Roen woke to the sound of voices outside his tent.
"...three days before he can travel. The damage to his ribs alone..."
"The elders won't wait. They need to see him now."
"The elders can wait. He's not going anywhere."
Roen recognized Kael's voice, but the other was unfamiliar—higher, younger, with an edge
of urgency.
He pushed himself upright, wincing at the pain that shot through his body. His shoulder had
been bound, his ribs wrapped in fresh bandages. Someone had taken care of him while he
slept.
The tent flap opened, and Kael entered with a younger monk at his heels.
"You're awake." Kael's expression was carefully neutral. "How do you feel?"
"Like I fell into a pit in the Severed Lands and woke up in a tent." Roen managed a weak
smile. "Could be worse."
"The elders have requested your presence." Kael's companion spoke up, his voice tight with
impatience. "It's urgent."
"He's not going anywhere until—"
"I can walk," Roen interrupted. He didn't know who these elders were, but they had answers.
He wanted those answers. "Help me up."
Kael looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Roen's expression made him
reconsider. He held out a hand, and Roen took it, hauling himself to his feet. The world
swam, then steadied.
"The sphere," he said.
"Safe. I told you." Kael nodded to the younger monk, who retrieved the pack from beside
Roen's bed. "But you can carry it if you prefer."
Roen took the pack, feeling the familiar weight settle against his hip. The sphere was quiet
now, dormant, but he could feel its presence like a heartbeat against his side.
"Where's Mirelle?"
"Here." She appeared at the tent's entrance, looking tired but whole. Her arm was in a sling,
and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she was alive. "They wouldn't let me see you
until now."
"I'm fine. Or I will be." He looked at Kael. "Take me to your elders."
They walked. Or rather, Roen limped, supported by Kael on one side and Mirelle on the
other. The camp was larger than he'd expected—perhaps a dozen tents arranged in a loose
circle, with monks moving between them on various errands.
"The Pale Mountain monastery is still three days north," Kael explained as they walked. "We
maintain waystations along the route. You're fortunate we found you when we did."
"Found me? I thought—"
"The sphere called to us. We've been tracking it since you entered the Severed Lands."
Kael's voice was matter-of-fact. "We weren't sure you'd survive the crossing. Few do."
Lucky, Roen thought. Or something else entirely.
They reached a larger tent at the center of the camp, its fabric dyed a deep gray. Kael held
the flap open, and Roen stepped inside.
The space within was larger than it appeared from outside, lit by candles that cast flickering
shadows on the walls. At the center sat three figures—two women and a man, all elderly, all
wearing the gray robes of the order.
And in the center, sitting on a simple cushion, was the woman from his dream.
White hair. Eyes that held centuries. A presence that seemed to fill the tent.
"Roen of Ashford," she said. "Welcome. We've been waiting for you."
"You." He stared at her. "You were in my dream."
"I was. A necessary intervention, I'm afraid. You would have died otherwise." She gestured
to a cushion across from her. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
Roen sat. Mirelle settled beside him, her hand finding his. He squeezed it, grateful for the
anchor.
"The sphere," the woman continued. "You've carried it far. Further than we expected. Further
than anyone expected." Her eyes met his. "Sable chose well."
"Who are you?"
"I am Elder Thessaly of the Pale Mountain order. Keeper of the Threads Unseen." She
smiled, and it transformed her face, making her look younger, almost kind. "And you, Roen,
are something that shouldn't exist. A thread-blind boy with gray threads. A mystery wrapped
in flesh."
"I don't understand."
"Few do. But you will." She leaned forward. "First, tell me everything. From the beginning.
How did you come to carry the Heart of Shadows?"
Roen took a breath. And began to talk.
He told her about the debt. About the knife at his throat. About the fight in the square and the
woman who killed an Imperial soldier with a knife and a smile. He told her about Commander
Vald, about the break-in, about the escape from Ashford. He told her about Dessa and the
Severed Lands and the creature that had woken in the pit.
When he finished, the tent was silent. Elder Thessaly's expression was unreadable.
"The threads are weaving," she said finally. "Faster than we anticipated. You were supposed
to take the long road. The safe path. Instead, you took the one road no one survives." She
shook her head slowly. "And yet here you are."
"I made a deal," Roen said. "I deliver the sphere, I get paid. That's all."
"Is it?" Thessaly's eyes bored into his. "You walked through the dead lands. You faced a
remnant of the Thread-Wars. You carried an artifact that would destroy lesser souls. And you
think this was just a delivery?"
"I think I'm a street rat who got lucky."
"Then you think wrong." Thessaly stood, and the air in the tent seemed to shift, to thicken.
"Roen of Ashford, the sphere you carry is a key. To what, we're not yet certain. But it chose
you. And you chose to carry it." She smiled again. "That makes you something more than a
street rat. It makes you a thread in a pattern that's been weaving for a thousand years."
Roen didn't know what to say. He'd spent his whole life being nothing. Now he was being
told he was something impossible—part of a pattern he couldn't see, chosen by forces he
didn't understand.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Now?" Thessaly's smile widened. "Now, you rest. Heal. And then..." She turned to face the
tent's entrance, where the gray light of dawn was beginning to show.
"And then we prepare. Because something is coming, Roen. Something that's been hunting
for that sphere since before you were born. And when it finds you..." She looked back at him,
her expression grave.
"When it finds you, you'll need to be ready."