Along the twisting corridors of the Night Market, where merchants peddle relics and whisper secrets, there is a woman that trades in divine foresight. For a price, she lifts the veil of the unknown, offering glimpses of futures both coveted and cursed. Her shop is unassuming, nearly lost among the curiosity merchants and spell tome dealers, yet those who seek truth always find their way to her door.

  Inside, the candles flicker, their glow stretching and twisting the shadows that dance along the walls of the small parlor. The scent of burnt incense lingers in the air, faint smoke curling between the ancient tomes and relics arranged with meticulous care. At the center of it all, the fortune teller sits, her gaze sharp and knowing, fingers forming a delicate sigil over the sacred tablet before her.

  Across from her, the young lovers lean in, hands brushing together for a moment -an unconscious touch, a silent promise between each other, as they wait breathlessly with anticipation. Their burgundy robes, though simple, bear the faint embroidered crests of two houses that have long hated each other. They do not speak of it because they do not need to.

  She watches them carefully. She has already seen what they do not.

  The cards, the runes, the stars - they all whisper the same tale. Their love will not merely falter. It will ignite.

  A single moment, a single spark, and the fragile peace between their bloodlines will shatter. Their union will not blunt grudges from long ago or mend old wounds—it will sharpen prejudices, cause scar tissue to ache, and drive steel and fury into the hearts of those who cannot bear the thought of reconciliation. There will be war. There will be blood. And in the end, it will consume them both.

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  She can see it as if it has already happened. A battlefield soaked in crimson. One clutching the other, hands trembling, breath ragged. She holds his lifeless body, hacked asunder by someone's rage, as she bleeds out from her own wounds. A realization made too late, sorrowful lips moving soundlessly, drowned beneath the clash of swords.

  The future is clear, the only question is how much they deserve to know.

  Her golden eyes flick to the tip they’ve placed before her. A modest offering—generous for common seekers, but nowhere near enough for the weight of what she holds in her hands.

  She could tell them the truth, let them leave here with their hearts heavy, their love poisoned with foreknowledge. She could tear them apart before war does, destroy their love but save their lives, and the lives of countless others. She glances at the small sack of coin again, deciding whether or not to be insulted by such a gratuity.

  Or, she could take the money, smile, and tell them what they want to hear. That their love is strong. That they will face hardships, yes, but emerge together. That they will be the ones to end their families' conflict. That the stars see their happy ending.

  They would believe it.

  They would hold each other closer tonight, comforted by her words, unknowing that their fate was already sealed.

  She considers, her smile practiced and neutral, yet her eyes cold.

  The candles flicker. The moment stretches on just long enough.

  She inhales, slow and deliberate, as if weighing the very fabric of fate itself. The lovers watch her with wide, eager eyes, clinging to hope, unaware of the weight pressing down upon them.

  Then, at last, she exhales; a gentle, knowing sigh. Her expression softens, just enough. She speaks the truths they want to hear. And they leave with their hands entwined, their hearts light, never realizing that they are already walking toward the grave they will soon share.