Crowned by Fate (Skye) novel Chapter 157

Adrian’s POV

The moment Skyen fingers toallied the buttrally mural, I karu something was wrong.

“Skye, no

The ground beneath her feet singly censed to exist. One second she was standing there, and the next the wat falling through a perfectly circular had materialized out of nowhere.

I longed forward, my hand barely missing the fabric of his shit at the disappeared into the darknett helal.

The hole sealed itself instantly, leaving nothing but solid earth where the bad stond moments before.

“SKYE!

I slammed my lists against the batterfly mural, searching for any mechanism that might reopen the passage. The stone remained cold and unyielding beneath my desperate strikes.

“Open up, damn you!”

I shifted partially, my claws extending as I tore at the ground where she’d vanished. Dirt and debris flew in all directions as I dug frantically, but there w nothing, just more packed earth and stone. No sign that a hole had ever existed,

I forced myself to stop, chest heaving as I fought for control. Panic wouldn’t help Skye, I closed my eyes and tried to mind–link her..

“Skye? Can you hear me?”

For several agonizing moments, there was only silence. Then, faint as a whisper on the wind, I felt her presence brush against my consciousness. The link was weak, barely there, but it was enough.

She was alive.

Her voice faded before she could finish, the connection too tenuous to maintain. I tried again, pouring all my energy into strengthening our bond, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. Whatever had taken her was interfering with our mind–link.

I stared at the mural one last time, memorizing every detail of the painted butterflies. Their wings seemed to mock me with their stillness.

• Skye wasn’t someone who acted recklessly. She was careful, calculating. But something about this mural had drawn her in, compelled her to touch it despite my warning

Magit, my wolf growled. Old magic.

There was no point staying here. I had to keep moving forward and trust that our paths would cross again.

The corridor ahead curved sharply, and as I rounded the comer. I stopped short.

A house stood directly in the middle of the path, it weathered wooden walls completely blocking the way forward, Not built into the maze walls, but sitting there as if someone had simply dropped a building in the center of the passage.

My breath caught in my throat,

In this house

The salt–stained shingles, the moked shutters painted maritime blur, the brass shi

bell hanging beside the door. Every detail was exactly as I

remembered.

1/3

This was the fishing

cabin where my f

father

But that was impossible. We were in a mare somewhere in the middle of the country, bere eat the reas

And my fathe.. my father had been dead for four and a half year

Lapproached slowly, half expecting the house to vanish like a mirage.

The wooden porch treaked under my weight, the sound to familiar it made my chest tight. How times had 1 hounded up their stapt help my father prepare the dising equipment?

examined the door carefully, running my hands along the frame to check for traps or triggers. I thought the mare would only show people their nightmares. I wouldn’t be caught off goard. But there was nothing. Just an ordinary door with peeling paint and a brass handle worn smooth by

Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open.

The scent hit me first. Saltair and old wood, mise with the lingering arms of my father coffee. My eyes burned with unexpected as a stepped inside.

Everything was exactly as it had been. The insin room with its stone fireplace and mismatched furniture. The kitchen table where we’d spread out mutiral charts, planning our dives. The bookshelf crammed with field guides to Pacific marine life. Even his lucky compass on the mantle, to brass surface gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the windows,

I moved deeper into the room, my fingers trailing over familiar objects. Here was the framed photo of my first successful deep dive. I couldn’t have be more than twelve, grinning beside my father with a all octopus in my hands

There was the piece of coral we’d found at forty meters, its branching structure still vibrant orange despite the years

On the coffee table sat his dive log, open to a half completed entry, I recognized his careful handwriting:

Current conditions favorable. Adrian shows remarkable improvement in breath control. Reached 80 meters unassisted today. So proud of my son…

The entry ended mid–sentence, dated two weeks before my father died.

I ask onto the worn couch, the notebook trembling in my hands. This was from our last trip together, before everything fell apart,

“Why are you showing me this?” I whispered to the empty room.

“I thought the mare would only show people their nightmares. But this wasn’t a nightmare. It was a perfect memory, preserved like an insect

amber.

Perhaps that made it worse.

set the notebook down carefully and made my way to the small kitchen. More memories ambushed me with every step. The dent in the cabinet where Id accidentally kicked it during a growth spurt. The mismatched mugs we’d collected from various coastal towns. The ancient radio that only picked up three stations, all of them weather reports.

And there, on the stove, a pot simmered on low heat.

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