The early spring sun filtered through the canopy, casting long shadows across the clearing where Kael now trained. It had been two weeks since the attack—the longest, slowest days of his life. The village still bore its wounds. Scorched timbers, shallow graves, and faces that looked older than they had a month ago. But life, in its stubborn way, continued.
Kael stood shirtless beneath a swaying branch, sweat slicking his brow. His hands gripped the hunting knife tightly. Each swing was sharp, controlled, deliberate. A cut through empty air, repeated dozens of times. Then again. Then again.
Loran watched silently from a tree stump, arms crossed over his chest.
"You're still tense," he said after a while.
Kael didn't pause. "I'm fine."
"You're fighting the wrong enemy."
That made Kael stop. He turned, breathing hard. "What do you mean?"
Loran rose and walked over, his limp more noticeable today. "Your anger. It's all in your arms. That knife won't save you next time—not if you let your rage drive it."
Kael looked down at his blade. It felt heavier than before.
Loran knelt beside him and picked up a smooth stone from the ground. "Control, Kael. Always control. That's what separates a soldier from a savage."
Kael nodded slowly. "Even with the threads?"
"Especially with them."
---
That night, Kael sat alone in his room. He'd moved back into the small house he and Daren had shared. Half the space was still untouched, dust gathering over Daren's things. His bedroll. His training gear. The broken sword he'd tried to repair.
Kael reached for the knife again and held it up to the light of the oil lamp.
He focused.
Just like that night, when everything burned.
The world slowed. Softly—hesitantly—the threads returned.
Lines of faint light stretched from wall to window, from lamp to chair, from Kael's chest to the floor. Some pulsed gently, others were taut like pulled strings. And then, there were the ones that trembled—threads that seemed to hum with quiet pain.
He reached for one.
Not to cut it.
Just to feel.
His fingers grazed the line.
It rippled. A vibration surged up his arm, then disappeared. The thread held.
Kael let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He hadn't broken it. Not this time.
---
The next day, Loran led him beyond the village to a stream. They walked in silence, past bare trees and whispering winds.
"There's something I want to show you," Loran said. "Something you need to understand if you're serious about mastering this… gift."
They stopped at a fallen tree, its roots pulled from the earth in a mess of soil and stone. Loran pointed to the trunk. "This tree stood for a hundred years. Fed the soil, shaded animals, drank from the stream. But something unseen weakened it. Worms, rot. Things no one noticed until it collapsed."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "What does that have to do with me?"
Loran crouched beside the stump. "Threads are the same. They bind everything. But they can also hide decay, or tension, or madness. You can't just pull them. You have to see what they're holding together."
Kael nodded, more solemn now. "So what happens if I cut one without understanding it?"
"You already know the answer to that."
A silence passed.
Then Loran straightened and placed a hand on Kael's shoulder. "Your brother wasn't just brave, Kael. He was kind. You want to honor him? Learn not just how to fight—but why."
Kael didn't flinch. "I will."
---
That evening, Kael returned to the clearing alone. He carried no knife this time. No gear. Just himself.
He sat cross-legged, closing his eyes.
The threads came slowly now, more naturally. He saw the web again—of fate, of tension, of fragile balance. Each one whispered a different sound: wind, memory, loss.
One thread shone brighter than the rest. It pulsed gently, rising from the old tree stump where Loran had spoken. Kael reached toward it.
He didn't touch it. Not yet.
But he listened.
And the thread hummed.
A low, quiet tone like a lullaby.
And in that moment, Kael understood something simple but deep:
The threads weren't just tools. They were stories. Histories. Lives. And if he was to walk the path of the Threadmaker, he would need to carry not just power, but purpose.
He opened his eyes. The forest was quiet. The world unchanged.
But Kael was different.
He would train. He would learn.
And when he was ready, he would find the tombs.
He would chase the legacy.
And unravel the darkness at its heart.
---
Back in the village, a single thread flickered faintly above the tallest roof—barely visible, trembling like a whisper on the wind.
Far away, something ancient stirred.
The next legacy was waiting.
And the boy who had touched fate was no longer just a child.
He was becoming a Threadcaller.
---
That night, Kael had a dream—not like the nightmares of fire and howls, but something stranger.
He stood in a void. Threads stretched out in all directions—white, gold, crimson, violet—twisting and looping like a grand loom. At the center was a figure cloaked in shadows, its form barely visible, made of thread itself.
It raised a hand.
Kael felt a tug on his chest, a painful pull like a string inside him being yanked.
"You will seek me," the figure whispered. "But you will never unweave me."
Kael awoke with a start, heart pounding. The image burned in his mind.
The path ahead would not be simple. Nor safe.
But his resolve had never been clearer.
He rose before dawn and trained again. His muscles burned, but he pushed through. Loran began instructing him not only in swordplay but in patience—how to listen to the world and the silent language of its threads.
Days became weeks. Kael built endurance, focus, and discipline. Every night he meditated with the threads, experimenting with how they reacted to sound, emotion, and thought.
Some threads brightened when he laughed. Others pulsed with sorrow. A few responded violently to fear.
He learned to hum softly and coax fragile ones into showing themselves. To focus anger and see the ones hidden in stone.
And finally, after much effort, he learned to make a thread vibrate—not to cut, but to send a message through it.
A message of warning.
A message of will.
His journey had not yet begun, but already, the first pieces of power and understanding were coming into his grasp.
Kael knew this: the world was stitched in silence, and he would become fluent in its language.