Wine and Witches

I shift my weight, stifling a wince as the rigid arch of my black high heel bites into my blistered skin. Ducking behind the polished mahogany of the service station, I take a stolen second to tug at the hem of my uniform skirt. The fabric clings too tight, riding up in a way that feels far too provocative for a place that prides itself on being a premier, upscale dining establishment. Sex sells, I suppose. Not that I would ever let a patron lay a hand on me.

The ambient noise of Meridian washes over me—the clinking of crystal wine glasses, the low, melodic hum of jazz from the corner stage, and the mingled scents of roasted duck and expensive perfume. Meridian is a rarity in this sprawling city. It operates as a neutral ground, one of the few high-end sanctuaries that opens its doors to both ordinary humans and Magics. For me, it is a lifeline. Despite the punishing hours, the grueling dinner rushes, and the meager paycheck, it remains the only establishment willing to hire someone bearing my specific kind of mark. A mark without a marketable magical skill.

I run a thumb over the fabric of my long sleeve, right where the intricate ink stains my upper arm. Like every child born into this world, I was subjected to magic testing when I was merely days old. The process is standard, designed to categorize and label. Because my bloodline remains a ghost story and my inherent magic defies every known classification, the authorities branded me with a delicate, swirling pattern. To an outsider, labeling everyone based on their species might feel like a dystopian nightmare, but it serves a very practical purpose. It saves lives. Every magical species carries volatile traits and fatal weaknesses. It is far better to know if the person sitting across from you will incinerate you if you insult their pride, or if they will suffer a lethal allergic reaction to the silver jewelry you wear.

I know very little about the actual application of the marks, other than the fact that they are administered through magical means. Everyone wears one, save for the baseline humans who possess zero magical trace. In a metropolis like this, normal humans account for roughly half the population, going about their mundane lives, blissfully ignorant of the predator-and-prey dynamics simmering just beneath the surface.

Identifying most Magics is simple. Shifters inherit their shifting abilities directly from their lineage, earning their distinct pack or species marks at birth. Witches and Sorcerers draw their arcane power from ancient family trees, their skin bearing the geometric symbols of their respective covens. People like me, however, shatter the neat little boxes of categorization.

I was left swaddled in a thin blanket on the cold concrete steps of the city’s primary magical hospital when I was only a few hours old. I have no memories of the parents who discarded me, nor any clues to my heritage. The hospital staff ran relentless tests for days, drawing blood and measuring magical resonance. The results confirmed two facts: I possessed genuine magic, and I did not belong to any recognized species on the planet.

They marked me as an 'Unknown'.

The title sounds mysterious, perhaps even thrilling to someone reading a fantasy novel. In reality, it is a curse. The friction between humans and Magics dictates the rhythm of the city. Humans shun me because my arm brands me as a Magic, a creature capable of things they fear. Magics turn their noses up at me because I claim no pack, no coven, and no clan. I am a stray dog wandering a world of purebreds.

Finding another Unknown in the city is a fool’s errand. Most children slapped with a temporary unknown mark eventually experience a breakthrough. As they mature, their powers manifest, and they get their marks adjusted to reflect their true species. My life offers no such resolution. My magic exists—the hospital tests proved that—but it refuses to align with the Shifters, the Witches, the Alchemists, or the Fae. The bureaucratic offices refuse to adjust my mark without a proven species classification.

Perhaps I could force them to respect me if my magic manifested as something explosive or lethal. If I could breathe scorching fire like a Dragon Shifter, or cast blistering hexes on those who sneer at me like a Witch. If I could brew mind-altering elixirs like an Alchemist, or lure people to their knees like a Succubus, my Unknown status might command fear instead of pity. But I possess no such offensive capabilities.

My magic lacks teeth. It packs no punch. To the naked eye, and to the world at large, my power is useless.

I see the threads of fate.

Whenever people speak of fate, their minds immediately jump to the romanticized red thread—the mythical string tying two destined soulmates together across time and space. I see those. They glow with a deep, pulsing crimson light, weaving through the air, anchoring one heart to another. But the world is woven with far more than just red. The air around me is a vibrant, chaotic tapestry of colors, each thread carrying its own weight and meaning.

I see brilliant blue threads tethering people together. These signify a fated friendship. It does not mean those individuals are restricted to a single friend, but rather that their bond is cosmic. They are destined to cross paths, to share burdens, and to forge an unbreakable platonic connection.

Then, there are the black threads. Thick, absorbing the light around them like a void, these lines bridge the gap between fated enemies. I have learned the hard way to steer clear of patrons who walk into Meridian bristling with black threads. A person trailing multiple dark strings is bound for violence, betrayal, and conflict. They are not the kind of people I need dragging me into their drama.

The spectrum continues, offering threads I am still trying to decipher. Since I was never handed a guidebook or a color-coded manual at birth, I rely on raw observation. I cannot stalk strangers through the city streets to map out their interpersonal relationships. Over the years, I have gathered enough evidence to form solid theories.

Green threads seem to bind mentors and mentees. I spot them glowing softly between seasoned chefs and nervous line cooks in the kitchen, or connecting elderly patrons to the young children sitting across from them. White threads are the rarest of all. They emit a pure, blinding light. When I do catch a glimpse of one, it usually trails behind a paramedic grabbing a coffee, or a firefighter dining off-duty. I suspect those threads represent a fated savior—someone destined to pull another soul back from the brink of death.

Living with this sight is an exhausting, confusing mess. I navigate a world where invisible strings twist, knot, and tangle around the people walking past me. Sometimes, I watch a tragicomedy unfold right in the dining room. I see people confuse their blue friendship threads for red soulmate threads, plunging headfirst into doomed romances that will eventually shatter them. Some people walk through life dragging only one or two frail strings. Others walk in isolation, bearing no threads at all.

One universal rule remains: no one ever possesses more than one red thread. One soulmate per person. The universe tolerates no greed in matters of the heart.

My only saving grace is the proximity limit of my vision. The threads remain invisible to me unless the connected individuals are physically close to one another—usually within a few city blocks. If a woman’s soulmate lives on the other side of the country, her chest appears blank to my eyes.

I also possess the passive ability to gauge the status of a fated connection. If a thread drifts lightly in the air, swaying like a spiderweb caught in a gentle breeze, I know the two individuals have not yet met. Their fate remains unsealed. But when the thread pulls tight, solidifying into a rigid, glowing line that thrums with energy, I know the collision has already happened. The relationship is locked in place.

To a romantic, my power sounds like a wondrous gift. It really isn't. Fate acts as an unstoppable force, a giant machine that knows exactly what it is doing. It requires no assistance from a twenty-something waitress. I cannot snap a black thread to prevent a murder, nor can I tie a red thread to mend a broken heart. My existence is reduced to that of a silent spectator. I watch the glowing strings and judge people for connections they do not even know exist.

Worse than being useless, my magic is a relentless distraction. Trying to maintain eye contact and memorize a complex dinner order is incredibly difficult when a glowing green or black string is drifting right out of the customer’s chest, hovering inches from my face. Because I spend so much time tracking the movements of these invisible lines, my coworkers have slapped me with a reputation. To them, I am just the slow, daydreaming waitress staring off into space.

I smooth down the long, restrictive sleeves of my uniform top. The fabric serves a dual purpose: adhering to the restaurant’s dress code, and hiding the swirling Unknown mark inked into my bicep. The design of my mark ironically mimics the very magic I possess, depicting three intertwined threads of red, black, and white. It is a beautiful piece of magic-infused art, but it pales in comparison to the breathtaking reality of the actual threads. Still, I keep it strictly covered. As long as the patrons do not study me too closely, I can pass for a baseline human. Pretending to be ordinary makes waiting tables significantly easier. Human customers treat me like the help, but Magic customers—especially the purebloods—treat humans like dirt beneath their expensive shoes.

Hiding my nature requires constant vigilance, especially given my physical appearance. I possess a ghostly pale complexion, standing at an average height with an unremarkable physique. My hair is a curtain of straight, dark midnight blue that falls past my waist. Most people assume I dump cheap dye on it every few weeks, but any Magic with a keen eye would notice the lack of roots or fading. It is my natural shade, matching the dark blue hue of my eyebrows perfectly.

My eyes are the real problem. They are blue, but the shade is so washed out and pale that they appear almost colorless. Without the dark contrast of my pupils, I would look blind. They unsettle people. They look unnatural, carrying a hollow, eerie depth that prompts whispers when I turn my back.

To survive in a city run by predators, I developed a strict habit of dropping my gaze to the floor whenever I approach a table. In a human diner, looking at a customer’s shoes might get me fired for poor service. But here at Meridian, where territorial Shifters and prideful Witches roam the dining floor, my lowered gaze is interpreted as a sign of submission. It prevents accidental dominance challenges. The last thing I need is a hot-headed Alpha werewolf tearing my throat out because he thought a waitress was challenging his authority by meeting his eyes.

I tried wearing cosmetic contact lenses a few months back to mask the pale blue, but they scratched at my corneas and gave me blistering migraines. Besides, surviving on tips and minimum wage leaves no room in my budget for luxury optical supplies.

A sharp, wet sound of a throat clearing shatters my brooding.

I jump, my worn heel slipping against the polished tile, and I almost tumble to the ground as I spin around. I flail my arms, catching my balance at the last second, painfully aware of how I lack the fluid, predatory grace that most Magics are blessed with from birth.

I cringe, shrinking under the harsh, piercing glare of my shift manager, Marcus. He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in a tight line of disapproval. I must have been standing frozen by the service station for much longer than I realized, lost in my own miserable head.

I forcefully straighten my back, pasting a neutral, apologetic expression onto my face. Without waiting for his inevitable lecture on time theft, I grab the heavy tray of dirty, grease-smeared dishes I had abandoned minutes ago. I pivot and push through the swinging doors into the chaotic heat of the kitchen, swapping the dirty plates for a fresh, heavy tray loaded with drinks for table twenty.

Table twenty is occupied by a rowdy coven of Witches. They are dressed in varying shades of velvet and silk, right in the middle of their monthly girls' night out, and judging by the volume of their laughter, they are already heavily intoxicated.

I navigate the narrow gaps between the tables, keeping my pale eyes glued to the floorboards as I approach their booth. I distribute the cocktails smoothly, my movements practiced and silent. I am just reaching across the table to place the final glass of rich, red wine down in front of a coven member.

Then, my breath vanishes from my lungs.

My chest tightens, a sudden warmth blooming right over my sternum. I blink, thinking the dim lighting of the restaurant is playing tricks on my eyes. But the visual remains.

A brilliant, glowing thread is drifting gently through the air.

It is blue. The bright, unmistakable sapphire hue of a fated friend.

And it is originating from the exact center of my own chest.

The shock hits me like a physical blow. My hand jerks. The base of the wine glass clips the edge of the wooden table, tilting dangerously. A splash of crimson wine sloshes over the rim, staining the pristine white tablecloth.

Panic spikes in my throat, but the Witches are too busy cackling over a shared joke, their faces flushed with alcohol, to notice the clumsy waitress ruining their table setup. Moving on pure adrenaline, I snatch a cloth napkin from my apron and subtly wipe away the spill, erasing the evidence of my blunder before stepping back into the shadows.

My heart hammers against my ribs, deafening in my ears. I force my pale eyes to trace the glowing blue line. It emerges from my heart, thick and luminous, trailing through the crowded dining room. The thread stretches over the heads of the oblivious patrons, weaving past the grand chandelier, leading directly out the heavy glass front doors of Meridian and disappearing into the dark, rain-slicked street outside.

A deep, visceral ache blooms in my chest. It is a physical pull, a desperate urging demanding that I drop my tray, run out those doors, and chase the glowing line into the night until I find the person on the other end.

Because of my Unknown mark, my unnatural eyes, and my lack of a pack or coven, I have lived my entire existence shrouded in crushing loneliness. I have never had a true friend. Not since I was a small child playing in the dirt behind the foster home. To discover that the universe has woven a fated friend just for me—someone designed by fate itself to understand me, to stand by me—is nothing short of my ultimate dream manifesting before my eyes.

For a wild, reckless second, my feet shift toward the door. I seriously consider ripping this suffocating apron off, tossing my tray onto the nearest table, and abandoning the last few hours of my shift. I want to sprint down the pavement and hunt this person down.

But reality is a cruel anchor. The sounds of the restaurant crash back into my ears. It is a Saturday night. We are only halfway through the chaotic dinner rush. If I walk out those doors right now, Marcus will fire me before my foot hits the sidewalk. I am barely scraping by as it is. I need the meager income this job provides to pay my rent and buy groceries. I cannot survive on the streets, especially not as an Unknown.

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I force my feet to remain planted on the floor. I anchor my racing mind with logic.

The thread exists. That is all that matters. It is a fated connection, stitched into the fabric of the universe. I remind myself of the rules of my own magic: a fated thread guarantees that a meeting is inevitable. I do not need to abandon my livelihood and chase a stranger through the dark. The universe will drag us together eventually. I will meet and befriend this person, even if I stay right here and do my job.

I have lived my life governed by the threads. I refuse to entertain the idea of dating anyone unless I see a glowing red string connecting us, knowing that any other romance is doomed to fail. Even worse, I can usually see their actual red thread, which means I know exactly who they are destined to be with instead of me. I have watched people destroy themselves fighting fate, and I refuse to be one of them. No, dating is definitely impossible until my red thread appears.

I release a heavy sigh, resigning myself to patience. I just have to wait. I will let fate take its natural course, praying it does not take too long for my fated friend to finally walk through those doors.