Chapter 3 – The Threadweaver
The village of Ilnar was unusually quiet.
Not just the kind of quiet that comes after gossip runs dry or children tire themselves out — no, this was something heavier. Like the hush before a storm. Even the birds had stopped singing.
It had been three days since Kerris was found mumbling in the woods. Three days since Vael saw a Thread — one that wasn't his — cut.
Kerris hadn't spoken a word since. His eyes stared blankly into the air. His Thread was gone. Not snapped. Not faded.
Gone.
---
Mireal tried to act normal. She still lit the fire every morning. She still watered the small flowers outside their cottage. But Vael noticed the way her gaze lingered at the edge of the forest now, her brows pinched in quiet fear.
"I'm going to the hills," he told her after breakfast.
She paused. "You've been wandering a lot lately."
"I'm thinking."
"Thinking doesn't usually leave footprints near the Threadscour ruins."
Vael froze. He hadn't told her about that.
She crossed her arms. "You're not the only one who sees things, you know."
He blinked. "What?"
She smiled — sad and soft. "Just… be careful."
---
The ruins of the old Threadscour Temple lay beyond Ilnar's edge, tucked into a fold of the hills. It was little more than broken pillars and half-buried stone now — a forgotten relic from an age when priests read Threads like scripture.
As Vael stepped between the cracked stones, his Thread pulsed again.
A low hum filled the air — barely audible, but constant. Like something ancient was breathing beneath the ground.
Then a voice spoke:
"You see them, don't you?"
Vael spun around.
A man sat on a crumbled archway, legs crossed, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. His robes were worn but once finely made. Around his neck hung a **pendant of intertwined threads**, made of silver and bone.
Vael instinctively backed away. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head. "The better question is: what are you?"
Silence.
"You shouldn't be able to see the Threads," the man continued. "Not without a Mark. Not unless you've been trained."
"I don't have a Mark."
"I know," the man said, almost fondly. "That's what makes you interesting."
---
He slid down from the stone and approached slowly, hands empty, voice low.
"Tell me. What did you feel when you touched your Thread?"
Vael hesitated. "…Pain. Visions. It almost pulled me apart."
The man nodded. "It always does, the first time. Threads aren't just lines — they're stories. Pull too hard, and the story collapses."
He knelt and traced a symbol in the dirt. A spiral.
"The world believes fate is written. Immutable. But that's a lie. The Script of Fate may record all — but even scripts can be rewritten."
Vael stared at him, heart pounding. "You're a Threadweaver."
A grin spread across the man's face.
"Once. Long ago."
---
Vael stepped forward. "Teach me."
The man's smile faded. "It's not that simple. Threadweaving isn't a trick. It's a burden. Once you begin, your fate is no longer your own. You become a threat. To kings. To gods."
"I don't care."
"You should."
The man studied him for a long, silent moment. Then, finally:
"I will give you a choice. A test."
He drew two small stones from his robe — one white, one black — and set them on the altar stone beside them.
"One will show you a truth. The other will tear something from your Thread."
"No hints?"
"No mercy, either."
Vael stared at the stones.
And chose.
---
As his fingers closed around the black stone, his vision exploded.
A vast loom stretched across a sky of ink. Threads of every color wove and unwove before his eyes. Among them, one thread — silver — burned brighter than the rest.
And then… snapped.
Vael screamed.
When he opened his eyes, the old man was gone.
The stone had crumbled into ash.
And on his wrist, faint but clear, was something he'd never had before:
A mark.
But it wasn't glowing.
It was written in shadow.