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Clio
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“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I cannot see into your future,” the fortune teller says, his voice low and serious, and I look at him wide-eyed, my throat instantly drying up as I ask him what he means.
He repeats what he said—that he can’t see my future—and I tell him to try again, desperation lacing my voice. He closes his eyes and opens them again, looking into mine, which are now gleaming with tears. But he shakes his head, saying it’s blank.
“You are a seer; you must be doing something wrong. I have to know.” I choke on the lump in my throat as my anxiety turns to anger, even though a part of me knows he’s probably telling the truth and really can’t. But I’m desperate.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Only time can reveal your future to you,” he says, looking at me w
