air. “The gods shall take the price of the most precious blood and offer victory to two nations.”
For a moment, the smoke seemed to drift in the low candlelight. They twisted into the shape of a great army, a phantom reflection of a large battlefield sitting under a looming great wall. Banners rippled in the invisible wind. Then, with a flick of a single finger, the line of ghost-men and rearing horses dispersed as a smoky dagger cut through them, unraveling them into curling wisps of nothing.
Ama Zhula’s voice hardened, “If the blood is not sacrificed, then only sorrow and war will follow.” In a flash, the incense gleamed an eerie crimson. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the vision faded. The smoke returned to its lifeless form, murky gray and shapeless. Like the future… it was merely an illusion.
The masked man was not impressed. His voice was even but the cold edge beneath it cut sharply. “Are you implying the lady will die in Feldgrau?”
The fortune teller closed her eyes to inhale deeply.
“And by the end,” Ama Zhula inclined her head, “that precious wall that separates us from our enemies will be no more.”
"You mean to say," the masked man noted blithely, "that Feldgrau will fall."
Glancing at his hands, he reached down to undo the thin thread around his pinky. The red string was tightly wound but he moved with focused precision.
“The lord does not intend to harm the lady,” he said lowly. “Why would harm befall her in his own home?”
Faye rose abruptly, cutting off the fortune teller’s response. The red thread fell off her pinky with ease, falling back into the pile of strings.
Lifting her arms, she clasped them together and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Ama Zhula.” There was no hesitation in her movements. No lingering doubt.
She turned swiftly and reached for the tent flap.
The masked man rose to follow, but Ama Zhula’s fingers shot out, latching onto his forearm. Her nails dug in, sharp even through his sleeve. “It is your war I speak of,” she said quietly, too soft for the Raven General to hear.
The masked man did not react, but neither did he pull away.
“When the time of sacrifice comes,” Ama Zhula whispered, low and urgent, “you cannot save her, no matter how much you wish to.” The grip tightened, and the pale eyes burned bright. “Promise me you will not interfere.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
The masked man let out a low breath. “I appreciate your warning, madam,” he nodded his head in acknowledgment, but his voice was cold and unyielding. “But I fear I can only disappoint you.”
He tipped his head towards where Faye stood waiting. “Even if my fate is not my own…I will choose my path.”
Ama Zhula’s hand fell away. “That’s what I feared you’d say.”
This time, he did not deign to respond.
Without another word, he strode toward the Raven General’s side. She accepted his presence without hesitation. Their backs, rigid and unyielding, were like twin monuments, one a consuming blaze and the other an unbroken fortress of ice. It was a sight that belonged to the traveling bard's legends or the masterpieces depicting the old leaders of myths long forgotten.
Raising the tent flap, the two silently walked out. As they faded from Ama Zhula’s sight, she could only sigh. She did not miss how the heavy weight of their fortunes pressed down upon their shoulders.
Alone in the dim light, her pale eyes gleamed. She tilted her weathered face toward the ceiling and whispered to the void.
“Spirits,” she murmured. “Please be gentle with them.”