Kaelen awoke with the taste of starlight in his mouth and bruises stitched into his bones.
He'd dreamt of fire again—burning banners and a name whispered through smoke. But when he reached for it, it slipped away.
The city of Thalara was stirring, though it never truly slept. Lights glimmered along the living paths above and below him, and birds with crystalline wings wove songs into the canopy air.
Today, his trial would begin—not the kind of test with judges or scrolls, but the silent kind: one that asked, *Are you worthy of the breath you've stolen back?*
Lirael met him at the arch of his dwelling without a word. She simply turned, and he followed, his limbs stiff, heart heavy with the hum of the thread inside him.
"You'll be training under three disciplines," she said as they descended along woven root-paths. "Blade. Weave. Echo."
"Which do I start with?"
She glanced at him.
The platform was high above the forest floor—open sky to one side, endless leaves on the other. A single sparring ring carved into living wood greeted them, surrounded by hanging lanterns and silent observers.
At its center stood a man like an iron flame—tall, broad, bare-armed despite the chill. His skin bore old burn scars, and a jagged blade rested across his back.
"**Vaerin**," Lirael said. "Captain of the Wildguard. Taught me to kill before I could pronounce my own name."
Vaerin didn't speak. He tossed Kaelen a training blade made of songwood and stepped into the circle.
Kaelen caught it and barely raised it before Vaerin charged.
The first strike knocked him off his feet.
The second shattered his rhythm.
The third nearly cracked a rib.
By the time Kaelen landed a clean blow—a grazing hit to Vaerin's shoulder—he'd been disarmed twice and bled from his lip. But he stood. That seemed to matter.
"Your past life knew how to move," Vaerin said, circling. "Your body's forgotten. But your fear hasn't."
"I'm not afraid."
"Liar. Good." He tossed Kaelen the blade again. "You'll learn faster."
Bruised and limping, Kaelen followed Lirael toward a spiraling tower thick with climbing ivy and hanging moonshells. Inside, the air was warmer, scented with ink and dried herbs. Scrolls lay stacked in wild patterns, and arcane symbols pulsed softly across the floors.
A voice echoed from above.
"Thread-bearer! You're late. Or I'm early. Time doesn't matter in mindspace, but still—punctuality is an illusion worth respecting."
A half-elf woman descended by sliding down a spiraling root-ladder, arms filled with runestones and a scroll half-unraveled around her shoulders.
"**Tessari**," she said, dumping the stones at his feet. "Dreambinder. Breathweaver. Resident lunatic, depending who you ask."
Kaelen blinked. "You're my teacher?"
"Unfortunately for both of us. Sit."
The lesson was... chaos. But underneath Tessari's flurry of words and flailing gestures lay a dangerous brilliance. She pushed Kaelen to channel from the thread—not just instinct, but will.
The first attempt produced a burst of heat. The second, uncontrolled wind. The third shattered a rune-crystal.
"Progress!" she said cheerfully, shielding her hair from a spray of sparks. "You've got an unstable wellspring. That's good. Means you're connected. We just need to keep it from exploding."
"How reassuring," Kaelen muttered, wiping soot from his sleeve.
Tessari leaned in. "You're the first soulbound in two centuries. You think learning comes without risk?"
He met her eyes.
"I'm not afraid of pain."
She grinned. "Then let's see how you handle echoes."
The grove was not marked on any map.
Lirael guided him past a veil of whisperwillows into a hollow space lit only by breathlight—small orbs that hovered like fireflies. It was silent here. Deeply, unnervingly silent.
At its center knelt a figure cloaked in grey mist, still as stone, yet unmistakably alive.
"**Ilyren**," Lirael said softly. "She is a Weaver of Echoes. Few can hear what she does. Fewer can bear it."
Kaelen stepped forward. He could feel it already—something brushing the edge of his senses. Not sight. Not sound. *Memory.*
Ilyren raised her hand. In it: a single silver leaf.
When Kaelen touched it, the grove shifted.
Suddenly, he heard himself speaking—words from hours ago. The clash of blades. Tessari's laughter. His breath, sharp with frustration.
But then… something deeper.
A woman's voice, soft and broken. Crying his name. Not Kaelen.
"*Aravel.*"
The name struck him like a falling star.
Visions spilled into the grove: flames licking a citadel wall, a bloodstained field, a silver-threaded banner torn in two.
He dropped the leaf. It burned his palm.
Ilyren spoke at last, voice like distant wind. "The soul does not forget, even when the mind refuses to remember. That which is buried rises in time."
Kaelen looked down, shaken. "What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Bind it," she said. "Or be torn apart."
That night, Kaelen sat alone on his high platform beneath a full moon. His arms ached. His fingers were scorched. His mind buzzed with half-formed spells and ghost voices.
But for the first time since awakening in the glade, he didn't feel like a stranger in his own skin.
Vaerin had seen his fear. Tessari had challenged his fire. Ilyren had touched his truth.
And through all of it, the silver thread within him had grown quieter—not dimmer, but focused. Like it, too, had learned something.
He had not mastered the blade. He had not controlled the magic. He had not unraveled the echoes.
But he had endured.
And in Thalara, endurance was the first proof of purpose.