The building was some kind of outpost, carved into the side of a hill at the very edge of the
Severed Lands.
From the small window in his room, Roen could see the gray wasteland stretching to the
south, a stark line where life ended and death began. The boundary was visible—a shimmer
in the air, like heat rising from summer stone, marking where the Weave had been broken
beyond repair. To the north, the world was green again, though battered. Twisted trees grew
at odd angles, their branches reaching toward the sky like pleading hands. Scorched earth
was slowly healing, covered now with new growth that seemed almost miraculous. The scars
of ancient battles were everywhere, but they were healing.
"It was a fortress once," Mirelle said. She was sitting on the windowsill, watching him with an
expression he couldn't quite read—relief, perhaps, mixed with worry. "During the
Thread-Wars. Braken says it held for three years before the Weavers on both sides
destroyed each other trying to claim it."
"How long have I been out?"
"Two days. Maybe a bit more." She hopped down and crossed to where he sat on the edge
of the narrow bed. "You scared me, Roen. When you collapsed at the edge of the dead
lands, I thought..." She didn't finish the sentence, but her eyes said everything.
"I know." He touched her shoulder. "I'm still here."
"Barely." Her voice was quiet, strained. "Senna says you're healing, but slowly. Your body's
fighting something. She thinks it's the sphere—that whatever's inside is changing you
somehow, affecting you in ways she doesn't understand."
"What do you think?"
"I think you're different." She met his eyes. "When you were unconscious, I saw it. Faint, but
there. Threads around you. Gray ones. Like the woman in your dream said. They flickered
when you dreamed, like something trying to wake up."
Roen looked at his hands. He still couldn't see anything. Just skin and scars and the calluses
of a life spent surviving. But if what they were telling him was true...
"I'm not thread-blind," he said. The words felt strange in his mouth. "I never was."
"What does that mean? For you? For us?"
"I don't know." He stood, testing his balance. The room swam for a moment, then steadied.
"But I'm going to find out."
He found Braken in what had once been a command center, a large room with a table
covered in maps and charts. The older man was studying something—a piece of paper
covered in symbols Roen didn't recognize. His brow was furrowed in concentration.
"What is this place?" Roen asked. "Really?"
"An observation post." Braken didn't look up. "My colleagues and I monitor the Severed
Lands. Document changes. Watch for threats. We've been doing it for decades, watching the
dead zone for signs of anything that might escape."
"Colleagues?"
"We call ourselves the Thread-Born Covenant. Those born with exceptional talent who
choose to work outside the established power structures." He finally met Roen's eyes. "The
Empire, the Elven Kingdoms, the Free Cities, the Orcish Tribes—they all have their agendas.
Their schemes and plots. We have ours."
"Which is?"
"Balance." Braken set down the paper. "The Thread-Wars nearly destroyed the Weave itself.
The Severed Lands are proof of what happens when power goes unchecked. When factions
fight without regard for consequence. We work to ensure it doesn't happen again."
"Noble."
"Practical." Braken's voice was dry. "We all have to live in this world. Watching it burn
benefits no one—not even the ones holding the torches."
Roen moved to the table and studied the maps. They showed the continent in detail, with
markings and annotations in multiple languages. The Severed Lands were marked in red,
with warning symbols clustered along the borders. The Pale Mountains were visible to the
north, dotted with small markers he didn't understand.
"You mentioned powerful people are looking for me. For the sphere."
"Several factions." Braken pointed to a marker near Ashford. "The Imperial commander you
encountered has dispatched additional resources. She's not letting this go. Her name is
Thessa Vald, a Gold Weaver of considerable talent. Also stubborn, vindictive, and
well-connected. She will pursue you until she has what she wants."
"Commander Vald." Roen remembered her face, the fire in her eyes when she'd realized
he'd escaped. "I know her. She won't stop."
"You made an enemy of her. That's dangerous." Braken's finger moved to another marker,
this one traveling along a road. "Dessa Keth is still pursuing. She lost your trail at the
Severed Lands border—the dead zone disrupts normal tracking methods—but she'll pick it
up again eventually. She's persistent, and she's well-paid."
"Two groups hunting us. That's not enough?"
"There's a third." Braken's expression grew grim. "Someone hired Dessa. We don't know
who. But whoever they are, they want the sphere badly enough to pay a fortune for its
retrieval."
"And you?" Roen met his eyes. "What do you want? Why are you helping me?"
"I want to understand what's happening." Braken leaned against the table. "Sable is a
Sovereign-rank Fate-Weaver. She doesn't act without reason. Every move she makes is part
of a larger pattern, a tapestry only she can see. She gave you that sphere for a purpose.
Sent you to the Pale Mountains for a reason. Understanding that reason might be the only
way to prevent another Thread-War."
"Prevent? You think this could start a war?"
"Boy, wars have started over less." Braken's voice was heavy with old knowledge. "The
Empire wants control. The elves want restoration of their ancient territories. The orcs want
recognition and land. Everyone wants something, and right now, you're carrying the prize
they all think will give them an advantage."