The Art of Weaving Fate [Slow-Burning Dark Fantasy]

"Again!" Master Nerina snapped from the sidelines.

Kaelen groaned and slowly got up from the floor, using his wooden staff as a cane.

"Try to keep more weight on your forward leg," Elara offered, but he brushed off her comment with a grunt and ignored her extended hand.

He knew she was not trying to taunt him, but the shooting pain in his left shoulder made it difficult to be open for constructive feedback.

"Into position," Nerina commanded, and the siblings did as instructed.

They were halfway through their martial arts lesson that took place in one of the smaller courtyards of the Great Library. The ground was covered with thin reef mats that did little to dampen falls, and their shouts echoed through the surrounding archways. The air was still fresh and cool, as the morning sun had not yet climbed over the rooftops.

"This time, keep your guard up, Kaelen," Master Nerina said sharply.

She was a tall woman with a grim demeanor. Rarely had Kaelen seen a smile cross her lips, but he figured humor was an occupational hazard when you were a Master of self-defense.

Kaelen looked at Elara, who was bracing herself a few feet away from him. She seemed calm on the outside, her breathing steady, but he could see tiny sweat pearls on her temples, showing that she was more exhausted than she let on. As she prepared for the next skirmish, she brushed strands of wavy black hair behind her ears, exposing rosy cheeks.

"Go!" Master Nerina bellowed and cut the air with her hand.

Without hesitation, Kaelen charged two steps towards Elara and flung his staff around. She quickly raised her two short poles to parry his attack, but was pushed back by the impact. The contact of their weapons sent a crisp clack reverberating through the courtyard, and made Kaelen's staff tremble in his calloused hands. Keeping up the momentum, he went for a second attack, targeting Elara's right knee. This time, though, her swift movement allowed her to evade his attack and land a counter blow to his rib cage. Kaelen winced briefly, but quickly regained his composure. Elara's moves were textbook — and as such, predictable.

With her flank exposed after striking a solid blow, Kaelen yanked his staff around and hit her in the side with its back end. He could feel the shiver the impact sent through her body, and immediately felt bad for it.

Elara dropped one pole to the ground and stumbled backwards. She pressed her hand against her side, and Kaelen could hear almost whimpers of pain escaping her gaping mouth.

"Stop!" Master Nerina yelled.

She gazed at Kaelen with an expression that was hard to read.

"What part about keeping your guard up was unclear to you?"

A rush of anger overcame Kaelen. Had he not won the duel?

"However," she continued and looked at Elara, "quite an effective strategy. Certainly not one you wish to employ in a real fight, however." Her features grew milder as she turned her gaze back to Kaelen.

"You read your opponent well — that's a useful skill to have. And so is the element of surprise." The warm embrace of praise numbed Kaelen's pain.

"But," Elara protested with a shaky voice, "that was not how we are supposed to fight."

Master Nerina examined her for a long moment. "Supposed to fight?" she echoed.

Elara seemed to regret her words almost immediately.

"Do you think that's how it works?" Nerina continued in her sharp voice. "Do you think your opponents out there," — she pointed above the roofs of the courtyard — "will play by the rules? That they will follow every step exactly as the textbook describes it?"

Elara lowered her head. Martial arts was the one subject of their training that she could not easily master by studying books, along with their occasional archery classes. She still excelled, but not to the same extent as she did in more cerebral areas of their apprenticeship.

Kaelen felt bad for his sister. He did not mean to expose her like that, but he also enjoyed these small victories from time to time, given how rare they were.

"But, Master Nerina?" he jumped to Elara's aid. "Do you really think we will ever actually have to fight anyone? I mean … we are librarians."

Master Nerina looked at him with her cat-like eyes. Her pointy cheekbones and tight blonde bun gave her a menacing appearance.

"That may be what we are today, but our history is one of military confrontation. The Fateweavers of old sullied their hands in both ink and blood to protect these sacred grounds. Learning to defend yourself is no friendly drill — you'd do best to remember that."

"Yes, Master," Kaelen murmured reverently.

#

Once Master Nerina dismissed them, they cleaned up all the equipment and changed back into their usual gowns. Kaelen was waiting for Elara in front of the changing rooms, like he had done so many times before. It was one of their many rituals that accompanied daily life in the Great Library. They both had other friends, but somehow they tended to stick together.

When Elara finally came out, she still looked shaken up. Kaelen wondered if the pain of not performing well already outweighed her physical pain.

"You okay?" he asked as they started walking down the corridor.

"I'm fine," she replied with a stiff voice.

They went silent for a moment as they turned around a bend and passed a group of librarians they had only met briefly in a seminar a couple of weeks ago. They all nodded at each other and moved on without saying anything.

"Look, Elara," Kaelen continued after another few steps, "I'm sorry about earlier."

Elara stopped and turned towards him. She was significantly shorter than he, but their color palette was nearly identical. They both had the same dark hair and green eyes as their mother, paired with their father's pale skin. The resemblance was further strengthened by their identical ceremonial robes.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," she said, with less conviction than she probably would've liked. "Next time, I just have to do better."

Kaelen admired her striving for perfection. To him, a method was good enough if it worked — to her, it was good enough if it was the best possible approach.

"You know, you don't always have to be the best at everything," Kaelen said as they continued to walk down a long corridor. It was half advice, half plea.

Elara didn't respond — it wasn't necessary. He knew his sister too well, knew that the quest for perfection was as integral to her character as roots to a tree. They both yearned for praise, but their motivations were vastly different. To Elara, praise was merely a confirmation that she had done something correctly. She could then put a checkmark behind that aspect of her knowledge and focus on the next topic, or, in the absence of praise, go back and perfect whatever skill was being evaluated until it was met with approval. She relied on people like Master Zerath to give her that confirmation, and struggled when she did not have someone around her to evaluate her work.

To Kaelen, on the other hand, praise was the recognition and approval he felt had been lacking for most of his life. Elara had always outperformed him, his parents had never been satisfied, and his journey of becoming a Fateweaver had been more rocky than he would've liked. As such, he had always been reaching for any scraps of recognition he could get his hands on, like a beggar scavenging for crumbs at a grand banquet, hoping to gather the smallest bit of what others feast upon.

They reached the top of a wide staircase that led to the main entry hall. The wooden ceiling here was tall and rich with adornments, the walls covered in paintings and decorative carpets. The splendor was meant to greet and impress travelers from all corners of the realm, whether they were monarchs and rulers seeking guidance or simple pilgrims looking for meaning in their monotone lives. Besides the representative and ceremonial functions of the great hall, it also offered plenty of room for all those standing in line for an audience with the order of the Fateweavers.

It had always impressed Kaelen what sacrifices people were willing to make to see the Great Library in person. But then again, he'd probably just gotten numb to the sensation of being in this magical place, after living here for so many years. Of course, most pilgrims did not simply come to admire the scenery or the architecture: most of them were driven by the hope of being offered a reading from their very own fate tomes. They would never hear about the tragic events in their future — and yet, it already seemed to put their minds at ease to see glimpses of their fate, no matter how unimportant. Naturally, they were never allowed to read their tomes themselves. In one of their first lessons, Zerath had explained the terrible consequences one would face if they found themselves reading their own fate tome.

"It twists the mind and memory," he had said. "The price for knowing the future is losing the past, and the present."

Of course, the pilgrims didn't know about any of that. They were content with what they found at the end of their journey, and they would leave some coins with the order before heading home. It was a fruitful relationship for both sides, and everyone was happy — normally.

When Kaelen and Elara reached the top of the staircase, they were greeted with loud voices from below. Some commotion was playing out near the reception counter, where visitors would usually state their name and purpose, before being told to wait their turn.

The orange-robed Fateweaver behind the counter was an apprentice like Kaelen and Elara, whom they had occasionally run into but rarely interacted with. Facing him was a tall man with dark skin and worn clothes, his arms raised high, but not in a menacing way — it looked like he was praying, or pleading. The pilgrims, who had been standing in line behind him, were rallying, crowding the counter and the miserable-looking young man behind it. They were looking agitated, angry even, which was very unusual. Kaelen had gotten used to seeing these travelers from around the world filled to the brim with hope and happiness, watching them as they shared meals and stories — now, they were sharing an apparent dissatisfaction.

"Wonder what that's about," Kaelen murmured to his sister.

Elara shrugged. She didn't seem keen on finding out. Most of the time, she tried to steer clear of trouble, in an effort never to be associated with it.

"Want to go check it out?" Kaelen pushed.

"And what good will that do?" Elara scoffed. "You want to go gloat? By all means. I'm going back to my room to work on the report for Master Aldrin. Something you should do, too."

Kaelen rolled his eyes. "Don't be so uptight. There is plenty of time for that later. Don't you want to find out what's going on down there?" He pointed at the noisy crowd in the hall.

Elara glanced at the hectic scene, and Kaelen could tell she was tempted.

"Master Zerath once said," she finally retorted, "Gazing at another's misfortune, blinds you to your own."

Kaelen frowned. "That's a very boring motto to live by."

"Besides," he added after a moment, "maybe we can help with whatever issue they are having. At the very least, our comrade Vanir looks like he could use some support."

"You didn't seem to care much for Vanir when he took the last meatballs at the buffet the other day," she said mockingly.

"Whatever," Kaelen grumbled, then added: "If you want to be all boring about it, suit yourself."

And with that, they parted ways, and Kaelen scurried down the staircase towards the commotion. He pushed himself through the crowd, trying to leverage his appearance as a Fateweaver, until he reached the back of the counter. Vanir turned to Kaelen, behind him an incomprehensible hubbub of many angry voices.

"It's bad," he said to Kaelen, and his words sounded distressed. "I don't know what to do. They —" His sentence was cut off by a shout from the crowd.

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"Oh look," they sneered, "another one of them. Maybe this one can explain to us why we are being lied to."

It had been one of the bystanders, a young woman right behind the tall man Kaelen had seen from afar. He ignored the woman and instead inspected the man who seemed to be the center of all this uproar. To Kaelen's surprise, he did not look angry, but devastated. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and streams of tears were covering his puffy cheeks. He looked at Kaelen with an intense, gut-wrenching stare.

Kaelen gulped. This would require more mediation than expected. He exhaled, trying to gather strength in voice and spirit for what was to come.

"My name is Kaelen," he began, his voice not as firm as he would've liked, "I'm an apprentice to fate, just like my comrade Vanir here."

Someone in the crowd scoffed contemptuously.

"We want to talk to a real Fateweaver," another one interjected.

Kaelen tried to ignore the comment and directly addressed the man in front of him.

"May I ask your name?" Kaelen asked calmly.

The crowd grew quiet, and all the attention was on Kaelen and the tall man. Kaelen could feel, maybe even hear, his heart pounding.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, the man sniveled, then spoke with a deep voice.

"You may," he paused briefly and dried his tears with the back of his tatty sleeve. "The name is Azhan, I'm a farmer from the area south of Orriven."

"Nice to meet you," Kaelen said with a strained smile, not quite sure where to go from here. He hadn't thought this through as much as he should have.

"May I also ask," he continued after a brief moment of silence, "what is the meaning of all this?"

There were a few inaudible comments from the crowd, but they died down as soon as Azhan spoke.

"I came here today, like I did a few months ago with my daughter." The tears started flowing again, and his voice got raspy.

A queasy feeling started to creep up on Kaelen.

"I had never been to the Great Library before," Azhan continued, trying to hold his emotions at bay, "I had only ever heard of this place, and the wonders it holds. People kept telling me, coming here could be a life-changing experience, but I never needed my life to change. I was happy. But when my daughter fell ill in her fourth winter, I decided to take her here, hoping to learn what fate had chosen for her." He sniffed a few times, then continued.

"We begged for a reading from her tome, and after hours of waiting in the cold, with my daughter coughing and sneezing, shaking her small body, we were finally ushered inside."

Next to Kaelen, Vanir lowered his head and started nervously fidgeting with his thumbs.

"The Fateweaver taking care of us seemed kind and genuine. He gave us warm tea and a bite to eat. My daughter was so weak, she could barely hold on to the bits and pieces she was given, but it helped. Then, he started reading from her tome. He told us —"

Azhan broke off and started sobbing. Strangers behind him started patting his back, whispering words of encouragement.

"He told us," Azhan continued after he had regained his composure, "that my daughter would fight and beat the firm grip of the sickness — and so she did."

He paused briefly, his eyes resting on Kaelen.

"He told us that my daughter would have a happy and healthy summer, and that she would learn to discover and love the world — and she did."

Azhan's eyes started watering again.

"What he did not tell us, however, is that my sweet girl would die in an accident at the end of this very summer, stomped dead by a mad horse."

And with that, the crowd burst into shouting again. Curses and accusations broke over Kaelen like a wave, but he could barely hear them through the noise in his own head. A rush of thoughts and emotions surged within him, setting his usually calm mind ablaze. He was feeling ashamed on behalf of his order, but at the same time, he recognized that this was exactly the way it was supposed to be. People couldn't know the tragedies that lay ahead of them — it wouldn't change anything, it would only make it worse.

"I —" Kaelen began, but broke off.

No one would've heard him anyway.

The crowd was like a thunderstorm, with verbal lightning strikes lashing out in all directions. They were feeling tricked, deceived, and started questioning their belief in the Fateweavers as a whole. And in doing so, they failed to see the point of it all. Little by little, Kaelen felt his helplessness make way for a surge of frustration — frustration at their ignorance and the ease with which their belief system crumbled. He felt sympathy for Azhan and his daughter, like anyone would. But the way of fate was ever mysterious, and it often came with tragedies like the one the farmer had experienced. Yet, it was not the Fateweavers' fault that these things happened — they were mere messengers, disciples to the God of Fate, scribes to record what some higher power had bestowed upon humanity.

"Listen up!" it burst out of Kaelen. The pilgrims closest to him winced and looked at him with surprised faces. They were used to Fateweavers always keeping their composure, with mellow voices and etiquette.

"Listen," Kaelen said in a more tempered volume.

Azhan gestured to his supporters to do as he said.

"I know you are sad and angry, I get it. I, too, feel very sorry for Azhan's daughter. But that's beside the point." He paused and glanced at a couple of faces in the crowd.

"Now, you might not like it, but everything played out exactly as it should have." He let his words be felt. Here and there, people were whispering quietly.

"Fateweavers don't create fate, we record it. We have no say in it, just like you." Kaelen remembered Zerath's talk about changing fate, but quickly pushed back the thought.

"What fate had in store for your daughter was tragic, but inevitable. Knowing about it sooner wouldn't have made any difference. On the contrary," he looked at Azhan, who was holding back his tears, "it would have tainted those last months with your daughter."

Maybe Kaelen was imagining things, but he could sense rattled souls slowly calming down around him.

"Did the Fateweaver, who was reading that tome to you, know about these events? Probably. Did he purposefully withhold that information? Most likely. But was that ill intent? Or was it mercy?"

He paused and turned his gaze to Vanir, who still looked pitiful.

"Fateweavers are tasked with a great burden — the burden of knowledge. When they record a fate, they may see terrible things. And yet, they are not to interfere with any of those tragedies they might foresee. They are meant to be spectators to the flow of fate, never to change it — nor would it make a difference if they tried."

Kaelen looked back at the crowd. Some of them had lowered their heads, others were staring at him with wide-open eyes.

"So what's left," he continued, "is to be kind to the ones seeking our knowledge. And that kindness may come in many forms, but in the end, it's about making your lives better, not worse. Sure, that Fateweaver could have told Azhan about the death of his daughter. But would that have made anything better? You couldn't have stopped it from happening. Fate demanded it, and why that is, we might never understand. Regardless, by not knowing, you enjoyed those last months with your daughter, did you not?"

Azhan sobbed and nodded.

"And don't you prefer that over months of grief, with your daughter not understanding why her father is already mourning, instead of enjoying life with her?"

Tears were streaming down the tall man's cheeks, and people around him were bobbing their heads in agreement. Some of them were even exchanging puzzled looks, as if wondering what had gotten into them moments ago.

Eventually, Azhan exhaled deeply and looked Kaelen directly in the eyes.

"You carry wisdom, young man," he said, and for the first time, a hint of a smile was tugging at his lips. "I will carry this pain with me, and nothing will change that. But at least my daughter did not have to see me like this." He sniffed and turned to the crowd.

"The boy is right. If we seek to learn about our fates, we have to play by the rules — as do they." He gestured at Kaelen and Vanir, whose face had finally regained some color, now that the conversation was steering into safer waters.

Azhan's supporters murmured in agreement, and Kaelen could feel his neck muscles relax. Somehow, he had managed to de-escalate a situation that was well on the way to becoming ugly.

#

It took a few moments for the crowds to disperse, but eventually, order was restored in the Great Hall. Vanir went back to registering newcomers at the end of a well-formed line of pilgrims, while Azhan bid his farewell, but not without thanking Kaelen again for making him reflect on this tragedy. He gave him a firm handshake, tears still showing on his cheeks, and left through the main gate.

And with that, life was back to normal. People soon stopped looking at Kaelen, moving on from this unpleasant incident, and instead focusing on their own business. Eventually, he decided to leave things in the more-or-less competent hands of Vanir and headed back up the staircase. Taking two stairs at a time, he came to an abrupt halt when he heard faint clapping just above him. When he looked up, he saw Master Zerath leaning against the balustrade, his purple Master robe glowing in the diffuse light of the chandeliers. A gentle smile painted wrinkles on his face, and his deep eyes were locked on Kaelen.

"Well done, Kaelen," he acknowledged, and folded his hands in his sleeves.

"Master Zerath, I —" Kaelen's surprise was genuine, and he couldn't help but ask the most pressing question that came to his mind.

"How long have you been standing here?"

Zerath chuckled like an old man giving in to the little pleasures in life, now that they had reached a certain age.

"Long enough," he said playfully.

Kaelen took the last steps of the staircase and stopped next to his mentor.

"But," Kaelen protested, "why didn't you …" He broke off and started again. "I'm pretty sure you could've resolved this mess a lot faster."

Zerath shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. But it seemed to me you had it well under control."

Kaelen didn't respond right away and instead embraced the praise he was given.

"Thank you," he murmured, with a stiff nod of his head.

"I will say," Zerath continued with a cheeky smile, "I never thought to count mediation as one of your strengths. But apparently, I was mistaken."

Kaelen didn't know what to say to that, so he chose to stay silent. Master Zerath let his gaze wander through the hall, eventually pointing at one of the paintings above the entry gate.

"Do you know who that is?" he asked without taking his eyes off the painting.

Kaelen squinted at the portrait of an old man in an expensive-looking burgundy robe, which indicated he'd been an Elder of the Fateweavers. He was sitting on a posh white sofa with a stack of books next to him. In his left hand, he was holding a quill, while a piece of parchment was lying in his lap.

"I don't, no," Kaelen admitted.

Zerath smiled and looked at him.

"That's Elder Thalorin, born of house Dor — your great-great-grandfather."

Kaelen examined the facial structures of the man in the picture, trying to find resemblances to him and his sister. It looked like Thalorin had green eyes and sharp cheekbones, just like theirs, and his hair was of the same dark color. His nose was more crooked, but that could've been a result of a long life of conflicts. He definitely passed as a Dor.

"I remember my father mentioning the name once or twice," Kaelen said pensively.

"I'm not surprised. Elder Thalorin Dor was one of the order's finest. He was a great mind and a great warrior alike. He studied and understood the ways of Fateweaving like few had before him, and he established some of the core paradigms we teach today. Many worldly rulers came to seek his guidance, and he considered many of them close friends. His influence was unmatched, both within these halls and outside. But while his, shall we say, professional life was stellar, his personal life was overshadowed by many tragedies."

He paused and gave Kaelen a moment to process. Their father had made an effort to educate them on their ancestors, but only the successful ones. And he seemed to have left out the parts of their lives that did not go as planned.

"What happened to him?" Kaelen asked curiously.

Zerath sighed. "Three of his four children had a rare genetic condition, just like their mother, Ariana. She died at a young age, when the youngest child had only turned two. Then, an odd five years later, her offspring started to follow her into an early grave. Within a decade, all three children passed away, shattering Thalorin's world. With all his influence, knowledge, and power, he could do nothing but watch as his family fell apart. But he did not let grief consume him, and he found a path forward. His last remaining child, Lira, would lead a healthy and prosperous life, following in his footsteps as a Fateweaver. And she would eventually bear the next generation of Dors, your grandmother among them."

Kaelen gulped. "That's … terrible," was the only thing he could say.

"Oh, it was," Zerath agreed and nodded, "but fate wanted it so. And it shaped Thalorin into who he was meant to be. It turned him into a compassionate diplomat, a thoughtful friend, and a great mediator for the many conflicts of that age."

Kaelen finally understood where this was going.

"Maybe," Zerath continued with a smile, "he passed down some of those skills to you, Kaelen."

"I would prefer that over being shaped by tragedy."

His Master chuckled. "Certainly," he concluded.

They fell silent for a moment as they gazed at the cascade of oil paintings.

"Master Zerath?" Kaelen asked when he noticed a thought lingering at the edge of his mind.

"Yes?"

"The other day in class, when we burned the fate tome of Elara's bird," Kaelen began and started gesturing with his hands. "Let's say my own fate involved meeting that bird. How does that work when it just blinks out of existence?"

A smile tugged at Zerath's lips, but he let Kaelen continue.

"I mean … people meet and interact with each other all the time. Their lives are intertwined. But doesn't that mean their fates are as well? And then what happens if one of them is not there anymore to play their role in your fate? Doesn't that mean your fate is also not coming true?"

"Those are good questions to ask," Zerath acknowledged and nodded. "But I'm afraid the answers you seek are no easy ones. The interaction between sentient beings is one of the reasons why weaving their fate is so difficult. That's why, in practice, we try to record their fate as adequately as possible without leaving them in impossible situations. Meaning that we don't write down every detail, especially when their fates meet those of others. It's like using a brush instead of a pen to create a picture — it matters where the line goes, but not how thick it is."

Kaelen thought back to when he recorded the quail's fate with as much detail as possible. Maybe that's what had been the little bird's downfall.

"So when we recorded the fate of these candles as detailed as possible …?"

The question was implied, and Zerath chuckled briefly.

"A good practice, don't you think?"

Apparently not, is what he wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, he ran his hands over the balustrade and let his gaze wander through the room.

"It is fortunate that I ran into you," Zerath said more casually.

Kaelen was surprised to hear that.

"Our assignee for tonight's night watch in the west wing archives has fallen ill, and we are in need of a replacement. Now, you already did your good deed for the day," he gestured in the direction of the reception and Vanir, "but would you be kind enough to take over the shift?"

Kaelen hesitated for a brief moment, trying to find a good excuse not to spend his night in a dusty archive, but Zerath added: "Of course, no one could expect you to write that report for Master Aldrin on top of attending to so many important matters …"

The cheeky smile was back, but it took Kaelen a moment to process what his Master was implying.

"You mean," he asked carefully, "I don't have to write that report?"

Zerath leaned in conspiratorially, "Let's just say, Master Aldrin owes me a favor for tending to his back problems." He chuckled and gave Kaelen a wink.

Kaelen smiled.

Elara won't be happy to hear that, he thought with satisfaction.