The last thing Roen saw before darkness took him was a pair of boots.
Black leather, worn but well-maintained. And a voice, male and deep.
"Found you."
Then nothing.
He woke in darkness, but not the darkness of the Severed Lands. This was warm, close,
human. A tent, maybe, or a room. His body ached everywhere, but the pain was distant,
muted.
"He's waking."
A face swam into view. A man, perhaps forty, with dark skin and close-cropped gray hair. He
wore the rough robes of a monk, but his eyes were sharp, watchful.
"Easy," the man said. "You've been through much. Don't try to move."
"Where..." Roen's voice came out as a croak. "Where am I?"
"Safe. For now." The man held a cup to his lips. "Drink. You're dehydrated."
Water. Cool and clean. Roen drank greedily, then collapsed back against whatever surface
he was lying on.
"Mirelle. Where's—"
"The girl is fine. Sleeping in the next tent." The man studied him. "My name is Brother Kael.
We've been watching for you. For days."
"Watching? How did you—"
"The monastery has ways of knowing when someone carries something precious." Kael's
eyes flickered to the pack lying beside Roen's bed. "The Heart of Shadows. You've brought it
a long way."
"The sphere." Roen tried to sit up, but his body refused. "It's safe?"
"It's safe. For now." Kael's expression was unreadable. "But there's much we need to
discuss. About what you're carrying. About what it means."
"What does it mean?"
Kael was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Inside that sphere are the souls of dead
Weavers. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. They were trapped during the
Thread-Wars, their essence preserved for a purpose that was never fulfilled."
"What purpose?"
"That's... complicated. And not my story to tell." Kael stood. "When you're stronger, we'll take
you to the monastery proper. The elders have questions. And answers."
"Questions about what?"
"About you." Kael's eyes were serious. "A thread-blind boy who carries one of the most
dangerous artifacts in existence. Who walked through the Severed Lands and survived. Who
has gray threads he cannot see." He shook his head. "You shouldn't exist, Roen of Ashford.
And yet here you are."
Roen didn't know what to say to that. He'd spent his entire life being told he was
nothing—thread-blind, worthless, meat for the grinder. And now, suddenly, he was
something impossible.
"Rest," Kael said. "We'll talk more when you're stronger."
He left, and Roen was alone with his thoughts. The sphere was safe. Mirelle was safe. He'd
done what he'd set out to do.
But the questions were just beginning.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.