I stilled, my heart lurching.
“What?” Nyktos snarled.
“There are many different threads,” Penellaphe said softly, looking up at Nyktos. A great sadness had settled into her features. “Many different ways her death could come at your hands. But this one.” She lifted a finger, nearly touching one of the shimmering strands—a thread that appeared to have broken off into another shorter thread. “This was not intentional.”
“What are you talking about?” Nyktos demanded.
“She has your blood in her, doesn’t she?” she asked.
Nyktos went so still, I wasn’t sure he even breathed. My gaze darted between them. “I don’t have his blood. He hasn’t—” I sucked in a breath. The night Nyktos had fed from me. I’d bitten his thumb and drew blood. I’d tasted it. I saw the moment Nyktos remembered. I twisted toward Holland. “It was just a drop. Barely even that.”
“But it was enough,” Holland stated. “The ember of life in you is strong enough to cause you to have the symptoms of the Culling, but it wasn’t strong enough to push you into the change. The symptoms would’ve eased off, but not now. Not with the blood of a powerful Primal in you. You will go into the Culling.”
“No.” Nyktos shook his head, twists of eather swirling in his eyes. “She can’t. She’s not a godling. She’s mortal—”
“Mostly,” Penellaphe whispered. “Her body is mortal. As is her mind.” She looked at me, her eyes glistening. “But what has always been inside of you is Primal. It doesn’t matter that both of your parents were mortal. You were born with an ember of not one but two Primals inside you. That’s what will attempt to come out.”
“That can’t happen.” Nyktos thrust a hand through his hair, dragging the strands back from his face. “There has to be a way to stop it.”
“There isn’t.” I gripped my knees as I looked between Holland and the goddess. “Is there? No special potion or deal to be made?”
Holland shook his head. “No. There are some things that not even the Primals can grant. This is one of them.”
“She won’t—” Nyktos cut himself off as he turned to me. I’d never seen him so pale, so horrified.
“This isn’t your fault.” I stood, surprised that my legs weren’t shaking. “I did it. You didn’t. And it’s not like you had any way of knowing that would happen.”
“So reckless. Impulsive,” Holland murmured.
A laugh choked me. “Yeah, well, you’ve always known that is my greatest flaw.”
“Or greatest strength,” Holland countered. “Your actions could’ve given whatever it was Eythos believed upon hearing the prophecy a chance to come to fruition.”
Both Nyktos and I stared at him. “What?”
“Look closer at this thread.” Penellaphe lifted a finger once more to the string that had broken off. “Look.”
Nyktos’ head lowered as he stared. At first, I saw nothing, but when I squinted… I saw it—the shadow of a thread, barely there and ever-changing in length, stretching farther than any of the other threads and then shrinking to the length of the others.
“What is that?” I asked.
“It’s an unexpected thread. Unpredictable. It is the unknown. The unwritten,” Penellaphe explained. “It is the one thing that not even the Fates can predict or control.” The corners of her lips turned up. “The only thing that can disrupt fate.”
“And what is that?” Nyktos asked, his hands closing into fists at his sides. “And how do I find it?”
“It can’t be found,” she said, and I was one second from screaming my frustration. “It can only be accepted.”
“You’re going to need to give us a little more detail,” Nyktos snapped.
“It’s love,” Holland answered. “Love is the one thing that not even fate can contend with.”
I blinked.
That was all I could do.
Nyktos appeared to be as dumbstruck as I was, unable to formulate a single response.
“Love is more powerful than fate.” Holland lowered his hand, and all but one thread disappeared. Only the broken one, and the shadow of an ever-changing string remained, glittering in the space between us. “Love is even more powerful than what courses through our veins, equally awe-inspiring and terrifying in its selfishness. It can extend a thread by sheer will, becoming that piece of pure magic that cannot be extinguished by biology, and it can snap a thread unexpectedly and prematurely.”
“What exactly are you saying?” I asked.
“Your body cannot withstand the Culling. Not without the sheer will of what is more powerful than fate and even death.” Holland looked to Nyktos. “Not without the love of the one who would aid her Ascension.”
What Aios had told me about the godlings and the Culling resurfaced. “You’re talking about the blood of a god. Saying that I would need the blood of a god who loves me?” I couldn’t believe I was even speaking the words.
“Not just a god. A Primal. And not just any Primal.” Penellaphe’s blue eyes fixed on Nyktos. “The blood of the Primal the ember belonged to—that and the pure will of love can unravel fate.”
Nyktos jerked back another step, the shadows churning around his legs, and I…I sat down again. Or fell down. Luckily, I landed on the edge of the dais. Heart twisting and squeezing, I watched Nyktos’ head slowly turn toward me. His eyes were as bright as the moon as he stared down at me, and I didn’t need his power to read emotions to know that he was horrified.
And I didn’t need to be a Fate to know that I truly would die.
Nyktos could never love me.
Even if I hadn’t planned to kill him. Nyktos was incapable of love. It was simply not in him. He knew that. I knew that.
“This isn’t fair,” I said hoarsely, angry at everything. “To do this to him.”
“To do this to me?” he rasped as silvery streaks of eather appeared in the shadows swirling around him. “This isn’t fair to you.”
“It’s not fair to either of you,” Penellaphe stated softly. “But life, fate, or love rarely is, is it?”
I wanted to punch the goddess for telling me what I already knew.
But I drew in a deep breath, briefly closing my eyes. There was a lot of information to digest—a lot of knowledge that was ultimately irrelevant and overshadowed by the fact that I would die, sooner rather than later—and painfully, too. Anger sparked in me again, and I latched onto it, holding it close. The burn of that was familiar and felt better than the sorrow and hopelessness.
“There is more,” Holland stated.
I laughed. It sounded strange. “Of course, there is.”
“You have had as many outcomes as you’ve had lives,” he told me.
“Many lives?” I repeated.
Holland nodded, and then the shimmery cords appeared once more. Dozens of them.
“What does that mean?” Nyktos’ gaze flicked from the strings to Holland. “Her soul has been reborn?”
Holland also stared at the strings. “Fate doesn’t know all because the actions of one can alter the course of fate. Just like she altered the course with a single drop of blood.” He looked up at Nyktos. “Just like your father altered fate, as did the Primal Keella, when they stopped a soul from entering the Shadowlands, leaving it to be born over and over.”
“You’re speaking of Sotoria,” I said, and he nodded. “What does that have to do with this?”
Holland’s gaze shifted to me. “You are a warrior, Seraphena. You always have been. Just like she learned to become.”