I welcomed the inevitable into my home, and he lingered at my doorstep like a rabbit before a string-wrapped carrot—just waiting for the cage to drop down over his head. When the trap never fell, he followed me in silence. Tall and looming, exactly like his existence; enough to need to duck through the threshold to avoid getting clocked in the head. He filled the space of my sand-battered home as if he owned it himself, even if the bone chimes clattered against his skull and the windows sat just slightly too low for him to have a good view of the outside. He belonged in a stranger’s way of familiarity—off-kilter but not garish. A welcome intrigue.

He never stayed long, just enough to brood in the corner while I went about my business, then he left to do who knows what. Another puppet on the string of Fate. I cut my thread long ago.

Today, though, he lingers. Fills up space and knocks into new and moved chimes because consistency is boring, but he doesn’t leave when the sun settles at high noon. I can’t see details of his face, but I imagine a broad chest to fill the broad shoulders beneath his heavy cloak, and a scowling face perhaps. He strikes me as a scowler. Of course, he only appears as a man because I think of him that way—in the way of falling victim to sudden and fatal diseases, of put-upon aloofness that stifles emotional intelligence, of challenge and assertation. Sometimes she greets me as a woman, too—in the way of chronic hurts and undercutting words, of all-consuming relationships and emotion, of told softness and felt anger. He wears the cowl of expectation and hides well behind it, or else we wouldn’t fight so damn hard to oppose him. Her. It.

“What’s your name?”

“Inevitability.”

Time, as it is, always seems to brush its loose threads around my throat. Despite the looming entity staring down at me, today is a day of collection and he’s not here to hinder routine. So, I’ve found myself with a bit of a skeptical tail as we walk an invisible path away from the house. Sand swirls in the soft and unobstructed wind, but everything is hushed in a serene way that makes the dry dirt and grass less lonely to bear. For a moment, I stop to stare at shifting mirage echoes dancing along the horizon. Nothingness isn’t so bad all the time.

An extra set of footsteps is the only thing abnormal about this picture. We walk in silence until I see the haze of a jagged and crooked mound. Still, he follows.

Dirt and grit crunches beneath my boots as we walk the empty desert. Bits of bone, too. We’re on the edge of the Boneyard, where dead things go to take their last breath. The Boneyard’s reaching fingers stretch their way towards my backdoor, so it’s barely more than a small jaunt to pick through it. Behind me, Inevitability carefully maneuvers this way and that to avoid stepping on sharp slivers. My steps are sure and true, even as I feel pointed edges digging into the worn-down soles. I’ll need to make some more leather for a new pair.

I can almost hear his wince right as a particularly loud crunch jolts the silence. He’s grumpy when I turn to cast a look his way. “Not much of a name, is it? Inevitability. Bit of a mouthful, if you ask me.”

His eyes, a brilliant phantasmagoria of color, are as hooded as his stare. “You asked.”

True enough. I leave the conversation there and turn my attention to the Boneyard. A sea of weathered skeletons creates the illusion of rolling waves over a barren and flat wasteland. I don’t know why it exists, only that its beginning can be pinpointed sometime after my arrival, and it’s been growing ever since. There’s a magic to it, in how they lay themselves out across the unnatural graveyard. They seem to shift and roll this way and that to guide my feet towards something they want me to know, something they want me to see. So, I listen.

Right before the Boneyard really begins, there’s a patch of empty dirt that houses a small wicker basket. I stop next to the basket and crouch down to scoop up the handful of rabbit femurs from within. Inevitability hovers at my back and says nothing when I fill the bones with intent, then toss them away from myself. They roll and scatter, clattering against one another, then come to a stop. Grinning, I turn to look up at Inevitability. “We go Northwest.”

His eyes narrow down at the bones. “What.”

It isn’t a question, but I know he’ll get moody if he doesn’t get an answer. I point to the innocent femurs. “See how they landed? They all point that way. Those two over there even make an arrow.”

“Coincidence.”

I stand and face him with my hands on my hips. It’s so hard to imagine him as anything other than a man when he’s so stubbornly huffy. “Coincidence in of itself is never a coincidence. It happens for a reason, even if the intention is unrelated. You of all should know this.” I don’t give him a chance to respond—not that it will be worthwhile, anyway—and gather the femurs back up. “Come.”

He follows, though whether it’s from curiosity or obedience I’m not sure. “Where are you going?”

I grin over my shoulder at him. “Where the bones say to go.”

The walk is quick thanks to the Boneyard creating an easy path for the both of us to traverse through it. Hard-packed skeletons tangle beneath our feet to create a sturdy ground to walk on, even when high above the actual earth. Inevitability stalks close at my back, as though he’d lose me if he let so much as a breath’s width between us. For such an imposing entity, he’s quite skeptical and cautious.

When we reach a particularly steep incline, a lone ram’s skull sits crooked in the middle of our path. I stoop to grab it by the horns and lift it to eye level. The empty sockets are just that—empty—but the air within vibrates with the need to speak, to pass along a message. I turn to Inevitability, let him narrow those curious eyes of his, then bring the skull up and over my head.

An onslaught of senses flash in my mind—the snap of metal teeth, the clap of smoke-laden thunder, pounding hooves on desert sand, iron on my tongue and in my nose, a man hunched in the dead branches of a sturdy tree, the crack of dry dirt against my skull. My senses are that of the ram’s, my reality has become its past; nothing else penetrates the vision. I’m everywhere and nowhere. I’m in the ram’s mind and outside of it, searching the wilds for clues. I know that tree. I know that thunder.

One thought slips into the back of my mind, as cool as a ghoul’s touch. Protect us.

I will.

The vision fades, though I have to blink away the lingering static before my senses become my own again. Hands—those are hands touching my shoulders, and perhaps there’s a voice as well. I lift the skull with a trembling grip and gently lower it back down to the ground. Inevitability stands in front of me, colorful eyes shifting through dark and flitting hues. A catch his wrists and squeeze.

“There’s something I must do.”

He looks less than impressed. “Yes, get food and water. You nearly collapsed.”

I flash a smile up at him. “Such is prophesy. I’ll recover on the walk. But there is a hunter on the loose, and I don’t particularly like how thin the herd is getting.”

He doesn’t budge. “Prophet—”

“Kinga. King, if you so wish.”

He stares down at me and possibility swirls in the air. He drags his tongue over his teeth before he lets syllables roll over the muscle in a kind of auditory caress, “Ramóna. King and wise protector. Which are you? One or both?”

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I spread my hands wide in placation and challenge. “I’m King of nothingness and everything. I’m King of you. The protector died when the last knight fell. Wisdom stays haunted.”

“You guard a field of bones.”

“And?”

“I call that protection.”

Perhaps I should prickle at that. Lift my metaphorical quills and hiss at him that I protect nothing and no one. But here I am, parched and admittedly starving from the gripping vision, and determined to rid the animals of the oversized rat that plagues them. Perhaps he is right.

But admitting that is beyond my own brand of stubbornness. Instead, I go for petty. I jerk my chin up at him. “I name you Asper.” His face twists in a sweet mixture of bafflement and outrage. “Inevitability is such a mouthful, and I think Asper suits you better.”

“I am not savage—”

I slip out of his grip and start heading out without giving him the chance to get over his shock. “Come, if you want. I’ll be just a moment.”

Despite his sulking, his shadow stretches alongside mine during the entire descent.

**

The prophet is something else.

As she sprinkles bone dust around the border of her territory, I sit at the base of a dead tree and watch. For someone so powerful, with a burden gifted to her by Fate, she’s small. Smaller than the average woman. Black tattoos are plentiful and stark against her pale skin, all in some kind of motif of crows, feathers, and crowns. Solid bands sit around her neck and wrists like ink manacles. They match her hair as it sways in gentle waves in the wind, as well as the glinting silver piercings on her lip, ears, and right across the bridge of her nose.

She is nothing and everything I expected from a prophet of her age and status. Haughty. Playful. Stubborn. Wise. Fierce. I lean forward to brace against my knees and wonder if she after let that tongue lash at kings. If she commanded respect so easily as she does now, or if it’s a trait born of isolation and her connection to me—to what I represent.

Fate only knows.

The last of the dust is set, based on her shifting posture, and I cock my head while trying to figure out what it is she’s doing. Prophets are an enigma. Their intentions, actions, and thoughts are all lost on me, which is more than a little frustrating. I’m too used to knowing what’s bound to happen, too comfortable in the knowledge of the tapestry that Fate weaves. But prophets like Kinga—especially the wayward Kinga—throw in extra loops, remove threads, and pick their way through a new picture with just a single extra breath and laugh. They enchant the untouchable, flick pebbles into boulders, and goad the stars into shining just a little brighter. They are gods, in their own right, and to be watched.

Controlled.

An echo snaps across the empty desert right as the near-invisible magic web pulls itself together. Traps break and set themselves off all at once, all placed by the hunter that stalks Kinga’s lands. I lean back against the tree and inspect the web that he will undoubtably walk into. It’ll kill him. The prophet’s lands, the creatures who seek her protection and wisdom, will be safe. But in doing so, she’ll change the thread he had been meant to be in Fate’s tapestry.

Kinga turns to look at him. One light brown eye and one grey eye, but both are dull will grim triumph. She knows, too.

When she gets close enough to speak, he asks, “Why bones?”

The prophet crosses her arms and looks across the desolate land to the rolling hills of sun-bleached skeletons. “They have much to say, even in death. The wind doesn’t cease its whispers in the stillness, so why should we?” I hum, and she waits a moment before tilting her head towards the house. I stand at the silent command and follow her back to her home.

When we make it back, she gets to work putting together a stew that instantly fills the place with a pleasant aroma. I watch her for a moment, observing to see where she doesn’t go, then take up post just out of her way. Kinga flutters a hand at me that might be false annoyance, might be amusement, or something entirely different, but otherwise continues on without missing a beat.

She has to know why I’m here—why Fate itself sent me to her doorstep. But she hums a small tune and continues to make her stew without acknowledging my presence, and I can only take so much avoidance for so long.

“Why did you leave your post?”

That makes the prophet stall. She hovers a knife above the meat she had been cutting, then slides it through in one smooth slice. “I grew tired. Years of watching others fight against Fate, fighting against what had been written into motion long before I foretold it, and watching them all succumb to it all the same. No matter what I or others did, death, disappointment, and pain only happened.” She flashes me a smile, and it’s laced in bitter sadness. “I was born to serve Fate—to crown champions and heroes with my words. But no heroes, no champions, have left my wake in eons, and I float upon the lazy river of the inevitable. And what has come of it? Fate, scrambling to clean up the mess it set upon itself by expecting belligerent action instead of complacency.”

I eye the tattooed manacles around her throat and wrists. The crowns and feathers caged beneath skin. “You are meant to serve.”

Kinga doesn’t rise to the weak challenge, only dumps the meat into the simmering stew and allows the ladle to stir on its own. She’s silent, but only long enough for her to jump up onto the counter and face me, mismatched eyes ablaze with her own challenge. “If you want something to be so, then make it. You are Inevitability, Asper. Don’t let me stop you.”

I could. Ignoring the jab at my perceived cruelty, I debate whether I should or not. Bring the prophet to Fate and bring her back to her knees, where she’s been expected to be, or allow her to rebel in her own way and continue to throw Fate into a scramble by neglecting her duties.

A flicker in the distance catches both of our attention. The magical web Kinga had weaved flashes, then collapses. Its prey had fallen into her trap. Her lips thin and she tears her eyes away to stare at the stew, her fingers tapping on the edge of the counter in a pattern I recognize—one that I’ve heard as a distant echo in my dreams. I continue to stare at the fallen web from the corner of my eye. What picture had Fate been trying to weave with that hunter before the spool got unraveled? What purpose did he serve?

“I want to show you something.”

Skeptical and intrigued, I give Kinga my full attention. She holds up a coin and says, “You win, I go back to my post, and you’ll never have to see me again. I win, I stay here and continue to live my life by the wind and river. Heads or tails?”

I stare at her, and she stares back. We both know what the outcome will be, but only she knows where she’s going with this. I have an inkling, and it’s enough to hesitate. To think. I look back at the field of bones, at the spot on the horizon that could be a hunter’s body or could be a boulder. Back to Kinga. “Heads.”

Coin flipped—it’s tails. Kinga holds it up, waving the winning side at me. “Decisions have been made on the whim of inevitability from the beginning of time. You and I both know this. I am not the first, nor am I the last. Sometimes Fate takes our hand, but sometimes we must forge on our own what must be done. Just like how we flip a coin to decide things and go along with what it says, we ought to accept that things happen. It’s just how we face it that matters in the end, not the path itself.”

I glance over at the simmering stew and start dishing out two bowls without being asked to. Kinga’s eyes are heavy on my back while I mull over her words, at the implications of my own choice. When I hand her a bowl, she instead grabs my wrist.

“How long have we been Fate’s lapdogs, when it’s so easy to defy it? How long must we watch and cause suffering, when all it takes is easy acceptance to throw everything out of balance?”

I nudge the bowl at her. “Eat your food.”

Kinga tilts her head in question but takes the bowl. I lean in until I’m sure she feels the insufferable crush of my presence, then say, “I wanted something, so I made it so.”

Her smile is as brilliant as the stars. I back away and pick at my own food, wondering how this will all end, worrying over the backlash that might occur, hoping that everything will fall into place as it should just as Kinga is content to let it.

The prophet’s foot connects with my side, and I send her a disgruntled glare. She’s still smiling, and her eyes glimmer with conspiracy born from years of wisdom. “Nothing you don’t want to happen won’t, Asper. That is the nature of us, is it not? We all bow to you.”

“Except you.”

She hums and swirls her spoon through the broth of her stew. Her tone is all too sweet and innocent. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The hunter?”

This time, the grimness of his demise is overshadowed by a flicker of pride. “It was bound to happen.”

I shake my head and hope that the hood of my cloak covers my smile. “I suppose it was.”