The Fateless

Fate may have been dead for weeks, but fate dies slowly, with decades of whispers on the wind.

In the months afterwards, it was surprisingly difficult to see the differences in the world. There were murmurs over mugs shared, scientists and storytellers alike speculating about what the future would bring – but nothing solid, for a while.

Though the manifestations of the electors have receded, as if wounds scarring, these are remote cases, born of the strange circumstances brought about by the Palace itself.

Fates are fulfilled, much as they always are. Whether they are more fluid – well, nobody can say.

The world waits.

And then it is undeniable. There is a new generation without manifestations, who will never know presumption, attention or scorn for the fate written on their bodies. A generation of children grows up waiting for something that never comes – no fate given, nothing within their chest that warps outwards, to shape and mould and determine. There is a new generation without fate at all.

There is the threat, the promise, the potential of a world where fate means less and less with each year that passes. Societies must reshape themselves, people must prepare to redefine where they look for purpose, for the future.

This is slow, too. But it slips nearer all the same.

That said, the old tales are not lost entirely.

There are whispers in the forests, at the margins of the world. That fate has returned to how it was, in the time before a set-in-stone fortress and a single throne.

There are wanderers, rare and nameless, bestowing a fate upon only those who seek it; those who find themselves at a crossroads and ask where to walk. Gifts slipped into pockets, under pillows, slid between the pages of a willing story.

Fate is still here, if one wants to go searching.