Page 75 of The Devil's Canvas

I roll my shoulders back, crossing my arms over my chest, forcing a casual stance I do not feel. "Wasn’t expecting guests."

"You were not given a choice." Their voices do not echo. They do not need to. They exist everywhere at once—woven into the very fabric of reality, a sound that does not vibrate through the air, but through existence itself.

The leader of the Infernal Council steps forward, and the very air tightens. Space itself warps around them, undecided—caught between making room for their presence or collapsing beneath it.

Their voice, layered and ancient, fills the room.

“Do you understand fate, Julian Duvain?”

The question lands like a hammer, but I don’t flinch. I roll my shoulders back, keeping my expression neutral.

"Fate?" I echo, tone edged. "Destiny. The thing mortals blame when they fuck up?"

A ripple moves through them—not quite a reaction, but an acknowledgment of my ignorance.

“No.” The answer comes in unison, voices woven into something too vast to be singular. “Not destiny. Not choice. Not control.”

One of them lifts a hand. And something appears, a single, thin threat. It does not sway with the breeze of movement, it does not bend. It hums, not audibly nor visibly, but at a level of awareness that was never meant to be perceivable.

"Fate is not just a concept," they continue, turning the thread in their grip. "It is the fabric of existence itself, woven in a Loom beyond gods, beyond demons, beyond time."

The thread pulses—so faint, I almost miss it. The room presses inward, thick with something older than eternity.

"No one interferes with it."

Their fingers tighten around the thread, stilling it completely.

"Not angels."

"Not gods."

"Not the damned."

No hesitation. No doubt. This is truth.

And yet—

"Ophelia Arden was born to."

Born to what?

"What the hell does that mean?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend.

A long, unnatural silence follows.

Selene, normally unreadable, stills.

Theron exhales a slow, disbelieving breath. "No way."

Selene doesn’t blink. When she speaks, it’s not with sarcasm, not with her usual amusement—it’s breathless. Stunned.

“Holy shit… she’s the Weaver, isn’t she?”

The leader inclines their head. "She was. Like her mother before her, she was chosen to maintain the Loom of Fate, to guide the threads that determine the course of existence."

The air thickens, heavy with something suffocating.

"Until it was taken."

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