They left the outpost at dawn, a party of five.
Roen walked beside Mirelle, his hand never far from the sword at his hip. The blade felt
strange there—heavy, unfamiliar, a constant reminder of how much he had to learn. Beside
them walked Braken, his eyes scanning the terrain with the practiced awareness of a soldier
who'd spent decades in dangerous places. Senna followed close behind, her healer's bag
slung over her shoulder. And bringing up the rear was a quiet man named Tor.
Tor was massive—taller than Braken by a full head, with shoulders like a draft horse and a
face that looked like it had been beaten with rocks. His skin was rough and weathered,
marked with old scars that told stories of violence survived. He rarely spoke, communicating
instead through grunts and gestures, but he moved with surprising grace for his size, and the
double-headed axe at his back looked well-used.
"Tor doesn't talk much," Braken explained as they walked. "He doesn't need to. He was a
slave in the Iron Wastes for fifteen years before he escaped. Since then, he's dedicated
himself to protecting people who can't protect themselves."
"He's a Weaver?" Roen had noticed the faint shimmer around the big man's hands.
"Iron-thread. Journeyman rank. He can't fight with magic in the traditional sense—not like a
Gold Weaver throwing fire or a Silver Weaver manipulating minds. But he can sense
structures, weaknesses, the composition of things. And he's stronger than anyone I've ever
met, both physically and in his connection to the Weave."
The road north was rough, winding through hills that had once been productive farmland.
Now they were overgrown, the fields reclaimed by wild grass and scrub. A few isolated farms
still operated, their owners eking out a living in the shadow of the Severed Lands. But most
had fled generations ago, leaving behind empty houses and forgotten graves.
"This used to be Valdorian territory," Senna said, walking beside Roen. "Before the
Thread-Wars, this whole region fed half the Empire. Grain, livestock, timber—plenty for
everyone. Now look at it."
"The Empire doesn't try to reclaim it?"
"Too close to the Severed Lands. Too risky. The land itself is tainted—the Weave is thin
here, unstable. Crops fail. Animals sicken. People who stay too long start to change,
becoming something other than what they were." She kicked at a stone. "They'd rather let it
rot than risk another war."
Roen thought about Commander Vald. She'd seemed the type to take risks, the type to hold
grudges. The type who wouldn't let a thread-blind street rat make a fool of her and get away
with it.
"We need to move faster," he said.
"You need to heal," Senna countered. "Push too hard and you'll collapse again. Your body's
been through trauma that would kill most people."
"If they catch up, healing won't matter."
She didn't argue. They both knew he was right.
They walked in silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Roen practiced drawing his
sword as they moved, trying to make the motion smooth and natural. It wasn't. Every time he
gripped the hilt, he was reminded of how little he knew about actual combat. Thugs in alleys
he could handle—they were untrained, careless, easily tricked. But soldiers? Trained
Weavers? He was woefully outmatched.
That night, they made camp in the ruins of an old inn. Its walls were half-collapsed, but the
roof remained partially intact, providing shelter from the wind. Tor built a small fire while
Senna checked Roen's injuries. The salve she applied was different from the one in
Thornwick—cooler, less pungent, but just as effective.
"Your shoulder's healing well," she said, pressing her fingers against the joint. "The ribs will
take longer—bone is slow to knit. And your head..."
"What about my head?"
"The concussion was severe. You might have symptoms for weeks. Headaches. Dizziness.
Memory gaps." She looked at him with concern. "You might also have changes. Personality
shifts. Emotional instability. The brain is delicate, and yours took a significant impact."
"Great. More problems."
"It's survivable. If you're careful." She stood and brushed off her clothes. "Get some sleep.
Tomorrow will be harder."
Roen lay back and stared at the ceiling—or what was left of it. Through the gaps, he could
see stars, faint and distant in the darkness.
"I had a dream last night," he said quietly. Senna was still there, packing away her supplies.
"Different from the one in the Severed Lands. Just fragments."
"What did you see?"
"Fire. A city burning. And a face I didn't recognize." He closed his eyes, trying to recall. "A
woman, young, with silver hair. She was crying."
Senna was quiet for a moment. "Gray-thread Weavers often dream of the future. Or possible
futures. The threads of fate are tangled, and sometimes we see glimpses of where they
lead."
"I'm not a Weaver. I can't use magic."
"You're thread-bound. That's different from thread-blind." She touched his forehead gently.
"Your threads are there. They're just... asleep. And they're starting to wake up."