Page 82 of The Devil's Canvas

My knees wobble, and I grip the armrest to keep upright. “That’s insane. I’m not—I don’t control fate. I’m justme.”

Julian’s gaze sharpens. “It’s not insane. It’s power. Ancient and rare. Youarethe Weaver. Every thread, every choice—they bend to you. Cassius knew. And he exploited it.”

“Exploited it how?” I ask, dread curling in my stomach.

“To put Melanie in control,” he says. “He didn’t care about you. He used your power to fuel her rise. Your empathy. Your essence. All siphoned through the Loom.”

I shake my head. “So I was just… a tool? He didn’t even care if I survived?”

“You were never his goal,” Julian replies, stepping forward. “You were the key. But he didn’t expect you to wake up—to start pulling the threads yourself.”

I stare at him, but the blows keep coming.

“Your mother was the Weaver before you,” he says. “Calliope. The gift passes through the Lysandra line. Her maternal line. She was meant to prepare you. But she was killed before she could.”

My throat tightens. “She waskilled? How do you know?”

Julian’s expression softens. Just a fraction. “She came to me. To my family. Warned the Infernal Council someone would come for the Loom. Someone like Cassius. She didn’t have long.”

My voice cracks. “The Infernal Council?”

“They oversee Hell’s order. Old, powerful. They only intervene when it suits them. Calliope begged for protection, but… they stayed out of it.”

“Who killed my mother?” I ask, though deep down, I already know the answer.

“Your father,” he replies.

I stare at him, my breath catching in my throat. “So... do you have it?” I ask, quieter than I mean to. “My soul?”

His eyes lock on mine, steady and careful.

“I thought you did,” I say, the words rushing out. “With the bond. With all of this. I thought it already belonged to you.”

Julian shakes his head. “It doesn’t,” he says gently. “Not unless you give it to me.”

I blink, trying to wrap my head around it. “But... my father sold it.”

“He did,” Julian says, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “But claiming it isn’t automatic. Not with a soul like yours.”

I pause. “What happens now?”

His expression shifts—something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Now... you decide.”

I search his face. “Decide what?”

“To willingly become mine,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s weight behind every word.

My stomach twists. “Aren’t I already?”

“You’re marked. We’re bound. But that’s not the same. I can’t take what you haven’t offered.”

“What?” I ask. “Does Melanie suddenly lose her success? Do I magically become the Weaver? What is my power?”

“If you take it back, she’ll feel it. Whether she loses everything? That’s not up to me. You already are the Weaver. You were just too numb to feel it. And your power?” He meets my eyes. “It’s not something you use. It’s something you survive.”

“And if I decide to give my soul to you,” I ask slowly, “what happens next?”

“The Infernal Claim,” he says, voice low.

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