A Feast of Fate

"A meal shared across time is a kind of magic I have yet to capture myself. Knowing that they shared a moment of peace, despite the time and distance, is a beauty beyond words."

— Sigvard Solan, Priest of Auremi

The wind stirred from Blackwind Bay, carrying a salt-kissed breeze that teased loose wisps of her hair. Elara had wandered deep into the garden at the Astral Arch, lost in thought. The Serenade of Stars had come and gone, yet her wish remained unfulfilled. She had prayed to the goddess for guidance, but she knew, as all did, that things were not as simple as asking and receiving an answer.

She thought back to the festival night, when she had been busy with the children, helping them cast their wishes. They had gathered in the courtyard of the Astral Arch, the children’s wish basin gleaming under the lantern light. Each wish granted had brought new clothes, toys, and treats, their laughter filling the air as the priestesses handed out gifts. Dancers dressed as animals paraded through the courtyard, and the scent of spiced cakes lingered in the cool evening air.

Elara loved this part of the festival—it was always so full of joy. She had used her spirit mote to help select the wishes, the small purple light spinning with delight as it hovered over the delicately folded stars. The children’s basin brimmed with brightly colored paper stars, each one holding a hope. She had read one aloud:

“I wish for a new stuffed bear for my little sister, Darren.”

Smiling, she picked a soft bear from the hand-sewn dolls and held it out for Darren to give to his sister. He beamed, his excitement bright as the lantern-lit sky. He was almost old enough to cast his own wishes into the grand Basin at the Central Temple.

“For a sweet older brother,” she had added warmly, pressing a small pouch of coins into his hands. She bowed her head. “Blessings of the Stars upon you.”

As the sun set and the children were sent home, Elara changed into her formal attire—a deep blue silk robe embroidered with gold stars and symbols of Tamhana. Her hair, left down and adorned with tiny stars, cascaded darkly like the night sky itself. A touch of pearl mica dusted her cheeks, and kohl lined her eyes, enhancing their deep gaze. Her lips were painted red, adding a striking contrast to her celestial appearance. Tonight, she was the Star Maiden.

She entered the grand hall of the Astral Arch, where soft candlelight flickered against walls draped in celestial tapestries. From the ceiling, hanging stars intertwined with delicate flowers, their petals kissed by twinkling votives. Elara followed behind Grand Priestess Isolde, her heart a steady rhythm of hope and hesitation. The guests had gathered, and the music flowed steadily in the background, filling the space with a sense of anticipation.

Taking her place beside Isolde, Elara's breath steadied. She lifted her hands, feeling the weight of the moment. The Serenade of Stars began properly, her voice rising in harmony with the sacred rhythm, a prayer woven into song. The hall seemed to hold its breath, and Elara felt the connection between the heavens and earth, as though the stars themselves were listening.

Elara had peered at the great Basin, filled with unspoken wishes, each folded paper a silent prayer to the heavens. As the first hundred names were called, hers remained unspoken. But still, she had felt it in her heart—that Tamahana, at the very least, had heard her thoughts.

She still thought of the man who eluded her memories, a haunting melody she longed to understand. His voice, his touch, the quiet care woven through her dreams—always just beyond reach. More than once, her fingers drifted to the delicate starlight blossom she wore around her neck, a fragile token of something both real and unreal. It had been some time since she’d found a new note from him. Perhaps it had all been a dream, an unfinished song she would never fully hear. And yet, deep in her soul, an undeniable pull remained, impossible to ignore.

Kneeling in the rich earth, she worked a small trowel into the soil, planting delicate seedlings with steady hands. The garden was a refuge, tended for those who came to the Astral Arch in need—a place of quiet nourishment and renewal. The green trellises were draped in ivy and butterfly peas, their tiny blue flowers swaying gently in the breeze. Rows of broccoli stood ready to be collected, while cabbages remained as the last remnants of the winter garden. Plump oxheart carrots, red carrots, and black star carrots awaited harvest, their vibrant colors peeking through the soil. The breeze, still cool, carried the fragrant blend of jasmine and earth, filling the air with a soothing calm.

She cradled a Blue Beauty Tomato seedling, tucking it gently beneath the towering wooden trellises where it would soon climb toward the sky. The sun hung high overhead, bathing the world in golden warmth. Clad in simple light blue linens meant for tending the gardens, she felt at peace among the growing things, even as longing coiled deep within her heart.

Her basket lay empty after a day's toil, the last of the seedlings planted in the soil. She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her tunic, her hands caked in earth. As she moved toward the wash basin to clean the dirt from her fingers, a figure approached her, and Elara paused.

It was the man—the one she had taken the paper from. He stood before her now, an unexpected presence that stirred something deep within her. His kind eyes peered at her from behind delicate spectacles, and his gaze was steady, almost knowing. He wore a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, weathered arms. Suspenders rested casually over his well-worn breeches, his posture relaxed but purposeful.

A quiet smile played on his lips, a knowing smile, as if he recognized her before she even spoke. His presence was oddly familiar, though she couldn’t quite place why.

"Come, young priestess, would you share a meal with an old man?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Of course, sir, if you’ll allow me to clean my hands first," she replied with a small nod.

She took her time washing the earth from her fingers, letting the cool water rinse away the remnants of her toil. He waited patiently, his expression unchanging, as though he had all the time in the world.

When she was finished, she followed him through the halls to the kitchens of the Astral Arch, where the scent of freshly baked bread and simmering herbs filled the air. Several others were bustling about, cooking and tending to their duties, their voices a low hum of conversation.

Isolde, who had been kneading dough at a nearby table, offered a small bow of her head in acknowledgment as Elara passed. She returned the gesture before settling beside the elderly man at a quiet corner of the room.

“My name is Sigvard Solan of Morindus. I come each year for the festival, but you were the first to give me a gift,” he said gently as another priestess set down spiced tea before them.

The cups were ceramic and glazed in a a deep blue with tiny stars and swirls on them. THe warmth of the cup was welcoming.

“I just thought it was only fair,” she said, meeting his hazel eyes. “You let me have paper for my wish—you should have something nice as well.”

She lifted her cup, bringing the tea to her lips, softly blowing away the rising steam before taking a sip. The spices bloomed across her tongue, their warmth spreading through her. The spiceberry tea was a specialty here, rich and fragrant, a taste of tradition and comfort.

They drank in companionable silence for a while, the golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows, painting the room in hues of amber and rose. The kitchens were quiet, filled with a subtle hum of activity—a soft, comforting noise that seemed to wrap the room in warmth.

"I must, by the rights of my god, grant you a favor," Sigsvard spoke, his accent becoming more apparent now. His hazel eyes met hers once more, and Elara looked at him with quiet curiosity, the words stirring something deep within her. "You are a child guided by the stars, and I am one touched by the sands of fate."

Sigvard carried an air of calm, his presence imbued with a quiet wisdom that seemed to draw Elara’s attention. There was something about the elderly man that held her focus, the cadence of his words and the deliberate pace of his movements both soothing and steady. Elara watched him intently, intrigued. She had not encountered many who served Aurumis, the god of Fate, and she found herself hanging on every word he spoke.

Elara listened intently, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the necklace around her neck, the delicate starlight blossom resting against her skin. She could almost picture his face against as Sigsvard spoke, drawing her back to the present,

A young acolyte with silvery hair and blue linen robes brought them dinner—plates laden with freshly cooked Azurefin and steaming herbed ember grain pilaf. The fish, a soft pink color, was speckled with herbs, its tender, crispy blue skin forming a delicate edge on the fillet. The ember grains, rich with the scent of fennel and sage, carried just the smallest hint of Emberchili flakes, a subtle heat that promised warmth without overwhelming the senses.

The aroma was enough to make them both look up, momentarily distracted from their conversation. The sight and smell of the meal brought an unspoken connection between them, as the rich, inviting flavors filled the air, settling comfortably between them.The plates rested infront of them. She nodded to the acolyte in thanks,

"A favor?" she asked, then made the sign of Tamhana. "May the stars bless this meal and guide us to what we seek." She offered a prayer of thanks to the goddess, her voice soft yet steady.

“May the thread that binds us make this meal something you never forget,” he said, bowing his head in prayer. From a small leather satchel, he dropped a few grains of sand onto the table between them.

They ate in silence, each bite a mystery Elara couldn’t quite place. As she took a bite of Azurefin, the smoky, salty flavor roused her senses. The fish fell apart in tender flakes, with crispy skin adding a delightful texture. Sigsvard spoke, but she didn’t hear his words as she looked up from her bite. A purple mote, her spirit mote rose from her hand.  She watched it carefully. She did not know what was happening as she continued with her meal.

She dug into the steaming herbed ember grain pilaf, the rich red grains a striking contrast to the crisp blue skin of the fish. The ember chili flakes left a tingling warmth on her tongue, each bite awakening her senses. Yet, something around her was shifting. The air thickened, and fine grains of sand began to swirl gently across the table, catching the fading light. Her pulse began to beat faster, and her spirit mote became brighter as she felt the pulse of magic. Then, slowly, she relaxed. 

She couldn’t place what was happening—only that she felt calm, as if the moment had been woven into something greater than herself.

“Now, my gift of fate to you,” Sigvard whispered, his voice threading through the stillness.

The room grew warm, and Elara felt her pulse quicken.

His voice dropped to a whisper, and Elara could feel his gaze on her, heavy with meaning. "This is not just a favor, but a thread woven into the tapestry of your fate," he said, his words resonating with quiet power. "Close your eyes, and let the world speak to you." His tone was soft, yet there was an undeniable weight to it, as if the very air had thickened with the power of his words.

“Close your eyes and open them after five heartbeats,” he instructed.

She swallowed, then obeyed, her lashes fluttering shut. Magic hummed in the air, thick and charged. Her spirit mote hovered beside her, its glow faint but present. How long was a heartbeat, she wondered, the thought distant and fleeting as time seemed to stretch and bend around her.

She began to count.

One… two… three… four… five…

The winds swept over the dunes, kicking up a trail of sand in their dusty wake. The air was dry and heavy with heat. Bugs skittered over red rocks and bleached bones, laid bare beneath the relentless sun. This was the Sepulchral Wastes—the place where this last turn of fate had begun, as he wandered through countless lands, chasing the elusive threads of destiny.

He had journeyed through the Gloamspire Woods of the Eternal Autumn Court, where the Crimson Oracle had told him he was far from where he needed to be. They had spoken at length in the Bleeding Birchwood Forest, beneath the rust-colored canopy, where time itself seemed to drip like blood from the trees.

"You carry a piece of her with you," she said, her voice weaving through the trees like a whisper on the wind. Her lantern, resting at the end of her twisted staff, swayed gently with her movements. Beside her, two Gloom Wolves with autumn-hued coats and luminous golden eyes watched Kaelan in quiet scrutiny.

He removed his ring, and his skeletal form was laid bare before the Oracle. Carefully, he coaxed the small, glowing blue ember from his heart crystal, holding it out on the tip of his bony finger.

She studied it with a slow, knowing nod. "I am one of fate’s few chosen, but your path will lead you far from here. The Threadbinders dwell where sand and ash creep, hidden away between the cracks of time and life," she murmured.

"She’s beautiful… so please, take good care of her."

Kaelan nodded, tucking Elara’s ember back between his ribs before sliding his ring back onto his finger. As his mortal face slid back over his bones like a second skin, he felt a quiet gratitude for the gift his friend had given him—a means to conceal both where he was and who he truly was.

Here, in the heart of Blood Birch Wood, he followed the Crimson Oracle as she moved through the trees. In her hands, she held a spool of duskwave spider silk, the delicate threads shimmering like captured twilight.

"Perhaps the Threadbinders will accept this boon and grant you passage to their abode," she said before turning away, her voice carrying the weight of unseen fate.

Kaelan watched as she disappeared into the depths of the forest, her wolves trailing beside her. Their autumn-hued coats blended into the crimson canopy, and the haunting melody of her song lingered long after she had gone, drawing lost souls to her as if called by the threads of destiny itself.

Now, he stood once more over these wastes, where he had last carried her soul to the mountain—for Ygharis to grant her new life and for her to forget him. But the last time he had been there, she had been given a chance to remember something of him. A piece of her had stayed with him.

The sands whirled in restless spirals. They were on the Lost Continent, also known as Morindus—the land of many deaths. He ached every day, haunted by the fear that she would die again. And if she did, he would be there once more, plucking up her soul, reliving that one night, only to lose her all over again.

He had walked endlessly, day after day, on every occasion Nelous did not call upon him to serve. And so, he continued his journey, determined to shatter this curse—his punishment. To taste what life with her could be like. In a thousand years, that desire had never changed. She was the all-consuming thought when his mind was free to wander.

The sands stirred around him, the endless expanse of the Sepulchral Wastes stretching in every direction. The gods played their games with mortal lives as if they were nothing. He had seen it time and time again. But this place—this forsaken desert—was beyond the reach of the gods of the known realm. Fate did not bend to their politics; it was fickle, inevitable, and ungoverned by their whims.

Kaelan had grown used to his mortal form, brushing back his long dark hair and feeling the sheen of sweat forming on his skin. It was starting to feel real.

And then, deep in his chest, he felt her flicker.

Kaelan felt it again—that fleeting, fragile sensation of mortality—as the sands parted before him. Magic still coursed through his veins, but the piece of Elara that remained within him no longer pulsed like his ember. It beat with his heart.

His mind felt as if finding the Threadbinders of Fate was an impossible task. He had been on Seleni, and now he was here in the Wastes, wandering endlessly. The weight of guilt pressed down on him—he blamed himself for the death, for the curse that followed. His feet dug into the sand as he trudged forward, the storm on the horizon a mirror to the rage and anger building inside him.

The wind howled, and the sand swirled in furious spirals, threatening to consume him. He threw his head back and roared into the storm.

"Have I not paid for my mistake again and again?"

His voice was ripped away by the tempest, devoured by the chaos. Still, he pressed forward, pushing against the haze of sand and ash.

"Have I not carried her endlessly, only to lose her over and over?"

His throat burned. Sand filled his lungs, and he coughed, the sound raw and hoarse.

"Do you think your storm will stop me?"

His steps wavered, but he did not falter. The desert swallowed his footprints almost as quickly as he left them behind.

He walked on, where the edge of consciousness blurred with delirium, until it felt as though he was moving toward something that resisted him—something like solid was before him.

Stumbling forward, he pressed against a door set into the side of the cliffs, the storm raging at his back. It was massive, etched with the intricate runes of the Threadbinders. Symbols of  Thread wrapped around hands with sand flowing between them. He traced the symbols with tired hands. 

The moment he stopped, the door creaked open. The words of the Crimson Oracle echoed in his mind:

"The Threadbinders dwell where sand and ash creep, hidden away between the cracks of time and life."

Kaelan reached his hand through the door. His mortal visage rippled away, and in that single moment, one step carried him from skeletal form to mortal flesh. The air around him swirled with the strange flow of time and fate, both intertwining in odd directions.

The air smelled of time—of things both ancient and new. It was a peculiar sensation to be in a place where time and life existed in such strange parallels. Life and death were not separate but constantly cycling into one another.

The chamber was eerily silent, as if it too held its breath, suspended between the passing moments of existence.

After a moment, he saw a path forward through the sands. They shifted beneath his steps, his boots making a hollow sound against the ancient stone. His long hair drifted with each movement, carried by the unseen currents of this strange place.

In the shadows, he saw them—the Threadbinders. They sat at their looms, weaving tapestries that shimmered with threads of fate, each strand glistening like captured time.Kaelan’s steps felt endless as he walked down the hall. Then light shown over over tapestry a woman sat there, weaving with her shuttle.

He heard the steady rhythm of the loom, the shuttle rocking back and forth over the growing tapestry. As he looked closer, he saw his story woven into its threads—his journey, his countless steps through time, and Elara’s presence intertwined with his own. The tapestry was long, intricate, and unfinished.

The Threadbinder paused in her work. Slowly, she extended her hand toward him, palm up, expectant. She did not speak, but he understood—she knew he carried the duskwave thread.

Kaelan studied her for a moment before placing the spool into her waiting fingers. She was blind—her eyes were pale and sightless—yet she carried an air of quiet certainty, as though she could see beyond the confines of the physical world. A thin veil draped over her face, adding an air of mystery to her delicate, breathtaking features. Her robes were finely woven silk, light as air, and her fingertips were painted gold. Her lips, deep as rubies, parted slightly as she spoke.

“I knew you would come, Kaelan.”

She gestured, and a seat appeared beside her. “Sit.”

Her deft fingers worked swiftly, adding the Duskwave spider silk to the tapestry. It shimmered with the rich hues of autumn, its delicate threads almost alive as she wove them into the fabric. Kaelan sat on the low stool, only now realizing how much his body ached from his travels. For a moment, he felt almost mortal—though magic and death still coursed through his veins.

“I am Zephiriel,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of old wisdom.

The shuttle moved across the loom, and as the Duskwave silk threaded into the tapestry, Kaelan felt something shift inside him—an unfamiliar tug, as if a thread within his soul had been touched.

“What… was that?” His voice was softer than he intended, almost reverent.

“The first piece to repair what was broken,” Zephiriel answered. Her pale, sightless eyes did not lift, but her hands moved with unerring precision. “It is by my hands alone that you and the Wayfinder of Souls are still bound.”

Kaelan stilled at those words. He had known that fate itself had halted Nelous, but to stand before the Threadbinder herself—to hear her confirm it—felt different. The weight of it settled in his chest, an invisible thread tightening around his ribs.

He studied her, unable to look away from the meticulous way she worked, each motion deliberate, weaving something far greater than mere cloth.

“Why?” he asked at last.

“Because the gods do not touch what is fate-bound. They cannot stop what is already in motion—it has merely been delayed.” Zephiriel ran her fingertips along the tapestry, her touch light but deliberate. The Duskwave silk gleamed under her fingers, the delicate threads of the story shimmering as if alive. “And this thread will help.” She paused, her eyes meeting Kaelan’s with an intensity that made him feel as if she could see right through him.

“Please,” Kaelan murmured, his brow furrowed in exhaustion, “I’m tired of all the cryptic answers. Just explain it to me. I need to understand.”

Zephiriel took a breath, her gaze softening as she carefully guided the shuttle through the loom. "When Nelous set his curse upon you—when he sought to punish you—he did not destroy the thread that binds you to Elara. No," she continued, her voice steady yet layered with the weight of ancient knowledge, "he only weakened it. The bond remains, though frayed, like a rope stretched to its breaking point."

Kaelan clenched his jaw, trying to digest what she was saying. He felt the weight of her words, the crushing realization that fate was not as simple as he hoped. "So, there is a way to fix it?" His voice betrayed his desperation.

Zephiriel nodded slowly, her hands never faltering in their work. "There are pieces out there—fragments—that can help you. They exist in places you have yet to seek. But beware, Kaelan, not all of them will come as easily as this one did. Some are hidden deep within shadows, others guarded by forces far older than you can imagine. Finding them will not be without cost."

Kaelan swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. “And what do you mean by ‘cost’?”

She gave him a knowing glance. “Not all threads can be pulled without unraveling something else. You may restore the bond between you and Elara, but at what price, Kaelan? Fate is a fragile thing, and even the smallest tug can change everything."

Kaelan’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “And if I fail?”

Zephiriel paused, tilting her head as if considering his words. “Then the tapestry remains unfinished as the cycle continues. And you will lose her.”

“For now, you should eat and rest,” she instructed. “Even you cannot walk the threads of fate on an empty stomach.”

Hunger.

When was the last time he had felt hunger? Something had changed—that much he knew. Zephiriel smiled faintly at him, her golden-tipped fingers gesturing toward the kitchen. She returned to her work the Duskwave silk still being working into the tapestry as the sound of her loom continued on,  

"Go eat. Choose wisely, then sleep. We will talk more tomorrow... or later today." Her voice faded like sand swept away by the wind.

Kaelan rose from the stool and stepped into the hall. His stomach growled—a sensation he hadn't felt in a thousand years. THe odd sensation he took his ring off yet his mortal visage remained. He was curious and tipped dagger into the tip of finger. Blood, he had blood here, the tiny drop of crimson blossomed on his fingertip. 

The kitchen buzzed with activity. Servants tended the ovens, stirring pots of fragrant stew. The rich aroma of roasted meat, fresh bread, and simmering herbs filled the air. Kaelan’s gaze settled on a table with three plates, each offering a different meal. Each dish carried a memory of her—except the last.

The first plate held Ember-Roast Fowl with Golden-Honeyed Root Strips, a dish he had shared with Elara at the Bling Pig tavern in Briarveil village when they first met. The succulent hen sat on a blue dish, its golden glaze catching the light, while the root vegetables shimmered enticingly. His stomach growled at the familiar sight.

The second dish was a bowl of Stagheart Dumplings, thick potato dumplings drenched in venison gravy and accompanied by slow-roasted vegetables—another memory of her, flooding his mind as he gazed at the dish.

But it was the last plate that drew his attention. Azurefin. The delicate, pink flesh steamed atop a bed of herbed ember grain pilaf. He didn’t have a memory tied to this dish. Azurefin was a blue fish caught near Blackwind Bay, and something about it intrigued him.

Without thinking, he reached for the plate. The moment his fingers touched it, the other dishes vanished. This place—the realm of the Threadbinders—seemed to obey its own strange rules.

He settled into a chair by the window, the air humming with quiet magic. As he lifted the first bite of Azurefin to his lips, something stirred deep within his chest.

Elara’s tiny blue flame.

It flickered to life, drifting from him like a fragile ember—and then he saw it. A small, violet-hued spirit mote, spinning gently beside it.

His fork slipped from his fingers.

Before him, framed by the shifting window view, dark lashes fluttered open. She gasped, violet eyes locking onto his as dark hair spilled around her face. He drank in every detail—the delicate curve of her jaw, the shock in her gaze, as if she were trying to decide whether he was real.

Elara.

He couldn’t hear her words, but she reached for him, fingers outstretched. He mirrored the movement, their fingertips barely grazing across the impossible distance. The faint warmth of her touch sent electric shocks skittering through his ribcage.

A voice whispered in the back of his mind. Enjoy your dinner.

The mote and flame touched, entwining.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "For everything. My little flame."

She was watching him. He didn’t know how long this moment would last.

Slowly, carefully, she reached into the folds of her blue linen robe and drew out the starblossom, its petals glinting softly as it hung from a delicate silk cord. She held it between her fingers, her violet eyes filled with longing—searching, trying to remember him.

Then he realized.

The violet-hued mote drifting beside her—it was a piece of him.

He was with her.

He took another slow bite, savoring the taste, knowing she couldn’t hear him. But they sat together—silent, distant, yet closer than they had been in a long time—sharing a meal that spanned beyond time itself.