Nearby, he could hear Clotho and Lachesis shrieking. Something soft and warm and suffocating covered his face, and he realized it was the fabric of fate, falling apart completely, unraveling the threads of lives still meant to be lived—threads of heroism and betrayal, of love and lust, of deaths foretold. His teeth clenched against the screams as he felt his ribs breaking, his muscles pulling loose from his bones, his physical form coming undone. The wound in his chest was a vortex of pain, sucking his awareness down into a bottomless abyss. His thoughts exploded into a storm of hopeless confusion. A shadow passed through his mind, a dark silhouette striding toward him, malice in every step. Chaos was rising. But Moros was helpless, beyond fighting, as his arms and legs flopped uselessly. The torment went on and on, but his sisters’ voices faded. He was alone in this, like he had always been, with no one to fight by his side. Aislin was the one person who might have. He was leaving her alone to face the demon god who even now was coming for her and everyone she loved.
