He dreamed.
Not the confused, shapeless dreams of normal sleep. These were vivid, real, almost more
present than waking. He stood in a vast space filled with swirling gray threads—millions of
them, stretching in every direction. Each thread pulsed with faint light, connecting to
something he couldn't see.
And at the center of it all, a woman.
Not Sable. Someone else. Older, with white hair and eyes that held the weight of centuries.
She wore the rough robes of a monk, but there was power in her bearing that went beyond
the Weave.
"You carry something that doesn't belong to you," she said. Her voice echoed through the
space. "Something that was never meant to be found."
"I'm just delivering it." Roen's voice came out strange, hollow. "To the Pale Mountain
monastery."
"We know." The woman's expression was unreadable. "We've been waiting. But you were
supposed to take the safe path. The long road. Not the dead lands."
"There is no safe path. Not for me."
"No. Perhaps not." She studied him. "You're thread-blind. And yet the sphere responds to
you. Why is that, I wonder?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" She gestured, and suddenly Roen could see himself, surrounded by a faint gray
shimmer. Threads. Thin, barely visible, but there. Gray threads, like Sable's. Like a
Fate-Weaver's.
"I'm thread-blind. I've always been thread-blind."
"Thread-blind means no threads at all. You have threads. You simply can't see them." The
woman's voice was soft. "You can't use them. But they're there. And the sphere recognizes
that."
"That's impossible."
"Many things are impossible. Until they aren't." She began to fade. "Rest now. Heal. When
you wake, you'll have questions. We'll have answers. But first, you must survive what's
coming."
"What's coming?"
"The lights aren't ghosts, boy. They're memories. Echoes of what was done here. And they
don't take kindly to the living." Her form was almost gone now. "Don't trust what you see.
And whatever you do..."
She was gone before she could finish.
Roen woke.
He was still in the pit, but something had changed. The sphere was glowing bright enough to
illuminate the entire space, and around him, the lights had gathered. Dozens of them,
hovering at the edge of the glow, watching.
Not attacking. Waiting.
"Roen!" Mirelle's voice from above, accompanied by the sound of someone climbing down.
"I'm coming!"
He tried to move, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His shoulder was wrong—twisted at an
angle that shouldn't be possible. His head throbbed. And his ribs... he didn't want to think
about his ribs.
Mirelle landed beside him, her face pale. "Your shoulder. It's dislocated."
"I noticed."
"I need to set it. Now. Before..." She glanced at the hovering lights. "Before they decide to do
something."
"Do it."
She gripped his arm. Counted to three. And pulled.
Roen screamed.
The lights flared.
And in the distance, something roared.