The village no longer buzzed with idle chatter. After the attack, everything felt quieter—like the forest itself had taken a breath and held it. The fields were sparser, the laughter of children rare, and many homes bore scars too deep for repair.
Kael woke earlier now, always before the sun. His body still ached from the battle, but it was the weight behind his eyes that pulled at him—the threads. Ever since the fight with the alpha wolf, he could see them. Faint, like strands of spider silk, they clung to people, places, and things. Some shimmered with warmth; others pulsed cold like dying embers.
He'd told no one. Not even Loran.
The old warrior watched him closely, though. Kael could feel it in every glance, every pause before a lesson.
"Again," Loran said, stepping back as Kael struggled to keep his stance.
The wooden training blade in Kael's hand was too long, too unbalanced. He cursed under his breath as his foot slid in the dew-slick grass.
"Anger weakens your balance," Loran muttered. "Focus your core, not your pride."
They trained behind the village, where the grass had grown back over bloodstained soil. Loran didn't speak of the battle. He rarely spoke much anymore. Not since the day Daren was buried.
Kael tried to obey, but every time he swung, the threads in the air shimmered. He could see the way his blade passed through them, disturbing little ripples. Sometimes, they moved without cause—like they responded to his intent. And that terrified him.
He swung again, and again. His arms ached. The blade's weight bit into his shoulders.
"Lower your center," Loran barked. "You're tall for your age, but that doesn't make you stronger. Use your frame, not your fury."
After a particularly messy swing, Loran held up a hand. "Enough."
Kael dropped the blade, panting. Sweat clung to his brow. "Why… why can't I get it right?"
"You're rushing. Seeking something. What is it?"
Kael hesitated. For a moment, he thought about telling him. About the threads. About the feeling that the world was unraveling just out of reach.
Instead, he said, "Strength."
Loran gave a curt nod. "Then learn patience first. Otherwise, strength will crush you."
---
The village had slowly begun to rebuild. The blacksmith was reforging farming tools into crude weapons. Children fetched water from the stream with quiet determination. And those who had survived the attack did so with a haunted look in their eyes. No one spoke of Daren. Not around Kael.
He spent the afternoons practicing alone. Away from the others, where the quiet let him focus on the threads. The more he tried to observe them, the more they seemed to respond. He could sense tension in a rope before it snapped. Hear a lie in someone's voice because their emotional threads trembled.
But the worst were the frayed ones.
Old man Varn, who had lost his daughter in the attack, walked with a thread that sagged like a broken branch. Kael tried not to look. Threads like that made him feel heavy, like touching them would drown him in sorrow.
Sometimes, he stared at the frayed thread that trailed off where Daren's should have been, and he felt something else—guilt.
Then, one evening, something changed.
He found a sparrow tangled in thornbrush near the woods. It chirped weakly, its wing bent. Kael knelt beside it. That's when he saw it—a thin, silver thread barely clinging to its chest, fraying rapidly.
Instinct took over.
His fingers moved, unsure. He didn't touch the bird. Just the thread. A gentle nudge, like smoothing silk.
The thread flickered. Stabilized.
The bird blinked at him, then fluttered its good wing and hopped away.
Kael stared at his hands.
He hadn't just seen the thread.
He had touched it.
---
That night, Loran found him sitting on the roof of the old storehouse, watching the stars. The old man climbed up without a word and sat beside him.
They watched in silence for a while. Then Loran said, "The wind feels like it's changing."
Kael nodded. "Do you ever feel like… something's pulling you? Like everything's tied to something you can't see?"
Loran didn't answer immediately. Then: "All things are connected. Some ties we're born with. Some we make. And some…" His voice lowered, "Some we're cursed to carry."
Kael looked at him, eyes searching. But Loran's face was unreadable in the moonlight.
"Rest," Loran said, standing. "Training continues at dawn."
Kael remained on the roof long after Loran had gone, his fingers unconsciously weaving patterns in the air.
The threads danced with every motion.
The next morning, something felt different.
As Kael moved through his training forms, he began to sense resistance from the threads. Like they were no longer passive observers. A few responded sluggishly, twitching as his blade passed nearby. He started trying to mimic their movement—light, precise, patient.
Loran noticed.
"You're not just training your arms anymore," he said, narrowing his eyes. "What are you watching?"
Kael didn't answer. He only raised his blade again, slower this time, guiding his motions in tandem with the invisible lines he could now predict.
That evening, while sharpening his hunter's knife by the fire, Kael heard Loran speaking with the village elder.
"He's changing," the elder murmured.
"He's already changed," Loran replied. "The legacy has touched him. And it won't stop here."
Kael remained quiet, pretending not to hear. But deep down, he understood: his path was no longer a simple one.
He wasn't just training to fight. He was preparing to hunt the unseen.
And one day—he would follow the threads to wherever they led, even if they ended in ruin.Kael spent a moment staring into the low-burning fire. The night wind was colder than usual, and the stars above seemed dimmer somehow, as if even they mourned.
He closed his eyes.
A memory surfaced—Daren laughing as they chased a hare through the trees. Daren always faster, always confident, teasing Kael for stumbling over roots. He remembered the grip of his brother's hand pulling him to his feet, saying, "Keep your eyes forward, Kael. No one ever caught anything by looking down."
Now that hand was gone. That voice, silenced. The thread that had bound them… cut.
He inhaled sharply, the guilt rising like bile.
But he couldn't cry. Not anymore.
He stood, walking past the dying fire toward the far edge of the village where graves had been dug into the hill. The earth was still raw, the stones not yet carved. He sat beside Daren's grave, fingers digging absently into the soil.
"I'll find every legacy," he whispered. "And I'll tear them all down."
The wind whispered in reply, gently disturbing the threads that lingered around the grave. For the first time, he saw a thin shimmer of light rising upward—Daren's final thread, stretched far beyond sight, slowly fading.
Kael watched until it vanished completely.
---
The next day, the villagers noticed something had changed.
Kael's movements were sharper. More deliberate. When he trained with Loran, it was as though his blade anticipated invisible resistance—adjusting mid-swing, angling itself through unseen paths. Some villagers watched from afar, murmuring to one another, uncertain whether to be impressed or afraid.
Even Loran, usually silent, took pause.
"You see them all the time now, don't you?" he asked, tossing Kael a skin of water after practice.
Kael nodded.
"Then you must begin to understand what they truly are," Loran said. "Threads don't just connect people. They define them. A wrong pull… and everything unravels."
Kael met his eyes. "That's why I'll learn. I won't let another thread slip because of my ignorance."
Loran nodded, but something in his gaze turned distant. As if he remembered another boy from long ago, vowing something just as foolish. Just as brave.