Fate's Hands Novels & Stories

It is observing me. “One further disturbance will trigger permanent correction,” Fate states. “This is final notice.” I think of Nora’s hands clutching my coat. Of the way she leaned into me without hesitation. Of the stillness she brought into a being who has never been allowed to stop. “I acknowledge the notice,” I say. The weave loosens incrementally. Fate withdraws, not retreating but redistributing attention elsewhere. Contingencies are already being calculated. Paths that do not yet exist are quietly prepared.

He rarely said my name, which made my heart break a little. I turned towards him and looked at him. “That night.” He said, eyes dark, unguarded. “Was the first time I believed in fate.” My breath caught. “And now?” I asked. His gaze dropped to his injured hand. “Now.” He said. “I believe that fate always comes back to collect.” I left but the memory stayed. ----------------------------------------------

Brickland says as he stands up and rushes out of the room, his hand over his mouth as if he is going to be sick. I lift the basin in my shaky hands, and walk over to a table. I reach for a fresh set of gloves and a scalpel. I watch my hands tremble as I prepare to make my first cut, clutching the scalpel with a death grip. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, followed by the tingling and zaps of the mate bond. I look up and am met with Asher’s wounded eyes.

If not any! Get that straight right within fate. You are limited. Grow your present state. Kick the fate away and never beg again. Folding hands means what? You cannot beg for a good start, good thought, good deeds. Should be like spring coming out of you. You are safer in environments that value disputes. Not acceptance is for you. But questioning is the game of your mind. Play it. Life is sports as I described. Folding hands means begging for a place to be understood, to be humble, and to beg. Isn’t too not the same? You value you. Do not stretch below the feet of others. You are resembling God. Why do you need to accept priests' grumble?

"When Gu Wei started applying ointment to Mao's bruised hand, she..." Her hands frowned at their place. She had a desire to continue but was not able to write further. What happened after all?

His instinct only tells one thing to do. Survive. But on that fateful day, he met his goddess of fortunes as his savior. His life rescuer. Someone who has destined to be his home. A safe haven for him. Ever since that day, his feet entered her life. If Sister Hua didn't show up that day, his fate probably ended it up in the sewers or even worse. He could be a pocket thief or a beggar. Busying himself begging on the street with no future. Now, slowly, with a straight head, his path life was steady and clear. He no longer feels scared of what future has hold for him ahead.

I had all my memories in this place, and I still remembered when I woke up the next morning after my night at the bar—I couldn’t remember anything. What was happening? Didn’t I die? I thought to myself. “You did die,” he replied to me, even without me saying it. “But death is a doorway. And I am Fate. I control who goes in.” I clenched my fists, trying to anchor myself. I wanted to punch him in the face. “What the hell are you talking about? Cut the crap.” His smile never left his face. “It means you are... unique. Not just you—both of you.”

The cup slipped from my hand as the hot liquid splashed all over my fingers and onto a crisp blue suit in front of me. “Goddess, I am so sorry-,” My phone slipped from my shoulder and fell onto the floor with a clatter. I cursed and then looked up. And then, my body forgot the simple science of respiration. In front of me stood blue suit, broad shoulders and long black hair tied loosely behind a strong neck. Sharp cheekbones, trimmed dark stubble tracing a perfectly sculptured jawline. And those eyes. Golden impossible eyes that had managed to haunt my dreams since I saw them.

​Laura stood at the perimeter of the ghost-filled square, her hands held aloft. She had been silent since they arrived, her eyes fixed not on the monsters but on the air between them. To her, the abyss looked different. She didn't see just darkness; she saw a chaotic, fraying tapestry of golden filaments. They were everywhere, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heartbeat. ​As she concentrated, the filaments began to weave around her fingers. They were the strands of Fate—the very blueprints of existence that the Architects had spent eons trying to sever and harvest.

the Fate shrugged with her eyebrows raised. Justum came down from the mound to stand beside the Favored of the Fates. He gave her his nod of approval. "Well, Your Majesty, you have won," he told her as if his stamp of approval made it so. Though, perhaps in a way, it did. Aurora looked over his shoulder at the still form in Fate Omid's arms. "Really?" she challenged Justum, "I had hoped winning would feel quite different."