Keal stood quietly at the edge of the meadow, watching the older children laugh and throw bursts of beginner magic at the wind. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, brushing his dark hair back as the sky gave a soft hum above. The air smelled like leaves and dirt and quiet hope.
"Hey," he called, trying to smile. "I saw your wind spell—it looked cool!"
The laughter stopped. One of the boys turned, tall and smug. "Who's this? A baby mage?"
Another snorted. "Go back to your dolls, brat."
Keal flinched but didn't back down. "I'm eight. I've been learning threads. I thought maybe… maybe I could learn with you?"
A girl with braided hair stepped forward. "Threads? What, sewing?"
Laughter erupted.
Keal's smile cracked but he held it. "I just wanted to—"
"Wanna play hero? Go save your stuffed animals."
A spark of magic flicked past his feet, too close for accident. Another boy joined in, eyes sharp. "Bet he cries if we puff too hard."
Keal took a step back.
Another. Then ran.
---
By the time he reached home, his knees were scraped, and he could still hear their laughter. He opened the door, wiped his face, and stepped in like nothing happened.
Nylessa looked up from the hearth. "Keal?"
"I'm fine," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. "Just tired."
She tilted her head but said nothing. Watched the way he shuffled past her. Watched the way he gripped his shirt.
She didn't ask.
Not yet.
---
That night, Keal lay on his bed staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The silence pressed in. Memories—old and sharp—rose like thorns.
Classrooms full of whispers. Lockers slamming. Bruises hidden beneath sleeves. Words like "worthless," "freak," "nothing."
He curled into himself.
Different world. Same name. Same sting.
Even here.
He thought it would be different. Magic. New faces. A mother who loved him. A place to start over.
But pain had followed. It had his scent. It knew his name.
He covered his face and tried to forget. But it echoed.
Laughter in two worlds. Cruelty with different clothes.
Why did kindness feel like a dream that woke too early?
Why did it always slip through his fingers?
He remembered the whispers from Earth, how even teachers looked through him like glass.
He remembered sitting alone at recess, watching others play, laughing like he was on the other side of a soundproof wall.
It wasn't the bruises that hurt the most—it was the silence that followed them.
Now the bruises were made of magic.
But silence still lingered.
---
He didn't tell Nylessa because he didn't want to see the pity. Or the pain. Or worse—the fire in her eyes that always followed.
She would burn the world to protect him.
But some hurts weren't meant to be scorched away.
Some needed to breathe.
So he stayed quiet.
And she let him.
---
In the garden the next morning, Keal sat beneath the shade of a willow tree. He picked up a stick and began drawing shapes in the dirt—circles, lines, thread patterns.
The wind whispered gently, like it was trying to talk but didn't know the words.
Keal whispered, "I'm still alone."
A beetle crawled past, unbothered.
He smiled weakly. "At least you don't laugh at me."
The beetle didn't answer. Of course it didn't.
It had no thread that could understand loneliness.
---
Back in her study, Nylessa closed a book she hadn't read for the past half hour. Her eyes had kept drifting to the window.
She could feel the storm in him—quiet, slow, but rising.
She knew that storm. She had once lived in its eye.
But she didn't interfere.
He would come to her when he was ready.
Or burn something trying.
---
That night, Keal sat by the fireplace, hugging his knees. He watched the embers pulse and fade like tiny stars.
"Do you think stars feel lonely?" he asked softly.
Nylessa turned a page. "Why?"
"They shine alone. They burn alone. People only look at them. Never talk to them."
She looked at him over the book's edge. "Some stars choose to burn alone. So the rest of the sky can shine."
Keal nodded slowly. "But I'm not a star."
"No," she said, closing the book. "You're something even older."
"What's older than stars?"
"Thread."
---
He didn't reply.
But when he went to bed that night, he didn't cry.
He dreamed.
Of walking back to the meadow.
Of standing before the children who laughed.
Of reaching into their threads.
Not to break.
But to show them their own fear.
Their own smallness.
Their own loneliness.
He didn't want revenge.
Not really.
He wanted understanding.
Even if he had to drag it out thread by thread.
---
In the darkness, Nylessa stood by the door, hand pressed to the frame.
She had felt the change.
The sadness curling into something sharper.
Something not quite anger.
Not quite hope.
But something undeniable.
The kind of something that gods noticed.
That fates whispered about.
She whispered back.
"Let them try again."
And turned away from the door.
Knowing the boy who had returned was not the same boy who left.
Not anymore