Threads of Fate

Selene Orinthia: Year 542

The air in the chamber was thick with incense, the heavy scent of sage and lavender clinging to the stone walls. Selene knelt on the cold floor, her hands resting gently on her lap, her heart beating steadily in her chest. She had done this hundreds of times before—too many times to count. Yet, every time she faced the future, it sent a shiver down her spine.

A circle of noblemen, their faces shadowed by flickering torchlight, watched her with eager eyes. They had come for the same reason they always did: to see the future. To know if their schemes would succeed, if their rivals would fall, if the wars they waged would bring them power. They cared little for Selene beyond the answers she could provide, treating her as nothing more than a tool—a prophetess bound by her gift.

"Show us what is to come," one of the men said, his voice dripping with impatience. "We do not have all day."

Selene closed her eyes, blocking out the room, the stares, the weight of expectation. The visions would come soon, as they always did, and the future would unfold before her. She had never been wrong—her prophecies always came to pass, no matter how much she wished otherwise. That was the curse of her gift.

As the magic took hold, her body stiffened, and the familiar weight of fate settled over her like a suffocating blanket. The room fell away, and in its place came the images—flashes of what was to come. A battle. Blood in the streets. A city burning under a crimson sky. Faces blurred by smoke, voices calling for mercy.

And then... nothing.

The vision ended abruptly, leaving Selene gasping for breath. Her eyes flew open, and the cold reality of the chamber returned. The men were still there, watching her with eager anticipation, waiting for her to speak.

"Well?" one of them demanded. "What did you see?"

Selene hesitated. The vision had been incomplete—fragmented. Something felt wrong, but she couldn't tell if it was the vision itself or her reluctance to speak it aloud.

"A battle," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "There will be bloodshed. Cities will fall."

The noblemen exchanged glances, their faces alight with interest. To them, war was a tool—just another means to claim power. They cared little for the lives that would be lost, for the devastation her words foretold.

Selene's stomach twisted as she saw the hunger in their eyes. They would use her words, as they always did, to justify their actions. But this time, something was different. This time, she felt the pull of a choice—a faint whisper in the back of her mind that urged her to say more, to shape the future instead of merely witnessing it.

"Do you see victory?" one of the men asked, his voice sharp with anticipation.

Selene swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. She knew the answer. She had seen enough to know where the tides of fate were pulling. But the whisper in her mind grew louder, and for the first time, she wondered if she had to follow the path the vision had shown her. Could she alter what was to come? Could she choose a different future?

"Victory is uncertain," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "But blood will be spilled."

The men were not satisfied, but Selene didn't care. She had said what needed to be said—no more, no less. She bowed her head, signaling that the vision had ended, and the noblemen rose from their seats, muttering to themselves as they left the chamber.

As the door closed behind them, Selene let out a long, shaky breath. The weight of the vision still pressed heavily on her chest, but for the first time, she felt a flicker of something else—something like hope.