Barracks (War of Hearts)

19- Secrets

The bracelets encircling Hatti's wrists rattle, their ancient metal links whispering secrets. She lays her weathered bag upon the rough-hewn table, its contents hidden from prying eyes. Her gaze, fierce and unyielding, meet mine, and I feel the weight of her sorcerous intent. The heavy oak door, worn by centuries of use, groaned as it sealed shut, its iron bolt sliding into place.

Yet, despite the hardness etched into her eyes, her voice flows forth like honey, a gentle lullaby in the midst of a tempest. "Have we met before?" Her words hang in the air, laden with memory, as she appraises me from head to toe. Suspicion and curiosity dance in her gaze, a tangled web of emotions.

"I don't think we have," I reply, my steps measured as I cross the room toward her.

She gestures for me to sit, her movements graceful and deliberate. The rustling of her robes is a soft counterpoint to the tension that hung in the air.

"How long will you keep it hidden?" Her question is a whispered incantation, and she produces a glass vial from her bag. The liquid within shimmers like stardust, its secrets waiting to be revealed.

"Keep what hidden?" My heart quickens. Could she see through my guise, discern the truth of my origins? The whispers of the court had spoken of her uncanny insight, her ability to unravel secrets woven into the very fabric of existence.

"Don't play the fool," she chides, her fingers tracing an invisible sigil in the air. "Why did your coven cast you out?"

"Coven?" The word hangs between us, a veil of mystery. I watch as she scatters ashes in a perfect circle around me, the fine powder settling on the stone floor. Perhaps she would laugh, dismiss it all as a joke spun by Himley or Aldaire—the court jesters who revel in mischief.

But her gaze holds no mirth. Instead, she steps back, her eyes piercing. "I have no time for games. Are you an assassin, sent to breach the castle walls and spill noble blood? Let me remind you that our duty is to uphold the ancient laws, to safeguard the realm. Or perhaps you are a heretic, branded by the Leisar—a fate that would surprise no one."

Confusion swirls within me, a tempest of uncertainty. I remain silent, my tongue bound by the threads of fate.

And then she does the unthinkable. With a swift motion my sleeve splits, revealing skin as pale as moonlight. I gasp, my eyes fixed on the crimson rivulets that traced a path from my arm to the floor.

Her gaze doesn't waver. "Watch," she commands.

The blood pools, forming intricate patterns—a tattoo of destiny etched in scarlet. A line intersects two circles, a bridge between worlds. The room seems to shift, its walls whispering forgotten truths.

"What is this?" I whisper, my voice lost in the echoes of magic.

Her eyes bore into mine. "The mark of the exiled, the path beyond the veil. You are no ordinary wanderer. Your fate is entwined with ours, and the ancient prophecies speak your name."

And so, in that dim chamber, I become more than an outsider. I become a weaver of destinies, a pawn in a game played across centuries. The blood had spoken, and the world held its breath.

For the line that crosses the circles was not just ink and skin—it is the threshold of eternity. 

"You could have asked more courteously," I retort, my voice echoing off the stone walls of the dim chamber. The air itself seems to hold its breath, as if awaiting her next move.