The Ascended

The Ascended — Chapter no 58

Chapter 58

The Tapestry of Fates

THE ANTECHAMBER FELT WRONG THE MOMENT WE ARRIVED. THE LAST Trial was finally here.

Mist swirled around our feet, forming patterns that made my eyes water when I stared too long. Fractured mirrors lined the walls. The fourth trial. It had finally come.

"This place gives me the creeps," Marx muttered, pressing closer to my side.

I nodded, unable to shake the feeling that we stood on the edge of something vast and hungry. The other contestants had scattered throughout the chamber. Only seven remained.

My eyes found Thatcher the second he materialized across the room. I moved. No hesitation. We needed to talk. And it had to be now. I crossed the chamber in quick strides. He met me halfway.

The second we were close enough, I whispered down the bond.

We need to talk. Now.

His mental voice came back immediately, tinged with concern. What's wrong?

Everything. I glanced around, then steered us toward a corner where the fractured mirrors created visual chaos. To anyone watching, we'd look like siblings sharing a moment of comfort before the trial. There's so much I

haven't told you.

Thais—

Just listen. I let everything pour through our connection in a rush of images and emotions. Kavik in the forest, his hands around my throat. The resistance against Olinthar. Xül's involvement.

I felt Thatcher's mind reel from the onslaught of information. His hand found mine, squeezing tight as he processed what I'd shown him.

Kavik tried to kill you. And you didn't tell me? His mental voice was deadly quiet.

He's dead now. And we didn’t exactly have much time to talk the last time I saw you. I met his eyes. But there's something else—a different threat. The resistance. They think you’re growing closer to Olinthar.

I’ve spent a lot of time in Sundralis, Thais. More than I would have liked to. And Olinthar suggested that I choose his domain after the forging.

Morthus has spies in Sundralis. They’re convinced you’re falling for whatever Olinthar is selling. That you’ll join him and become some kind of sick weapon.

Well, we both know that’s not happening.

Did you kill a Shadowkin?

Thatcher paused, looking down. My heart sank. I didn’t have a choice.

Olinthar was torturing him, and I couldn’t just stand there and watch anymore. Thatcher’s eyes went soft. But working with him? Helping him in any way? Thais. That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.

Yes, and that’s exactly what I told them.

What else did you tell them?

I crossed my arms. I told them what I had to, Thatcher. I told them

everything.

Why would you risk that?

Because you were supposed to die today. During this trial. I took his hand, squeezing.

Thatcher’s eyes went wide. All because they think I’m some deranged

follower of Olinthar?

Essentially.

His fingers tightened around mine.

They want you to take a blood oath to swear loyalty to their cause. And after you ascend… I showed him the rest—the need to pledge to Sundralis, to kneel before Olinthar, to prolong his position even further as a spy in the heart of the enemy's power.

The silence in our minds stretched long. Around us, the mist grew thicker. I could feel other contestants growing restless. Time was running out.

We both assumed this pact would end in our deaths, he said finally, the realization sharp with understanding. But now you're telling me there might be another way?

I felt my throat tighten, the weight of everything he'd sacrificed for me suddenly crushing. Gods, Thatcher had lost it all when my powers erupted —his chance at a normal life vanished overnight. His future, his dreams, gone. And for what? To be chained to me. To transform himself into whatever I needed. Weapon. Shield. Confidant. All without a single complaint.

If anyone deserved to walk away from this nightmare, it was him.

Thatcher had never asked for any of this. He deserved the chance to build something real. A life where he wasn't just surviving, where he could actually breathe without waiting for the next catastrophe. A life that was his own.

Yes, I pressed. A chance where we both live. Where we can have an after.

By having me pretend to serve the god who destroyed everything we

loved.

I gripped his hand tighter. I know.

Thatcher considered this for a moment.

Their fear isn’t misguided, he finally said. Olinthar is clearly trying to win me over for something. I hadn’t put it all together yet, but this makes

sense.

Another long pause.

They were really going to kill me? The question came with a thread of vulnerability he rarely showed.

Yes. Morthus wouldn't say how, just that it was planned for this trial. I let him feel everything—my terror at the thought of losing him, my desperation to keep him safe, my relief at finding another way.

They want me to swear a blood oath to their cause?

Yes.

To serve gods I don't even know? To pledge my loyalty to strangers who might be as bad as Olinthar? His mental voice hardened. I won't trade one master for another, Thais.

Then don't, I said quickly. Swear that you're against Olinthar. That you'll never truly serve him. That when the time comes, you'll help bring him down. Nothing more.

He considered this, and I felt his mind working through the implications. And they'll accept that?

They need you alive and positioned in Sundralis more than they need your absolute loyalty. I hoped I was right. Besides, your hatred of Olinthar

is real. That's what matters.

And after? When Olinthar falls?

Morthus, you better not be a fucking liar, I thought to myself before answering him, then: They want to end the Trials, Thatcher. No more priests hunting innocents. No more people slaughtered to amuse the gods. Morthus wants to provide aid to Elaren.

I felt his interest peak. So, he will take the throne, in the end?

Yes. But think about it—this isn't just about our revenge anymore. It's nearly everything we wanted, everything we’d hoped to achieve by killing him ourselves, but had no way of actually enforcing.

The end of tyranny, he murmured.

The end of tyranny, I confirmed.

Then, with careful deliberation: I'll take their blood oath—but only to confirm what we already know. I'm against Olinthar. I'll never truly serve him. And when the opportunity comes, I'll help destroy him. His mental voice grew fierce. But I won't kneel to anyone else in the process.

That's enough, I assured him, relief flooding through our connection.

That's all we need.

Together? I asked.

Together, he confirmed. Until the end—whatever that looks like.

A loud clash tore us apart. The mist in the chamber suddenly contracted, recoiling. The fractured mirrors began showing the same image—a figure materializing in the center of the room.

Vorinar appeared first. Heron’s father. It was a strange thing. He looked more like Heron’s son. Deep black robes draped down his frame, decorated with constellation patterns that moved with each breath. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of eons.

"Time is a river," he said, his words echoing strangely in the space.

"Fate is the path it carves through stone. Some swim with the current.

Others drown."

Before anyone could parse that cryptic statement, the air beside him exploded in a riot of color. Aella materialized—if materialization was even the right word for the way reality seemed to hiccup and produce her. Where Vorinar was order and pattern, she was beautiful chaos incarnate.

Her appearance shifted with each blink—first a young woman with rainbow hair, then an ancient crone. She laughed, and the sound rattled through the chamber.

"Look at you all." She spun in a circle, her form crackling. "So serious, so worried. Don't they know the best fate is the one you never see coming?"

She gestured carelessly, and small distortions rippled through the air— colors inverted, time stuttered and repeated.

"Welcome," Vorinar intoned, "to the Tapestry of Fates."

The mist around us suddenly solidified into a portal—no, seven portals, one for each contestant. They hung in the air like tears in reality, showing glimpses of an impossible space beyond.

"Your destiny awaits within the Library of All Things," Vorinar continued. "Every life that was, is, or shall be is written upon its shelves.

Every thread that connects one soul to another is woven into the great Tapestry."

Aella giggled, the sound sharp and unsettling. "But oh, what fun is a straight thread? I've added some… improvements. Little surprises to keep things interesting!"

"Your task is simple," Vorinar said, ignoring his fellow Aesymar's interruption. "Find your thread within the Tapestry. Follow it to your token of destiny. Return before the Library closes at dawn. But knots might occur.

And those will have to be untangled to complete this Trial."

"Simple!" Aella crowed. "So beautifully simple! Of course, touching the wrong thread might have dire consequences." Her grin widened impossibly.

"But what's life without a little risk?"

"The inner sanctum is forbidden," Vorinar added. "The Loom of Destiny is not for mortal eyes. Those who trespass…"

He didn't need to finish.

"One more thing," Aella said, producing what looked like crystalline seeds from thin air. She threw them toward the portals, where they vanished with tiny pops. "I've scattered some party favors throughout. Chaos seeds, I call them. They make things so much more… flexible."

The portals pulsed, pulling at us with invisible force.

"Enter," Vorinar commanded. "Let fate guide your steps."

I had just enough time to catch Thatcher's eye before the portal claimed me.

The transition was like being stretched across time itself. Then reality snapped back, and I stumbled forward into the Library of All Things.

And I thought the Bone Spire’s library was excessive.

Shelves stretched impossibly high, disappearing into misty distances.

Books of every size and condition lined them—some bound in leather, others in materials I couldn't identify. The air thrummed with the whispered voices of billions of lives, each book murmuring its story in an endless breeze.

I stood on a mirrored platform that reflected not my image, but fragments of my past—there I was at five, crying over a broken toy; at fifteen, kissing a boy for the first time; at seventeen, when a pod of dolphins found Thatcher and I in Saltcrest’s waters.

Thatcher? I reached out through our bond, relieved when I felt him respond.

I'm here. Different section, I think. This place… His mental voice trailed

off, overwhelmed.

Find the center, I told him.

I chose a direction at random, and began walking. The books called to me as I passed, their whispers growing louder when I drew near.

"Would you like to know how you die?" one offered in a voice that scraped against my mind.

"The secret your mother never told you," another promised.

"The name of your first child," a third suggested.

I forced myself to ignore them, though curiosity clawed at my resolve.

These were traps, distractions. I needed to find the Tapestry.

The path twisted and turned, stairs appearing where none had been before, corridors reshaping themselves when I wasn't looking. Time felt fluid here—I might have walked for minutes or hours.

Then I heard the scream.

It cut through the whispers, high and terrible. I ran toward it, my footsteps echoing strangely in the vast space.

I found the source three corridors later—a contestant I vaguely recognized writhing on the ground, aging rapidly. His hair went from brown

to gray to white, skin wrinkling and sagging as decades passed in heartbeats.

A small, crystalline object rolled away from his convulsing form—a chaos seed, its surface crackling with distorted energy.

I pressed myself against the wall as the aging accelerated. In moments, he was dust, his screams cutting off abruptly. The books around us absorbed his remains, their whispers taking on his voice, adding his story to their endless chorus.

My hands shook as I edged around the chaos seed, giving it a wide berth. Thatcher, I pushed through our bond. See any shiny crystals, don't touch them. They'll turn you to dust in seconds.

His response came immediately. What, you think I make a habit of picking up strange objects in death mazes?

Despite everything, I almost smiled. I think you've done stupider things on less dangerous days.

Fair point. His mental voice carried a grudging amusement that felt achingly familiar.

One contestant down already, and we'd barely begun.

The path opened into a vast circular chamber.

The Tapestry of Fates hung before me. Billions of threads woven through the air in patterns that seemed random until you looked closer and saw the terrible beauty of their design. Each thread glowed with its own light. Where threads touched, sparks flew, creating moments of connection that rippled outward in waves.

Other contestants had found the chamber too. Marx stood near the edge, her face pale as she searched for her thread among the multitude. Another contestant was already reaching for what must have been his thread, his movements careful and precise.

I forced myself to focus, searching for my own thread. How would I

even recognize it among so many?

Then I saw it.

A thread that sparkled with starlight, that carried the echo of the power within me. It wove through the Tapestry in a complex pattern, intersecting with countless others but maintaining its unique luminescence. My destiny, visible and tangible.

But there, intertwined so tightly they seemed almost one, was another thread. This one pulsed with a different energy—organic, primal, speaking

of growth and decay and the fundamental forces of life itself. It was a thread woven from the colors of blood and bone.

Thatcher's thread.

Our fates were literally bound together, twisted in violent knots. But what hit me first wasn't the tangle—it was the length. Thatcher's thread stretched on and on.

The thread that Heron had seen cut short now extended into the distance. The relief that flooded me made my knees weak. Our gamble with Morthus—it had worked. Thatcher would live. I reached out with shaking fingers, trying to find a way to separate our threads.

"Tricky, isn't it?"

I spun to find Vance standing behind me, his eyes fixed on our tangled threads. "Yours and your brother's. So tightly bound. Makes you wonder

what the Fates were thinking."

"Back off," I warned.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, Morvaren. I'm not here to fight. Just to observe." His smile grew. "Though I do wonder—what happens if those threads can't be separated? Can you complete the trial without your token? Can he?"

He moved on before I could respond, but his words splintered under my skin. I turned back to our threads, studying the knot more carefully. There had to be a way to separate them without triggering whatever consequences came from touching another's fate.

I tried approaching from different angles, looking for a loose point in the tangle. But every potential opening led to another knot, another gnarled twist. My frustration built with each failed attempt.

Then I saw it—following the threads through the room, they eventually separated. But the way they split sent a chill through me. Thatcher's thread veered sharply away from mine, darkening to a deep, unsettling black as it did. I didn't like it. Didn't understand what it meant.

Thais? Thatcher's mental voice cut through my thoughts, tense with urgency. I found our threads. They're— Me too. I found a place where they separate.

I looked across the vast chamber and spotted him on the opposite side.

Our eyes met across the distance.

Any ideas? I asked.

Working on it.

I returned to the knot, growing more frustrated with each passing moment. Around us, other contestants were making progress—carefully following their individual threads deeper into the Tapestry, seeking their tokens. But Thatcher and I remained stuck, unable to even begin.

Then my eyes snagged on yet another complication.

A third thread tangled with ours. This one was the color of storm clouds.

Gray and strange, it wove through our knot in a way that made no sense. It wasn't another contestant's thread—I could see those clearly enough, each with their own distinct energy and path.

This was something else.

The gray thread seemed to pulse, and I felt a pull deep in my chest—a calling that bypassed thought and went straight to instinct. My hand reached toward it before I'd consciously decided to move.

Thais? Thatcher's concern rippled through our bond. What are you doing?

There's another thread. Tangled with ours. I showed him what I was seeing. But it's not… it doesn't belong to anyone here.

Don't touch it, he warned.

The storm gray thread wove between others, never quite touching them except where it bound with ours. I followed its path through the Tapestry.

I was so focused on following it that I didn't realize where it was leading until I stood before a barrier of pure power.

The inner sanctum.

The thread continued through the barrier, disappearing into whatever lay beyond. Our only hope of untangling it led straight into forbidden territory.

No. I forced myself to turn away. Whatever that thread was, whatever answers it promised, they weren't worth dying for. I needed to find another

way.

"Going somewhere?"

I spun to find Vance standing behind me. He smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it.

"Following me?" I asked, taking a step back. "I’m afraid this section is restricted, unfortunately. Now leave me the fuck alone."

"You're right. We can't enter." His smile widened. "But you can."

He moved faster than I could react, shoving me hard.

“Payment for nearly getting me killed in Memorica.”

I stumbled backward, my arms windmilling as I tried to catch my

balance.

The barrier was right behind me— And then I fell through it.

The last thing I saw was the contestant's satisfied smirk before the barrier solidified into stone.