Page 76 of The Devil's Canvas

A slow, creeping cold slides down my spine.

Theron lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "That actually makes a terrifying amount of sense."

I shake my head once. "Taken?" My voice is razor-edged now. "Taken by who?"

I already know.

The Council does not move. They do not need to.

Because the answer is already here, sitting inside my ribs like a death sentence.

It was me.

And my father realizes it first.

Evander’s voice cuts through the thick silence. "Why is everything changing?"

The answer doesn’t come from the Council.

It comes from my mother.

"Because when you made the deal, Julian…" She pauses, just for a breath. "You transferred the gift to Melanie."

The words settle like a death knell.

A slow ripple of understanding moves through the room.

Owen, sharp as ever, lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. But here’s the problem." His eyes meet mine, his expression unreadable. "Melanie only cares about herself."

I exhale, something bitter curling in my chest. My voice, when it comes, is low and venomous.

"So I put the Weaver’s gift—the hands of fate—" I let out a slow, humorless laugh. "In a self-indulgent bitch."

"You said her mother had the gift before," Adrian says, his voice sharper than usual. "Explain."

The Infernal Council does not turn, does not shift, but something in the air coils tighter, as if the very fabric of reality is bracing itself.

"She did," the leader confirms, their voice stretched thin, ancient, absolute.

Adrian doesn’t react outwardly, but I see the slight flex of his jaw, the way his arms fold tighter across his chest. None of us rattle easily. But something about this unsettles me.

"Like all Weavers before her, Calliope Arden was meant to oversee the Loom, to guide the threads of fate, to preserve the balance of existence itself."

Calliope Arden.

Ophelia’s mother.

A woman who, until now, had been nothing more than a name. But suddenly—she is everything.

"When she died," the leader continues, their voice layered, woven with something beyond time, "the gift should have passed to her daughter."

A slow, creeping sense of wrongness twists in my gut.

"Should have?" I say, voice low.

Damian clears his throat, sharply. "But it didn’t."

"No," the Council confirms.

---