Page 31 of This Cruel Fate

Marshall held onto her elbow and tried to pull her forward, but she was drawn to the antique paintings. Small plaques with the years they had been painted were stationed just below the deep-brown frames. While the artists were different, and there was a thousand-year range as far as Xolia could tell, all the images were unified in heavy usage of moths. They always surrounded one variant more than the other, and that variant was almost always the perceived victor.

Xolia zeroed in on one image in particular. She swore something in the air pulled her to it, whispering unintelligible promises. In the painting a dark-haired man stood on the offensive. His arms were up, obscuring most of his face except for his eyes. And even though it was dried paint from a thousand years ago, the absolute rage he felt burned through Xolia. He carried it in his eyes. In his arms he held a flaming sword pointed at the neck of some blond-haired opponent. The moths surrounded the dark-haired man, and Xolia felt a deep kinship with him, as if they were one and the same. She didn’t know what he was going through, or what his quarrel with the blond was, but she understood him on a level that didn’t require context. It was just fact—they were the same.

“We need to go inside,” Marshall said. He sounded far away, too far for her to reach, when something pulled on her elbow again the connection between her and painting was broken. She blinked at Marshall, who was standing closer to her than they had been all morning.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. Let’s go in.” She spared one final glance for the man she couldn’t help but see herself in, before facing the doors that led into the church’s main chamber where services were held. Stained glass lined the walls of the chamber, with a large circular window adorned in red glass above a raised dais. A podium placed directly under the light from the window was atop the dais. Pews lined the remaining two-thirds of the room.

The front rows were densely packed, while the farther back ones were more sparsely populated. They ensconced themselves near the back, far away from everyone else. The seat was uncomfortable, the thin cushion offering little relief from the harsh angle of the wood. She made eye contact with another congregant, who gave her a small smile and nod, before she took her own seat. A fissure of embarrassment ran through Xolia. What are we doing here?

Why had she ever thought that church would solve their problems? Marshall sat with his back straight and stared straight ahead. Xolia tried to pull up the reasons she had falled in love with him at the beginning of their relationship, but she fell short. She could only resent the man who sat beside her.

Her heart beat erratically. The air grew thicker. I can’t fucking do this. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered to Marshall. She tried to keep the panic from her voice, and either she succeeded, or Marshall didn’t care as he gave her a quick nod.

Xolia got up from the pew on unsteady feet and marched to the antechamber. Wanting to avoid contact with anyone, she opted not to stay in the room and took a left down a hallway that was entirely lit by oil lamps on the walls. Assured she was alone, she pinched the bridge of her nose, half-praying to the church for answers while chiding herself for such nonsensical thoughts.

“A lost soul wanders into our church,” said an airy voice from deeper in the hall. “Can I offer you any guidance?”

Xolia’s eyes snapped open, looking for the source of the voice. A man dressed in gray robes, like someone from a long-forgotten time, walked toward her. He was covered from the neck down, with pristine white gloves covering his hands. He was bald and clean-shaven, including his eyebrows. It was a stark look that left Xolia on edge.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He stopped a few feet away from her. “Someone who listens. Someone who occasionally has answers. What troubles you?”

Xolia scoffed. “What doesn’t trouble me?”

“Life can never offer any simple answers, can it, Xolia Stone?”

“How do you know me?”

The man laughed softly. “Rheathism is an old religion, one that nearly died out after the last king’s death. But we were there during the years of servitude. And we were here during the Revolution.”

“Lots of variants fought in the rebellion, do you know all of them?”

He shook his head. “Not all of them have the abilities you or Vice Chancellor Campion have.”

Despite the mention of Atlas’s name, it was nice to be singled out above her other comrades. It had been so long since she received any glory for herself rather than for FAR as a whole. She stepped closer to the man, hungry for more.

Xolia studied the unmarred glimpse of visible skin. “Are you a variant?”

He nodded.

“Did you fight?”

“I’ve belonged to the church since birth. I have been given special exemptions to act as head priest for the church for almost a century now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what you gave for us.”

Xolia turned away from him, looking back to the antechamber. Is what I got worth what I gave? She still had her life; she was given her happy ending. Or at least, someone’s happy ending. “I gave less than some.”

“And more than others. Though it’s not a competition.” The priest folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Do you want to share what troubles you?”

She didn’t even know his name. And yet, the thought of unburdening herself to this stranger was tempting.

He must have seen the shift in her emotions because he gestured further down the hall. “We can talk in private if you wish.”

“I told Mar—my. . .” She stuttered over the word fiancé. “I left someone in there.” She gestured behind her.

“I’m sure they won’t mind your absence. Today’s sermon is about to start, and it’s a good one.”

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