"Growing?" Roen stared at the sphere in the healer's hands, watching the shadows swirl with
their strange, purposeful movements. The sphere was warm, warmer than it should have
been, and something about it made his skin prickle.
"Whatever's inside, it's alive. And it's been feeding on something since you picked it up." The
healer lowered the sphere carefully, treating it with the kind of respect one might show a
venomous snake. "The question is whether that's good or bad for everyone involved."
Roen closed his eyes. He was tied to a table in an unknown location, injured, surrounded by
strangers who knew more about his cargo than he did. The sphere was apparently alive,
growing stronger by the day. Somewhere out there, Dessa Keth and Imperial soldiers were
still hunting him, not to mention whoever had hired Dessa in the first place. And now these
people—the Thread-Born Covenant, whatever that was—had their own interest.
"What do you want?" he asked, opening his eyes. "Why am I restrained? Why all this...
theater?"
"The truth." Braken pulled a chair close and sat, his movements deliberate and controlled.
"Who are you? What's your connection to Sable? And why did a Sovereign-rank
Fate-Weaver choose a thread-blind street rat to carry something that could reshape the
world?"
"I don't know. I've been asking myself the same question since Ashford."
"Try harder."
"I don't know!" Roen's voice cracked, frustration and exhaustion bleeding through. "I'm
nobody. I owe money to a loan shark in Ashford's tannery district. I run errands for criminals
who can't afford to be seen doing their own dirty work. I've never left the Moors in my entire
life. Then a woman kills an Imperial soldier in front of me, hands me a package, and tells me
to deliver it to the Pale Mountains. That's it. That's everything I know."
Braken was silent for a long moment. His gray-threaded eyes never left Roen's face,
studying him with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable.
"Tell me about your dreams," he said finally.
Roen's breath caught. "What?"
"Your companion mentioned you had a dream in the Severed Lands. A woman spoke to you.
About threads, about fate, about things that shouldn't concern a thread-blind boy." Braken
leaned forward. "What did she say?"
The memory was hazy, fragmented, but it came back in pieces. The woman in white, her
hair like snow, her eyes filled with ancient knowledge. The vast space filled with swirling gray
threads that stretched in every direction. The revelation that he wasn't truly thread-blind, that
he had threads he couldn't see.
"She said I have threads," Roen said slowly. "Gray threads. Like Sable's. Like yours."
The healer's breath hissed between her teeth. Braken's expression didn't change, but
something shifted behind his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or understanding.
"Did she say anything else?"
"Something about the sphere recognizing me. About being chosen for something." Roen
laughed bitterly. "About surviving what's coming."
"Then you're not thread-blind." Braken stood abruptly. "You're thread-bound."
"What's the difference?"
"Thread-blind means no connection to the Weave at all. A complete absence, like a hole in
the fabric of reality. Such people cannot interact with magic in any way—they are truly
separate from the Weave's influence." The healer moved to stand beside Braken, her copper
eyes studying Roen with new intensity. "Thread-bound means you have the connection, but
it's blocked. Suppressed. Usually from birth, though sometimes it happens later through
severe trauma or injury."
"But?"
"But sometimes, something triggers an awakening. Severe physical trauma. Proximity to
powerful artifacts. Crossing into dead magic zones where the Weave behaves differently."
She gestured at the sphere. "All three, in your case. The sphere found the crack in your
binding and started pushing, widening it, forcing it open."
Roen stared at the ceiling. Gray threads. Fate threads. The very idea was absurd. He'd
spent his entire life thinking he was nothing—less than nothing—in a world where power was
everything. The thread-blind were dirt, were meat, were forgotten. And now they were telling
him he might be something different. Something worse, perhaps.
"I don't want it."
"You don't get to choose." Braken's voice was gentle but firm. "The Weave doesn't ask
permission. It simply is. And whatever you are—thread-blind, thread-bound, or something
else entirely—you're involved now. The threads have woven you into this pattern, and you
cannot simply step out of it."
"Then why me? Why did Sable choose me specifically?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Braken exchanged a glance with the healer. "Sable is a
Sovereign-rank Gray Weaver. She sees fate the way you see the sky—vast, ever-changing,
but comprehensible from the right perspective. If she chose you, it's because your threads
were already woven into this. Already part of the pattern she was shaping."
"So I'm a puppet. Dancing on strings I can't even see."
"You're a participant. Whether you like it or not." Braken moved toward the door. "I'm going to
remove your restraints. You're not a prisoner here. But I need your word that you won't run."
"Why would I stay? Why should I trust you?"
"Because you're injured, hunted, and carrying something that could destroy you. Because
we can help you understand what's happening to you. Because we know the way to the Pale
Mountains." Braken paused at the threshold. "And because Mirelle asked me to give you a
chance. She vouched for you. Don't make her regret it."
Mirelle. She was still here. Still safe. Still believing in him despite everything.
"Fine," Roen said. "I won't run."
Braken nodded to the healer, who began undoing the straps. When Roen tried to sit up, the
world spun. He gripped the edge of the table and waited for the dizziness to pass.
"Take it slow," the healer said. "Your body's been through a lot. The shoulder was the
worst—you dislocated it badly enough that I had to manipulate the bone back into place. But
your ribs are cracked in three places, and you have a concussion that should have killed
you. By all rights, you shouldn't be conscious right now."
"Lucky, I guess."
"Not luck." She handed him a cup, and this time he drank without protest. The liquid was
bitter, but warmth spread through his body immediately, pushing back the pain. "Your
threads. They were protecting you before you even knew they existed. Keeping you alive
through injuries that would have ended anyone else."
"I'm Senna," she added, setting the cup aside. "I'll be checking on you regularly. Don't make
my job harder than it needs to be."
"Roen."
"I know." A ghost of a smile crossed her weathered face. "Everyone within a hundred miles
knows your face now. The thread-blind boy who stole from the Empire and walked through
the Severed Lands. You're becoming something of a legend."