Fractured Destiny

Chapter 49: Fractured Destiny

Celestine barely had a chance to breathe before the press of her environment weighed down upon her. The silver light that had invited her in was extinguished, and she stood upon a floor cold as death itself. The large chamber stretched out into darkness, its pillars standing above draped with strange, jagged runes that pulsed like living things—living things that watched.

The air was heavy, suffocating, filled with an unnatural denseness that wrapped around her like unseen chains. Something here wasn't right. Old. Deserted. Perhaps. waiting.

"Stronger than I thought."

The voice was low, even, and far too close.

Celestine engaged on instinct—too quickly. Her boot skidded over the wet surface, and she almost fell. She swore under her breath, catching herself, her hand clenching around the hilt of her sword as though that would somehow hold her up.

From among the shifting shadows, Draven stepped forward, his midnight cloak swirling behind him like smoke. His violet eyes searched her, unfathomable. Calculating. Slightly amused, as if expecting her to figure something out for herself.

She made herself swallow. "Where are we?"

Draven hesitated, his motions slow and deliberate. "The heart of the prophecy. Where destinies are made. and shattered."

Before she could demand a real answer, the air was disturbed again. A ripple of something unseen. The runes on the walls flared to a momentary glow before resuming their eerie light.

Lucien stepped out of the faint light, his silver eyes scouring the room as if he expected the walls to close in around them at any moment. His shoulders were tight, his breath rough—enough to let her know that beneath the calm facade, he didn't like this any more than she did. His hand rested close to his sword, his fingers trembling in a manner that let her know he wasn't accustomed to feeling this. uncertain.

"So this is it," he growled, a hint of darkness in his tone. "The place they never wanted us to discover."

Celestine's heart raced. She glanced back and forth between them—Draven, serene and calm, and Lucien, taut and poised for whatever was next. They both possessed something she did not. Something they hadn't told her.

She curled her fist around her sword. "Both of you knew this location existed?"

Draven sighed slowly, not quite a sigh, but almost. He folded his arms, his fingers shaking as though he was fighting the compulsion to grasp something—his dagger, for instance, or a memory. "We knew the stories. But stories don't prepare you for the truth."

Lucien's jaw set in a hard line. His arms crossed, though his fingers drummed a staccato beat on his sleeve—a nervous habit he was likely unaware of indulging. "We cannot wait. The prophecy is set in motion, and we are in the midst of it."

Celestine breathed out, slow and even. She had battled darkness, confronted death, and walked through fire. And yet, here, she couldn't help but feel as though she was staring into something that she might never comprehend.

She adjusted her weight—only to catch her foot on an uneven fissure in the floor. She stumbled, hardly keeping herself upright, but the movement was just awkward enough that heat rushed to her cheeks. Draven's eyebrow went up, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Lucien made a sound that was very nearly a chuckle before catching himself.

Celestine just shrugged her shoulders, like it never happened. "Then let us see what the future brings."

She stepped forward—then abruptly recalled she was still gripping her sword as if ready to charge into combat. Coughing, she sheathed it, attempting to appear nonchalant about it. A beat. Then Draven grinned as though he knew precisely what was passing through her mind, and Lucien merely shook his head, half irritated, half amused.

Chapter 50: Echoes of the Past

The room was more still than it had been previously, as though the air itself was waiting with bated breath for something unseen to wake. Celestine moved another step closer, her boots hardly touching the centuries-old stone beneath her feet. Her entire body was yelling at her to remain on high alert, but she couldn't help but keep moving forward. Not now.

Lucien's hand clenched on the hilt of his sword, his silver eyes scouring the walls for dangers that had yet to show themselves. "I don't like this," he whispered, voice hardly audible. "We're being watched."

Draven breathed out slowly, unflappable. "We most certainly are. The question isn't if something's there—it's if it wants to show itself."

Celestine gazed at him, annoyance seething in her bosom. "And you're fine with that?"

Draven smiled subtly but intentionally. "I've come to accept that something bigger than us is always watching."

Lucien snorted and moved forward, his posture tense. "If that's meant to be reassuring, it isn't."

A blast of icy air surged through the room, carrying whispers that belonged to none within it. Celestine tensed. The runes on the pillars flared again, their glow shifting from muted silver to menacing blue. A strange, throbbing hum vibrated through the walls, pulsing beneath their feet like a heartbeat.

Then came the voice.

*"You've traveled far, but do you know why?"*

Celestine's breath caught. The voice wasn't Draven's or Lucien's—it enveloped them, occupied every space of the room, as though the stones themselves spoke. It didn't sound friendly or threatening, just. expectant.

Lucien quickly pulled out his gun, his eyes burning. "Who's there? Step out."

Draven didn't move, his eyes darkening. "That's not how this works."

Celestine swallowed, trying to ignore the shiver down her back. "Why are we here?" she yelled. "What do you want with us?"

The air became colder.

To determine whether you are ready.

Before any one of them could speak, the earth shook, and air in front of them shimmered like the surface of water. Gradually, a form started taking shape—a spectral figure draped in folds of undulating shadow. Not quite real, yet not quite in their imagination, its presence appeared to bear down on them with impossible gravity.

Celestine flinched, instincts taking hold. Lucien stepped closer to her, his sword at the ready in silent threat. Draven, however, bowed his head, studying the specter with unnatural calm.

"Who are you?" Celestine ordered.

The faceless head of the figure turned to her. *"The past you have forgotten. The future you are not yet ready to confront."*

A cold dread settled into Celestine's stomach. The words were significant, although she hadn't yet worked out what. But in her belly, she knew—this wasn't a test.

That was a test. And failure was not acceptable.